‘Exactly.’
‘And this was a business call?’
‘Oh, yes. I wouldn’t say I was on social terms with him exactly.’
‘What was the reason for his call?’
‘The usual,’ said Hawley. ‘He expected to have some stock to bring in. He was calling to make sure we could take them.’
‘Stock?’ said Irvine.
Hawley turned to him. ‘Horses. Horses for slaughter.’
‘Did he say how many?’
‘Up to a dozen. He wasn’t sure on the number.’
‘Which suggests that he hadn’t actually bought them at that stage,’ said Cooper.
‘I suppose so.’
Hawley walked with them towards the car park, away from the nervous horses and the smell of blood.
‘Mr Hawley, if a buyer went to a horse auction, what would he be bidding on?’
‘Horses from riding stables, some from private punters.’
Cooper thought about Patrick Rawson’s Mitsubishi 4x4 parked by the field barn near Longstone Moor. He recalled that it had a tow bar, but there was no sign of a trailer, let alone anything that would be big enough to accommodate a dozen horses.
‘How would Mr Rawson have transported the animals that he wanted to bring to you?’ he asked. ‘Would he bring them himself?’
‘Sometimes, if it was just one or two. But if there were bigger numbers involved, he would use a local haulier. He had contacts in every area.’
‘You would keep records of each delivery, I suppose?’
‘Are you kidding? There are mountains of paperwork. The drivers hate it.’
Cooper produced his card. ‘Would you do something for me? Check your records for hauliers that Mr Rawson has previously used in the North Derbyshire area. Then give me a call with their names.’
‘I can do that, certainly,’ said Hawley. ‘But, if you’re thinking of the Eden Valley, I think I know the one you want. Senior Brothers in Lowbridge.’
21
Leaning back in his office chair, Maurice Gains shook his head at Diane Fry and wagged a long finger. ‘We don’t call it horse meat, as a rule, Sergeant. We prefer “cheval”.’
‘Oh?’ said Fry. ‘Why not call a spade a spade?’
‘Because of the sensitivities of the British consumer.’
Fry didn’t think Maurice Gains looked the sensitive type. Sensitive to the size of his own bank account, maybe. And that was about it. He was the type of businessman she hated most. Supercilious, complacent, obsessed with his own success.
‘We don’t eat cow, do we?’ he said. ‘We eat beef. We don’t eat pig — we eat pork, or ham. You see, it protects the housewife from having to picture the actual living creature when she’s doing her shopping in the supermarket. If we give it a different name, it becomes just another product on the shelf. It’s all about the image.’
Well, it would have to be. The unit occupied by R amp; G Enterprises was all about image, too. Money had been spent on the entrance and signage, a smart logo that must have been professionally designed. The carpets in reception and in the manager’s office were deeper and more luxurious than anything ever dreamed of at E Division headquarters. Fry had been ushered to a low, modernist lounge chair that Gavin Murfin would have had difficulty getting out of again, if he’d been with her. But this was one interview she’d felt might be better done alone.
‘Who eats this product of yours?’ she said.
‘Well, cheval has always been popular among the French and Belgian working classes, usually in urban areas. You may have seen the specialist butchers’ shops in Paris, the boucheries chevalines, with those wonderful gilded horse-head advertising signs?’
‘I can’t say that I have,’ said Fry. ‘I must be promenading on the wrong boulevards.’
Gains smiled, a condescending smile which got right on her nerves. ‘Well, in recent years, horse meat has become more popular in the fashionable arrondissements. A lot of French consumers began switching from beef to horse when mad cow disease appeared. Cheval is marketed as a healthy, low-fat alternative to British beef.’
‘They started eating horse instead of our beef?’
‘Yes. Ironically, it’s often our horses they’re eating,’ said Gains. ‘And even young people in France have taken to horse meat. I’m told there’s a horse meat dining society known as Le Pony Club. But Italy and Eastern Europe are big markets, too, and parts of Japan and China.’
‘We don’t eat horse meat in this country, though.’
‘Historically, that’s true. Though, actually, people have been eating horse meat for some time, without being aware of it. There was a Food Standards Agency investigation a few years ago which found salami on sale in the UK containing horse and donkey meat, without it being mentioned on the food label. No one died of shock. And times change, you know. We’re living in a much more multi-cultural country.’
‘So I’ve heard.’
Gains had a habit of stroking his hand along the smooth grain of his desk. A possessive, self-satisfied gesture, Fry thought.
‘I’m not just talking about ethnic minorities,’ he said, ‘but the large numbers of our fellow EU citizens who now live and work in the UK. Many of them are from countries where horse meat is perfectly acceptable. Indeed, the meat is highly regarded by some communities. And quite rightly, given its low fat content and excellent flavour.’
‘You think you can make horse meat part of the British diet?’
‘We acknowledge that we have a bit of a PR challenge on our hands. But it’s not an insurmountable problem. In fact, there’s a precedent. Thanks to the Asian and Caribbean communities, goat meat has become more common in the UK market during the last couple of decades. Now we just want to widen the food experience a little. The time is absolutely right, when you consider the increasingly health-conscious environment, the public awareness of the risks of eating too much fat. Horse meat is splendidly healthy, with half the fat of beef and ten times the Omega Threes to reduce your cholesterol. It’s free from bird ’flu, mad cow disease, tuberculosis, Foot and Mouth, and tape worm — all the scourges of our traditional meat industries. There’s a huge opportunity for a dynamic, enterprising company to break new ground.’
‘And that’s you?’
He smiled smugly. ‘Absolutely. R amp; G Enterprises are ideally positioned in the market place, Sergeant. We saw an opportunity, and we’re taking it. That’s what enterprise is all about. One day, we’ll expand into Europe and take on the French and Belgians at their own game. A shame we can’t establish a market in the USA. But the Americans are most against eating horse meat.’
Fry looked at the company logo, etched into the window of the manager’s office.
‘I take it Patrick Rawson is the “R” in R amp; G Enterprises, Mr Gains?’
‘Yes, poor Patrick. Do you know how it happened?’
‘Not yet.’
‘I spoke to Deborah yesterday. She said it was a robbery. Unusual place for it to happen.’
‘We can’t be sure of the circumstances,’ said Fry stiffly.
‘Pity. I was hoping you might have some news.’
‘How did you and Mr Rawson happen to go into business together?’
‘Well, it didn’t just “happen”,’ said Gains. ‘We had talked about the possibility for some time. Years, I suppose. We met through Hawley and Sons, the abattoir owners. I used to work for the Meat and Livestock Commission. Then, about a year ago, we agreed that the time had come, and we put the package together.’
‘Mr Rawson put up some of his own money?’
