Stephen Booth - The kill call

He could see graded piles of chippings awaiting collection near the new haulage road to Cavendish Mill. Some abandoned workings had filled with water, forming the kind of small lake known locally as a flash, its surface seething with rain.

Putting his head down, Cooper carried on walking. If he remembered rightly, the mere names of the tracks in this area were redolent with history. At one time, Black Harry the highwayman had terrorized travellers crossing the moors around Longstone and Birchlow. His activities had gone on for years before they were cut short on the gibbet at Wardlow Mires. But his name still lived on in Black Harry Lane, Black Harry Gate, and Black Harry House. His memory was preserved forever on the White Peak sheets of the Ordnance Survey map.

In fact, with so many clues to Black Harry’s whereabouts, it was funny that the highwayman had taken so long to catch.

Fry found Wayne Abbott loading some equipment back into his vehicle. Abbott was lucky enough to have been given a 4x4 to drive and had managed to get near the scene without having to hike across the fields.

‘Those hoof marks,’ said Fry. ‘When were they left?’

‘Ah, I expect you mean pre-or post-mortem? It’s difficult to say.’

‘Still — ?’

The crime-scene manager shrugged. ‘No, really — it’s too difficult to say. Unless we find a hoof mark underneath the body, or some other conflicting trace…’

‘Let me know soonest if you do.’

‘Of course.’

‘So we still don’t know how he got from dinner at the Le Chien Noir to a field near Birchlow,’ said Fry thoughtfully.

‘On horseback?’ suggested Murfin. ‘Since we have all these hoof marks.’

Fry shook her head. ‘It seems pretty unlikely to me, but forensics will be able to tell us when they get his clothes in the lab.’

‘Well, how else do the horses come into it?’

‘I don’t know. But there are an awful lot of the hunting fraternity hallooing about down there with their fancy jackets and strangled vowels.’

‘Ah. The fox-hunting re-enactment society, I call them.’

‘I prefer “the unspeakable in pursuit of the uneatable”,’ said Fry.

‘That’s not one of my quotes.’

‘No, it’s Oscar Wilde.’

Fry hated not knowing more about the victim. Was he a saboteur? Could his killers have been members of the hunt? But he didn’t look the type to be an animal rights protestor. No mohican, no sabbing equipment. And none of the genuine sabs had any knowledge of him. Or they weren’t willing to admit they had. But why were horses’ hoof marks found? There had to be a reason for their presence, and the hunt were the obvious suspects.

She turned at the sound of clumsy footsteps clattering on the rocks. She was met by a startled gaze and a snort of alarm from a black muzzle.

‘Those damn sheep.’

Then she looked up at the sky in surprise. Well, at least it had stopped raining at last.

Cooper had reached the outer cordon, where blue-and-white crime-scene tape was strung between two gate posts and across the path. He gave his name to the officer at the cordon as he passed through, and saw Fry and Murfin walking back across the field from the body tent. Fry looked cold and tired, her coat and hair filmed with rain.

‘Ben — I didn’t think you were serious,’ she said when he got nearer.

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘Nobody comes out of a nice dry office on a day like this, if they can possibly help it.’

‘But I said I’d come, didn’t I? Why would I say that, if I didn’t mean it?’

Fry shrugged. ‘To impress someone?’

Cooper turned away. Though Fry was wrong about his reason, he didn’t want her to probe any further.

‘So what’s the situation?’ he said. ‘Have you got an ID? Any initial lines of enquiry?’

‘Just a minute,’ said Fry. ‘Before you get carried away — I don’t really need you here. I don’t want to be responsible for wrecking the duty roster just because you got bored sitting around on your backside.’

‘Actually, I think you do need me, Diane.’

‘Oh? How do you make that out?’

‘You said members of the Eden Valley Hunt were involved?’

‘They might be. We haven’t established that yet.’

‘Horses, though.’

‘Yes.’

‘And what do you know about horses? What do you know about the hunt, or hunt supporters?’

‘I can ask.’

Cooper gazed steadily at her. ‘You know perfectly well that I can talk to them better than you, and get more information out of them. You’ll just get everyone’s backs up.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘No, do tell me. How do I get everyone’s backs up?’

‘Well, I bet you have your own fixed views on field sports already. Have you expressed any opinions yet while you’ve been here? Shall I ask Gavin?’

Fry bit her lip. She always seemed to hate admitting that he was right.

‘All right, I’ll compromise,’ she said finally. ‘I’ll fill you in with what we have so far, and I’ll let you look at the scene. If you can contribute anything useful, you can stay, and I’ll square it with the DI.’

‘Great.’

‘Wait. But if I think you’re just bullshitting and you’ve nothing new to contribute, you’re out of here and back to your paperwork, no matter how boring you’re finding it.’

Cooper smiled. ‘OK, Diane. It’s a deal.’

She looked at him, evidently wondering whether he was serious. She had never really understood him, and he didn’t suppose it was going to be any different today.

Cooper listened carefully while Fry filled him in.

‘These hoof marks,’ said Cooper when she’d finished. ‘You said something about the hunt?’

‘As I told you, the Eden Valley Hunt has been out this morning. There was a police presence for the meet. They were expecting trouble from saboteurs. Got it, too.’

‘Yes, I saw the hunt.’

‘There were so many dogs. Why do they need so many?’

‘Dogs?’ said Cooper. ‘You mean hounds.’

Fry shook her head. ‘I know a dog when I see one.’

Cooper sighed. He’d grown up with a different relationship to the Eden Valley Hunt. Not only did the hunt rely on the goodwill of local farmers, it was one of the great organizers of social events. A dinner dance at Hassop Hall, a hunt ball at the Palace Hotel in Buxton, Buck’s fizz and a horn-blowing competition, a charity auction in aid of the air ambulance… Not many weeks ago, the hunt had thrown their annual Christmas party for farmers’ children. Cooper could recollect being taken to it himself a few times, when he was very small. The parties actually took place just after Christmas — but nevertheless involved a visit by Santa, dropping in at Edendale on his way home to Lapland.

‘But apart from the hoof marks, you have no evidence anyone from the hunt was involved?’

‘Well — that, and all the people milling around on horseback a few hundred yards away from the scene. It’s pretty persuasive circumstantial evidence.’

‘Was it the hounds who found the body?’ asked Cooper.

‘Apparently, they came down this way, but the dog men were on hand — oh, what do you call them?’

‘The huntsman? The whipper-in?’

‘Yes, them. They called the hounds away, but didn’t realize what the pack had found. They assumed it must be a dead sheep or something. It was the helicopter crew who actually called it in.’

‘The hounds are supposed to follow a scent trail. I wonder why they would get distracted by a human smell?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps he smelled a bit foxy.’

Cooper could see that Fry was getting exasperated. But the light was fading anyway, and there wasn’t much else that could be done here. There was just one thing more.