got justice. Not against Patrick Rawson, anyway.’
‘We’re particularly sensitive to crimes involving animals in this country aren’t we?’
‘Well, I don’t know,’ said Joyce. ‘We learn a lot of things from the USA. Horse thefts have been rising dramatically in the States. There are substantial dollars to be made in the legitimate market, and virtually nothing to lose in the black market. A horse can be stolen, slaughtered, packaged, shipped to Europe, and served up on a plate before a ranch owner realizes the animal is missing. That’s fast cash. And any method of earning fast money makes its way here sooner or later.’
‘Are the Americans as fond of their horses as we are?’
‘A few years ago there was a scandal involving a group of individuals running a charity that was supposed to be “adopting” horses rescued from inhumane conditions. It turned out they were then shipping the horses off to Japan to be slaughtered for food. A lot of people were horrified that they’d contributed money to a charity fighting animal abuse, only for the animals to be sent off to be killed. Cue much outcry, little girls walking in protest lines and so on. Fines and prison sentences for the perps. That hasn’t happened here yet, so far as we know.’
‘I wanted to ask you — can any horse be sold for human consumption?’
‘No, it depends whether the owner has made a Section Nine declaration.’
‘In the horse passport?’
‘That’s right. The trouble is, once you’ve signed “not intended for human consumption”, a Section Nine declaration can’t be changed. Of course, what I mean is — it can’t be changed legally.’
‘And if a horse doesn’t have a passport?’
‘It’s stolen. You should treat a horse passport like the log book of a car. Never buy a horse without one and always check it’s in order before you pay.’
‘Frankly, I’m amazed that people can still be duped when all these regulations are in place,’ said Fry.
‘Oh, you’d be surprised how many people don’t bother to check in the excitement of the moment. You want to look at your new horse, not at boring old paperwork. Just like you want to get in your new car and take it for a drive. You’re more interested in what’s under the bonnet than what’s in the log book. It’s the same with a horse.’
‘What’s the penalty for not having a passport?’
‘A maximum five thousand pounds fine,’ said Walsh, ‘or imprisonment for up to three months, or both.’
Had she heard that right? Five thousand pounds? It was more than many thieves and other petty criminals were fined, even after repeated appearances in Edendale magistrates’ court. Fry wrote it down just to be sure that she remembered it properly.
‘I wanted to ask you about something you said yesterday,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘You mentioned that Patrick Rawson had tried to blame the allegations against him on rival dealers.’
‘That’s right, he did.’
‘I’m wondering if there were any particular rivals who might have had a grudge against him.’
‘Of course you are,’ said Walsh. ‘That makes sense. Well, I’m sure there must have been a few over the years. We didn’t really go into that as a serious possibility, you know. It was just Rawson trying to weasel his way out.’
‘I understand that. But if there was any chance…?’
‘I’ll have a trawl through the intelligence, and send you any names I come up with.’
‘Thanks. It’s appreciated.’
‘Can I ask how Patrick Rawson died?’ said Walsh.
‘It seems his head was kicked in by a horse.’
‘That’s the rumour I heard. Poetic justice, if you ask me.’
‘So the results from the postmortem suggest that Patrick Rawson’s head injury was caused by a blow from a horse’s hoof. The impression of the steel shoe is quite clear in his skull.’
‘He was kicked in the head by a horse?’
‘Or trodden on, while he was already on the ground.’
‘An accident, then,’ said Cooper. ‘An accident, after all.’
But Fry didn’t look too sure. ‘We can’t assume that. We won’t know for certain until we’ve established the sequence of events. And that means tracing the people who were present when he was killed. I’d be very interested to hear their account of the incident. And their explanation of why they rode off and left him to die, if it really was an accident. Even if there was no intention to kill, they could still find themselves facing manslaughter charges.’
Cooper was flicking through the list provided by Horse Watch. Brief details of missing and stolen horses, with phone numbers for the owners. No names, which was a pain. It made you look inefficient from the start when you had to ask an IP’s name.
A 14.2 hh chestnut mare of unknown breed, fifteen years old, suffers from arthritis. Very friendly. Taken from a farm near Buxton.
Dutch Warmblood mare, grey, 15.2 hh, thoroughbred in appearance, very well mannered and friendly. Stolen from a field in Derbyshire.
They all represented someone’s valued animal, often a friend. These were animals that had never been recovered. Who knew what might have happened to them?
There was another list circulating in the office, too. The complainants against Patrick Rawson and his associates in the Trading Standards investigation. There were even more of those, and they all had to be spoken to. But at least Dermot Walsh had supplied full names and addresses.
‘Which one of those is the most local?’ asked Fry, looking at Walsh’s list of aggrieved horse owners.
‘Just a second,’ said Cooper. ‘Yes, this one. Naomi Widdowson, Long Acres Farm.’
‘Widdowson?’
‘That’s right.’ Cooper looked up at the tone of Fry’s voice. ‘And an address near Eyam, too. Is there something in particular we should ask her, Diane?’
‘No,’ said Fry. ‘I’ll take that one myself.’
Cooper shrugged and passed her the details, then went back to his list from Horse Watch.
Piebald gelding, only owned by IP for six weeks, therefore no photos. Black and white, 15.3 hh, five years old. Stolen while on loan as companion horse.
Irish Draught gelding, grey, 16.1 hh, eleven years old, suffers from navicular and coffin joint arthritis. Stolen while on loan.
Stolen while on loan? Why did that crop up more than once? Was it common?
He sighed, anticipating the emotion and anger he was about to encounter, and began to make some phone calls.
Long Acres Farm wasn’t really in Eyam at all. It was a nominal address for an out-of-the-way holding that looked to be a lot closer to Birchlow than to Eyam. But Fry wasn’t surprised. That was typical of the eccentric way the parish boundaries were drawn in this part of the world.
Fry was certainly no expert on farming, but she thought Long Acres looked too small to be a farm. There were stables and a few paddocks, certainly. But nowhere near as much land as the Forbes owned at Watersaw House. This was on a much smaller scale, more run down, the surroundings much less pristine and tidy. Fry could see that she and Murfin would have to cross a makeshift drainage channel and a yard that had yet to be brushed out and washed down since the horses had passed through. She guessed there must be a shortage of willing stable girls on the Widdowsons’ payroll.
Jackdaws shouted and chattered in the trees as they stood by the car and looked at Long Acres. Large, muddy puddles lay between them and the house.
‘Come on, Gavin,’ said Fry.
‘Oh, shit.’
Naomi Widdowson had blonde hair tied back in a ragged ponytail. Dyed blonde, of course. Fry couldn’t often be fooled about that, but even someone like Gavin Murfin must have been able to see those roots. Naomi struck Fry as a bit hard-faced, her skin a bit too weathered. That was probably due to spending too much time outdoors.