Stephen Booth - The kill call

‘I wonder what her vital statistics are,’ whispered Murfin. ‘She’d look good in the front row of the scrum.’

‘Women don’t have vital statistics any more, Gavin.’

‘Ah. Political correctness. Maybe I should get myself sent back in for re-education again. I obviously need my ten thousand mile service.’

As everyone went back to work, Fry noticed that Ben Cooper had sneaked into the back of the room, too. He looked as if he wasn’t sure how welcome he would be, or whether his presence could be regarded as official, even.

It turned out that Branagh had noticed Cooper, too. She turned to Hitchens and Fry.

‘DC Cooper is supposed to be on leave, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Fry regarded her with a certain respect. A woman who could memorize the duty rosters must have a ruthlessly efficient administrative brain. Most senior officers wouldn’t even have bothered looking.

‘He heard we were short-handed and came in to see if he could help,’ explained Fry. ‘But I can send him home, if — ’

‘No, why would you do that? We should be encouraging such enthusiasm, DS Fry.’

‘Of course.’

A few minutes later, Fry found Mr Enthusiasm himself standing at her desk.

‘You didn’t mention any trouble with the hunt,’ he said.

‘It was all a storm in a teacup.’

‘Sabs, I suppose?’

‘Yes, but there were hunt stewards involved. I didn’t like the look of them too much, Ben. There were one or two familiar faces, I’m sure.’

‘Customers of ours?’

‘Almost certainly. When I get hold of their names, I think there’ll be a few counts of affray and GBH on record. Some potential suspects there, well capable of cracking a person’s skull. If we could link one of them to Patrick Rawson, then tie it up with the forensics

…’

‘You’re focusing on the hunt stewards rather than the saboteurs?’ said Cooper.

‘The protestors were a motley bunch. But some of them looked as though they wouldn’t say “boo” to a goose. They’d probably be too afraid of violating its rights.’

Cooper perched on an adjacent desk. ‘The sabs are pretty clever and sophisticated now. They’ve had a lot of experience over the years. In fact, some people say successful hunt sabotage needs as much knowledge of hunting techniques as hunting itself. You have to understand the direction a scent travels, possible lines a fox might take. And good communication is vital.’

‘According to Inspector Redfearn, there are mainly hard-core activists left since the ban. They seem to be convinced that hunts are trying to break the law every time they go out.’

‘Not all hunts,’ said Cooper. ‘The Eden Valley have developed a bad reputation with the sabs. Some of the neighbouring hunts, like the High Peak, are considered pretty clean and law abiding. But, yes, there are definitely some extreme groups. A while ago, there were a bunch called the Hunt Retribution Squad, who were alleged to have been responsible for a series of fire bombings. That was after the deaths of two young saboteurs in incidents involving hunt vehicles.’

‘Deaths? Really?’

‘It was a few years ago.’

Cooper had got Fry’s interest now, and he could see it. He sat down at his PC and did a quick search, soon coming up with the details.

‘Yes, they were both in 1993. One in Cheshire, and one in Cambridgeshire. The sabs who died were aged eighteen and fifteen. The fifteen-year-old was crushed under the wheels of a horse box.’

‘That’s just a child,’ said Fry.

Cooper nodded. ‘Funny thing is, the angle of the media reports at the time damaged the reputation of the saboteurs rather than the hunt supporters. There were allegations of children being recruited directly from schools and sacrificed for the “anti” cause, with a few hints at Nazi sympathies thrown in.’

‘Which suggests the hunt lobby might have had better PR than the opposition.’

‘Maybe.’

Fry tapped a pen on her desk. ‘This has been going on for years, then. There could be some old scores to be settled, couldn’t there? A young sab in the early nineties might be in his mid-forties now.’

‘You’re thinking of your victim — Patrick Rawson?’

‘It’s a theory. There were too many horses at the scene for the hunt not to be involved in some way. And I got a bad feeling from that woman, Mrs Forbes, and the huntsman. I was convinced they were concealing something.’

‘They learn to be defensive,’ said Cooper.

‘Even so…’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, let’s be fair,’ said Fry. ‘There are some fairly aggressive hunt supporters, too. What was that slogan some of them had during the campaign for a ban? “Born to Hunt, Prepared to Fight”.’

‘Something like that,’ said Cooper. ‘You didn’t enjoy seeing the hunt, did you?’

‘I’m not a fan of horses, as it happens. They’re too big for my liking — I wouldn’t want one of those things to bite me. And there were so many dogs. Why do they need all those dogs?’

‘Hounds.’

‘Oh, yes — hounds, then.’

Cooper laughed, then tried to look more serious.

‘So what can I do, Diane?’

‘Are you sure you’re free?’

‘I’ve got an appointment to keep at about five o’clock — but otherwise, yes.’

‘Got a date?’

‘No, I’m taking the cat to the vet’s. Have you got some jobs for me?’

‘Well, there are a few addresses that need visiting in Eyam and Birchlow. Potential witnesses to speak to.’

‘Sure. Give them to me.’

Fry handed him the call logs. ‘They’re probably nothing, but best to check.’

‘OK. Where are you off to yourself?’

‘A nice restaurant,’ said Fry. ‘One of the perks of the job.’

Wednesday was market day in Edendale, and Fry had to go all the way up to the top of the multi-storey car park in Clappergate to find a space for the Peugeot.

Le Chien Noir was in a row of retail premises near the corner of the market place, distinguished from the building societies and mobile phone shops around it by the subdued colours of its decor, the deep gloom visible through the windows, the discreet menu under its own little awning on the wall outside.

Though the restaurant wasn’t open for business yet, a frantic bustle of activity was going on. Every time a door from the kitchen opened, a burst of noise filled the empty restaurant: shouting and clanging, voices singing or screaming in several different accents. It occurred to Fry too late that very few workers in the service industry had English as their first language these days. Even if she found the right waitress or barman, she might need to call on the services of an interpreter to get detailed information out of them. And, whatever languages the staff at Le Chien Noir spoke, she was certain French wouldn’t be among them. She prayed that she wouldn’t have to start racking up additional costs on use of the Interpretation Line.

But, for once, she was in luck. Patrick Rawson had been served by the manager himself, who turned out to be a Scot called Connelly, a slim man in his thirties with close-cropped hair disguising incipient male-pattern baldness. He was wearing a brightly patterned waistcoat and a white apron, with his order pad protruding from a pocket.

She showed him a printout of the photo faxed from Sutton Coldfield.

‘Yes, I’m pretty sure I saw that gentleman,’ said Connelly. ‘It was only… what? Monday night?’

‘That would be correct, Mr Connelly.’

‘Most people I don’t remember for very long. If you’d asked me next week, it would probably have gone clean out of my head. I have that sort of mind, you know. I always need something new.’

Within a few minutes, Fry had obtained the credit-card record which would confirm Rawson’s identity, and established that there had been no reservation made. At least, none that had been entered in the book. A walk-in, then. Around eight or eight thirty, the manager thought.