‘Yes. I was fortunate — I had an inheritance from my father, a few thousand I had put away for just such an eventuality. Patrick, I believe, raised some equity from his property in Sutton Coldfield.’
‘He used his house as security?’
‘That’s right. But the majority of the finance came from our business loan. That has to be serviced, and paid back first. But we’re building the enterprise well. Everyone will be happy with the outcome, I believe.’
Fry tried to ignore the complacent smile. ‘Do you know Michael Clay, Mr Gains?’
‘Oh, Clay? I gather he’s worked with Patrick on some other projects. But I’ve never met him.’
‘He’s not involved with R amp; G?’
‘No, that’s just the two of us. Me and Patrick.’
Fry was vaguely disappointed. At the moment, Michael Clay could only be counted as an elusive witness. But ever since she’d spoken to Erin Lacey in Great Barr this morning, she’d been bothered by a nagging feeling that he would soon turn out to be something more than that.
‘I see. And, Mr Gains, I have to ask you — were you aware that Patrick Rawson was the subject of a Trading Standards investigation?’
Gains hesitated, for the first time. ‘Yes, I was. It was quite well known in the trade. But no charges were ever brought against him, so I couldn’t see any problem. Innocent until proven guilty, eh, Sergeant?’
‘So they say.’
‘Patrick is in regular touch — sorry, was in regular touch. He phoned on Monday, in fact. Just for a chat, nothing specific.’
‘He was in his car when he phoned, I suppose?’
‘Yes, I believe he was.’
Fry was interested that Maurice Gains had volunteered the information about Rawson’s phone call before she asked the question. Clearly, this man wasn’t stupid.
‘Was that the last time you spoke?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he was happy with how things were going?’ said Fry. ‘No problems?’
‘None at all. Between you and me, we talked about future expansion. We’re modelling ourselves on a well- established Belgian company, which does the whole job — buys the horses, slaughters them, carries out the butchering, then packages and distributes the meat. But that’s for the future. We’re only just getting a toe-hold on the market at the moment.’
‘You’d be looking to buy a slaughterhouse, then? Like Hawleys, for example?’
‘Yes, that would be ideal,’ said Gains. ‘We’ve already had talks with Hawleys. Of course, the equine side of their business is a drop in the ocean. The countries supplying the most horse meat in Europe are Poland and Romania. And we do need certain types of horse. The optimum age for slaughter is between ten and fifteen years, the minimum about seven. Funnily enough, the older the horse, the more tender the meat. It’s the opposite of other meats.’
‘No young horses?’
‘Well, foal is OK up to fifteen months, but it’s a specialized market. Italy likes white meat from very young horses, but the French prefer red. We think the UK market will favour red meat, too.’
Through a window, Fry could see into the packing room, where women dressed head to toe in white plastic aprons, hats and hair nets, were processing the meat. The steaks she could see going through the line were enormous — big slabs of purplish-black meat, thickly marbled with fat.
Gains had followed her gaze. ‘The taste is a bit sweet, compared to beef,’ he admitted. ‘Traditionally, it was thought that it would never suit the British palate, even if we didn’t have a cultural problem to overcome. But the taste can easily be improved with seasoning and spices. Like lamb, it goes rather well with herbs such as rosemary or sage. You really should try it.’
Fry wished there was some way she could shake Maurice Gains’ complacency, make that hand stop stroking the smooth wood of his desk, just for a moment.
‘Mr Gains, an outbreak of trichinosis from eating infected horse meat isn’t very good news for you, is it?’ she said.
‘No connection with us,’ snapped Gains, losing his composure for just a moment. ‘I made a call this morning, and I’m told the suspect meat came from Poland. Brought in by some Polish workers living in a multi-occupancy property in Birmingham. That’s up to the Polish authorities to deal with, if they’re the country of origin.’
‘But, Mr Gains, don’t you think you might have something more serious to deal with than a PR challenge?’ she said.
‘We’ll take all the steps that are necessary to protect our brand.’
‘“Protect your brand”? That wasn’t what I meant.’
‘I don’t know what you do mean, then.’
‘I mean animal rights activists,’ said Fry. ‘Some of the protest groups out there can be pretty extreme in their actions. You must have taken that into account?’
‘We considered it, naturally,’ said Gains. ‘It was a factor that our business partners raised at the planning stage.’
‘Business partners?’
‘Our financial backers. Banks, I mean. They don’t play any active role in the business, but we needed finance to meet our start-up costs. So we had to put together a business proposal for them, and the public reaction was factored into that. But we’re not dealing with live animals here, you see. Currently, all our meat comes from Italy. It’s boned, cut and packaged in a plant near Turin, then shipped back to the UK in refrigerated lorries. You won’t find any ponies gambolling around in paddocks waiting to go on to the slaughter line. Not here. There’s nothing for the animal rights fanatics to get steamed up about.’
‘You think not?’
‘Look, we’re only distributing to specialist shops at the moment, and a few restaurants where the owners are willing to be innovative. But wait until we get our products into Tesco and Waitrose. Then public acceptance will soon follow.’
‘I’m glad you’re so confident.’
‘I suppose it might just be me, Sergeant, but I don’t understand where these animal lovers are coming from,’ said Gains. ‘Why do people who eat cows and sheep get so upset at the idea of eating a horse?’
‘They think of them as companions, not food.’
‘That’s the way most of us think about dogs, isn’t it? Yet the Chinese and Koreans eat dog meat, even consider it a delicacy. One man’s pet is another man’s protein.’ Gains smiled. ‘Isn’t that right, Sergeant?’
Fry was relieved to get out of the R amp; G distribution centre. Though the smell had been clean, and maybe even overly hygienic, there had been a strange contradiction in the sight of those purple slabs of meat being handled and shipped out. By the time she got back to her car, she was very glad that Gavin Murfin wasn’t with her. She couldn’t have stood it if he’d produced something to eat right at this moment.
A message from Murfin was waiting on her phone. There must have been no signal while she was inside R amp; G Enterprises.
‘Thought you might like to know,’ said Murfin when she called him back. ‘SOCOs lifted some latent prints from that gate on Longstone Moor. They’ve visited the farmer and printed him for comparison, but some of the latents don’t match. Could be you were right, Diane.’
‘Well, actually, Ben Cooper was right.’
‘I’ll tell him that.’
Fry sighed. ‘Yes, do.’
‘Are you OK, Diane?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. I’ve just escaped from a vision of the future — R amp; G Enterprises.’
She told Murfin about her visit, not leaving out the slabs of meat.
‘I know you said Patrick Rawson had a finger in a lot of pies,’ said Murfin when she’d finished, ‘but I didn’t realize some of the pies were made of horse meat.’
Fry winced. ‘Don’t, Gavin.’
‘Oh, got to go,’ said Murfin. ‘There’s something happening.’
