‘What about the horses? Where did they come in?’ she asked.
‘From his father, Owen Rawson. It was in the family.’
Fry followed Mrs Rawson’s gaze and watched the horse being trotted across the paddock. She had no idea what kind of horse it was. A brown one, that was all she could say. But even she could tell that it moved with eye- catching grace, muscles sliding smoothly over its shoulders, feet lifting high off the ground. For a large animal, its step was dainty, as if it was afraid of damaging the grass.
‘I don’t know a great deal about horses,’ she said. ‘But is there really much money to be made?’
‘It’s like anything else, Detective Sergeant. It depends whether you know what you’re doing.’
‘And your husband did?’
‘Certainly. Patrick always knew what he was doing.’
Murfin had been gazing out of the conservatory windows, leaning to see the stable block to one side of the paddock. Fry wasn’t sure he’d even been listening, but he threw her a glance, raised an eyebrow, and she nodded.
‘And has business been good recently, Mrs Rawson?’ he asked.
Deborah took the cigarette out of her mouth and looked at him, surprised. Until now, she had barely acknowledged him, probably regarded him as no more important than the stable girl, there only to rub down the horse when it got too sweaty. She seemed to have to think about his question.
‘I really don’t know,’ she said at last.
‘It’s just that I notice the stables seem to be mostly empty.’
‘Horses come and go. I couldn’t even tell you what there is out there, without Patrick being here. The girl might know, I suppose.’
‘You don’t even know how many horses there are?’
‘As I told you yesterday, I’ve never had anything to do with the business. You’ll have to talk to Michael Clay.’
‘You told us your husband went up to Derbyshire for the horse sale. And you were right, there is one scheduled for this Saturday. But would he also have called on private individuals? Private sellers?’
‘I suppose so, if it was worth his while. I think he had some regular dealings with stables and riding schools.’
‘What sort of dealings?’
Deborah blew a cloud of smoke, narrowing her eyes. ‘I think my answer is the same, Sergeant. You’ll have to speak to Michael if you want to know more details.’
‘Well, we’re here to examine Mr Rawson’s papers,’ said Fry. ‘You did say you would give permission for us to do that.’
‘Yes, of course. You mean business papers, I imagine?’
‘Particularly any appointments book, a diary. That sort of thing.’
‘Yes, I see. But he was on a business trip — he might have had those with him.’
‘If we could just check — ’
Deborah Rawson rose. ‘This way, then. Patrick does have a desk he uses when he’s at home. Used, I mean.’
‘Thank you.’
‘“His friends down at the golf club”?’ said Murfin when Deborah Rawson had left them alone in a sparse office.
‘Yes, and the “equine trade”. Mr Rawson seems to have had social aspirations.’
‘He sounds as though he was just a dodgy horse dealer, though.’
‘Not just that. A finger in a lot of pies, remember?’
Fry opened the first drawer. It rattled as she slid it out, and revealed only a few pens, a stapler, a scattering of jumbo paper clips.
‘Besides, social aspirations happen to people a lot when they get some money, Gavin,’ she said. ‘It’s never enough for them. They want respect as well.’
‘Respect, maybe. Your average drug dealer on the street wants respect. But Rawson never seems to have worried too much about respectability, which is a different thing altogether.’
Fry nodded. ‘Yes, that’s an interesting bit of contradiction in his character there. Deborah was right — her husband seems to have had an urge to live dangerously, a need for a bit of risk in his life. I wonder what damage the Trading Standards investigation did to his standing in the club house.’
Murfin was rifling through a filing cabinet, tutting over dozens of empty suspension files and a half-full bottle of Laphroaig whisky.
‘If I know anything about golf-club committees, any sniff of a court case could have been fatal,’ he said.
‘Fatal?’
‘Just an expression, like. I meant fatal to his standing as a member.’
‘Yes, you’re right.’
Fry tapped her fingers on the desk. She was finding no diary or appointments book. No PDA or laptop either. Nothing where a schedule of meetings or the names of regular contacts might be listed.
‘You know, if those two sides of Mr Rawson’s personality clashed, he might have got very angry about it,’ she said.
‘Angry at who?’
Fry thought for a moment. ‘Whoever landed him in court, I suppose.’
Murfin laughed as he banged the filing cabinet shut. ‘Not Trading Standards.’
‘No, I don’t think so. They’re a bit hard to get angry with, aren’t they? I was thinking more of one of Mr Rawson’s customers, someone who got stung when a deal went wrong. Or someone else in the same business, perhaps.’
‘Dermot Walsh said that Rawson blamed jealous rivals when they first brought a case against him.’
‘So he did. We should give Walsh a ring when we get back to the office, and ask him if Rawson mentioned any rivals in particular.’
‘Right. You’re thinking there might have been some kind of feud?’
‘Yes, a feud that Patrick Rawson lost.’
‘If that’s so — and since Rawson seems to have come up to Derbyshire to meet him — the rival could well be someone local to us.’
‘So he could, Gavin. So he could.’
Fry checked the desk for hidden drawers, ran a hand along a book shelf. Telephone directories, a road atlas, the Official Form Book 2009, with cover picture of jockeys straining hard for the wining post. Diaries, but filled only with dates of birthdays and dental appointments. She found the most recent diary and turned to the current week. Derby horse market was marked on Saturday, and the name of the Birch Hall Country Hotel on Monday night. But no names, no times of meetings he might have arranged. This really was a man who had learned not to put anything in writing.
‘There’s nothing here,’ she said in disgust. ‘Absolutely nothing of any use to us, Gavin.’
‘Where to next, then?’ said Murfin.
‘We need to talk to Rawson’s partner. Let’s go and see Michael Clay.’
Michael Clay’s home was further into the city, Birmingham proper. Well, after a fashion. Great Barr was a suburb on the outer edge of Brum, an ocean of pre-war red-brick semis bordering on Walsall and West Bromwich. The Clay home was easier to find than Rawson’s, though. No need for a sat-nav here.
‘No, I’m sorry, Mr Clay isn’t at home.’
The door had been answered by a woman of about her own age, so tightly buttoned up in a woollen jacket that she appeared to have almost no shape. Her dark hair was pushed untidily behind her ears, and there was a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead, as if she’d been caught in some physical exertion. Moving furniture, or beating the carpets. Something she could take her feelings out on, judging from that sour expression.
‘And you are…?’ asked Fry.
‘His daughter. Erin Lacey.’
