‘Yes, I do know that.’
‘Well, chances are, those animals have gone through someone like Rawson. The dealer will either sell them on to a new owner, or he’ll make a few hundred pounds on the carcass at the horse slaughterer’s. Patrick Rawson is at the centre of this somehow. He has connections with the abattoir, he’s a partner in R amp; G Enterprises. We know he has a history as a dodgy horse dealer. The number of people who might have wanted to kill him is beginning to look endless.’
‘Yes, just about every horse owner or animal lover in the country,’ said Fry. ‘But if Trading Standards couldn’t get enough solid evidence against him to put him in court after a five-year investigation, how would some animal rights group find out enough to target him?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Have we traced the source of the video footage you were sent, Ben?’ asked Hitchens. ‘That would give us a line on the animal rights people.’
‘Becky has been helping me on that,’ said Cooper. ‘But at the moment, it looks as though it could have been almost anyone. The video is available on the internet, for members of the public to download and distribute.’
Hitchens shook his head. ‘The internet makes things so damn difficult. Well, we must at least have identified all the calls on Rawson’s mobile phone?’
‘Yes,’ said Fry. ‘Apart from Hawleys, and Mr Gains at R amp; G Enterprises, there were three calls to the number of Michael Clay, one to Senior Brothers at Lowbridge. And two calls each way to an unregistered pay-as- you-go mobile.’
‘This was on Monday evening?’
‘Right. There were no calls logged on Tuesday morning.’
‘Do you think there could have been a woman involved?’
‘It might have been anyone — a customer, a seller… who knows?’
Hitchens looked thoughtful. ‘I’m still not clear how the operation works. How do horses end up as meat when they’re not supposed to?’
‘It’s not clear to me, either. I suppose we could mount an undercover operation.’
‘How?’
‘We send someone in as a horse owner with an animal to sell.’
‘Who could we use for that?’
‘I’d be willing to give it a go, sir,’ said Fry.
But Hitchens shook his head. ‘We have specially trained officers for undercover work, Diane. Operational Support will provide someone, if necessary.’
‘I hope they’ve got someone who can pass as an expert on livestock.’
‘I doubt it.’
They looked at each other for a moment, then they both looked at Cooper. Oh, yes. The officer everyone thought of when there was an expert needed. Fry could have kicked herself for the reaction.
But Cooper didn’t respond. And it wasn’t like him to be reluctant to jump forward and volunteer.
‘We’ll think about it,’ said Hitchens after a moment. ‘There’s no rush. Let’s check out the horse market first. See if we can pick up any useful leads.’
‘By the way,’ said Cooper, ‘this restaurant…’
‘Which restaurant?’
‘Le Chien Noir.’
‘Oh, yes. I had hopes that the head waiter would remember more about Patrick Rawson’s visit, but he’s never called me.’
‘A French restaurant, is it?’
‘In principle,’ said Fry. ‘I doubt any of the staff are actually French.’
‘Did you happen to get a copy of the menu?’
‘No. Why? Are you thinking of taking your girlfriend there?’
‘Well… we know France is one of the biggest markets for horse meat. And the guy at R amp; G Enterprises told you they were trying to introduce horse meat to the British market gradually — ’
‘- through a small number of select restaurants. You think Le Chien Noir could be one of them?’
‘It might just be a coincidence. But if Patrick Rawson was known there…’
‘The manager said not.’
‘And did he seem reliable?’
‘He was very helpful,’ said Fry. Then she thought back to her conversation with Connelly. ‘Well, up to a point.’
‘Let me guess. He clammed up about Rawson?’
‘No, about the man Rawson was with. Mr Connelly said he was much too ordinary a middle-aged businessman for anybody to be expected to remember what he even looked like.’
‘That’s a good one.’
‘Yes. Yet he was so good on his impressions of Rawson.’ Fry sighed. ‘Never mind. We should find out who Le Chien Noir is actually owned by.’
‘Good idea.’
Fry looked at him. ‘You really think horse meat might be on the menu?’
‘I’ve never heard of anything like it in Edendale,’ he said. ‘But it could be presented as something else. Is the menu in French?’
Fry sighed. ‘I didn’t even look.’
When he got back to Welbeck Street, the first thing Cooper always did was check his answering machine. Nothing, of course. He thought Liz might have called, but perhaps she was waiting for him to do it. Besides, she would have called his mobile. Hardly anybody used the answering machine any more, if they had his mobile number.
The second thing he did was feed the cat. But Randy had no appetite tonight. Cooper sat with him for a while, stroking his fur until he got the familiar deep purr, willing the cat not to give up just yet.
When he straightened up, his back twinged slightly from being in the same position for too long. He got himself a beer from the fridge — some Czech brand that had been on special offer at Somerfield’s.
Last night, before he went to bed, he’d been reading a novel, a fantasy epic. It still lay on the table — closed, but with a bookmark stuck into the pages to show where he’d got up to. About a third of the way through, he judged.
But wait. It wasn’t really a bookmark at all. When he’d closed the book last night, too tired to keep the lines of text from blurring in front of his eyes, he’d picked up the first thing that came to hand. It was a habit he’d developed as a child, and had never got rid of. In fact, he didn’t think he’d ever owned a proper bookmark — not one with leather fringes and gold-blocked lettering, the sort that other people had. He just used anything that would fit between the pages.
Cooper opened the book. He saw that last night he’d used the postcard he brought back from Eyam. Plague Cottage and the memorial plaque to the Cooper boys. Like most of the other plague victims, their graves had never been found, but their names still lived on.
He drank only half the beer and put it down reluctantly, remembering that he was driving tonight. He thought about what Gavin Murfin had said about Eyam. Personally, he couldn’t see why the village should be considered creepy. In spite of the tourists, it seemed a peaceful kind of place. Perhaps that was because its memories weren’t locked away in the dark, as they were in other places. In Eyam, they were out on display, for everyone to see.
Fry had watched Ben Cooper leave the office. It had been another bad day, and Cooper always seemed to be involved somehow. Perhaps he didn’t actually intend to show up her failings. But he did it so effortlessly.
She so hated to admit that Cooper was right. That he was ever right. In retrospect, she much preferred the old Ben Cooper, the one who’d been careful not to say anything, had tried not to rub it in, even when he’d turned out to be right in the end. These days, he seemed to be proving that he knew better at every turn. The bastard.
When she got into her car to leave West Street, Fry sat for a moment in a kind of dull apathy. She didn’t
