‘Patrick Rawson?’
‘Correct. They’d dealt with him before, so they had no reason to be particularly suspicious. In fact, they claimed ignorance in the whole matter. All the police could establish was that the abattoir gave Rawson between four and five hundred pounds for each horse. The correct paperwork was filled out and, as far as the abattoir knew, the horses were signed over by their owner or the owner’s agent. They cooperated with the investigation. There’s no allegation against the abattoir, and no suggestion that the horses were maltreated at any stage.’
‘And no charge against Rawson?’
‘The problem was establishing a chain of events. Without that, it wasn’t even possible to consider pressing charges. Of course, it was mad not to have had a proper loan agreement in writing from the start. It should have specified whose authority was needed before the horse could be destroyed. A verbal agreement is worthless in evidence.’
‘So Rawson did the deal.’
‘That was his speciality — dealing. He would buy and sell, always to his own advantage. He worked with the abattoirs all the time, places like Hawleys.’
So that was at least one woman who had been taken advantage of. All she’d wanted was a good retirement home for her beloved horse in the last years of his life. How many more owners were there who’d had similar experiences? The list of people who had reason to hate Patrick Rawson was growing rapidly.
‘Couldn’t uniforms help with some of this?’ asked Murfin.
‘They’re more used to looking for stolen cars.’
‘In some ways, finding a missing horse ought to be a lot easier than locating a stolen car,’ said Cooper.
‘Why?’
‘Look at this — each horse now has its own passport containing a full description — silhouettes from front, back and both sides, showing the colour and all the animal’s markings. Whether it has a stripe, a blaze or star. Exact placing of whorls and feathers. Its microchip number, freeze brand, its height, age, the colour of its hooves. That should help, surely? You don’t get that level of description for any car.’
‘And you can’t exactly give a horse a re-spray and change its number plates.’
‘Also, it’s possible to consult NED for information on the identity of horses in the UK.’
‘NED? For goodness sake.’
‘The National Equine Database. You can get microchip numbers and freeze brand information.’
‘We’d have to find someone who knows the difference between a skewbald and a piebald.’
Fry was gathering her phone and car keys, pulling on her jacket.
‘Where are you going, Diane?’
‘I’ve still got a call to do on my own list. One of Patrick Rawson’s business contacts: Senior Brothers in Lowbridge.’
Fry couldn’t quite believe Rodney Senior’s appearance. No one still had sideburns like that, surely? They must be a joke. He was probably wearing false ones for a fancy-dress party later that day. Some event with a Dickensian theme. He was going as Mr Micawber, or Bumble the Beadle.
To find him, Fry had picked her way carefully across a muddy concrete yard where several livestock transporters were parked, following the sound of hissing water. Then she saw a cloud of spray rising from one of the vehicles, and found a man in boots and blue overalls at work. She had to call his name twice over the noise to get his attention.
‘Aye, Rawson rang on Monday and said he might need some stock transporting later in the week,’ said Senior, turning off a power hose he’d been using to wash out a wagon. ‘I never heard from him again.’
He had broad, rough hands, which dangled aimlessly at his sides when they had nothing to do. The backs of those hands were astonishingly hairy, and a thatch of hair burst from the top of his open-necked shirt, like the down from an overstuffed mattress. Of course, the sideboards were real, too. Fry had no doubt about it when she got a bit closer to him.
‘Did you think that was odd?’ she asked.
‘Odd? No.’
‘Didn’t you hear that he got killed?’
‘It was on the news.’
‘So?’
Senior just looked at her, as if she was speaking a different language. He didn’t bother to ask what she meant.
‘So you still didn’t think it was odd?’
‘I just thought that whatever deal he was doing must have fallen through. It happens.’
‘But what about the timing? You lost some business through his death, Mr Senior.’
Streams of filthy water ran out of the sides of the transporter and down a steel ramp. Senior gestured at Fry with a yard brush.
‘We’ve had business from Rawson for years, but I wasn’t sorry to hear we won’t be doing his transporting again. I never liked the bloke myself, and I don’t mind admitting it.’
Well, that was some form of communication, at least.
‘What did you object to about him?’ asked Fry.
‘He was a bit too smooth for my liking. Fancy talker, always trying to get one over on you, if you know what I mean. I prefer plain speaking, myself. I gave him a bit of plain speaking once or twice, too.’
‘You had disagreements? Why?’
‘Disagreements? That’s a big word for it. I told him to bugger off a couple of times. He was forever trying to knock us down on price, or put off paying for a few months. That’s no good for a business like ours. If he’d tried it again, I would have told him where to stick it.’
Senior loped up the ramp with his brush, moving in a stooped kind of way as his feet pushed against the ridges in the ramp. Fry supposed they were designed for the hooves of livestock to grip on, but Senior seemed equally at home in his work boots.
‘When he phoned on Monday, he must have told you what he wanted transported?’ said Fry.
‘Oh, aye. Horses. It was always horses with Rawson.’
‘Did he say where you were to pick them up from?’
Senior thought for a moment. She had obviously asked him a tough one, because his brow wrinkled ferociously. With his hairiness, large dangling hands and that slight stoop as he walked, there was a simian look about him. Fry was reminded of an illustration from a textbook on the theory of human evolution. Senior came from somewhere halfway along the scale, just after Homo erectus had stood upright for the first time and lost the sloping forehead.
‘Now then,’ he said, as if that was somehow an answer.
‘Perhaps you wrote it down,’ prompted Fry impatiently.
But Senior shook his head. ‘Nay. I’ll remember. He didn’t give an exact address, just said it was Eyam way. He was supposed to give us the details when he called back. But he never did, you see.’
‘And the horses were supposed to go to…?’
‘Hawleys. Like always.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got this next wagon to do.’
As she watched him lope away, Fry recalled that Homo erectus had borne a fair resemblance to a modern human. The main difference was, its brain was only about three-quarters the size.
As Fry left Senior Brothers’ yard, she wondered what the other brother was like. Probably Rodney was the brains of the outfit.
Though she was picking up bits and pieces about Patrick Rawson’s business activities, she needed to know much more. And she felt sure the man who could give her the information she needed was Michael Clay. A man who was rivalling the Scarlet Pimpernel for elusiveness.
Before she got into her car, she tried his number again. Still on voicemail. What a surprise.
Then, as soon as she ended the call, her phone rang. It was Gavin Murfin, of course. Fry hesitated before she
