Stephen Booth - The kill call

‘I keep saying “Pat does this” and “he hates that”,’ said Mrs Rawson. ‘I suppose I have to learn to start using the past tense, don’t I?’

‘It will take a while to come to terms with what’s happened,’ said Fry, watching carefully for an emotional outburst, which didn’t come. ‘Would you like me to send for your brother?’

‘No, I’m all right. Really.’

‘Just one more thing for now, then,’ said Fry. ‘Why did your husband attend horse sales, Mrs Rawson? Do you ride?’

‘I’m not keen myself. But we do have some stables at the house in Sutton. Patrick used to buy horses and sell them on. Quiet rides for novices. He had a good eye for that sort of thing.’

‘I see.’

Mrs Rawson looked at her watch. ‘If you want to know anything more about the business, you’ll have to talk to Patrick’s partner,’ she said. ‘That’s Michael Clay. He’s a bit boring, but he’s very good at managing all the paperwork and so on. He’s an accountant by profession. As I said — boring.’

‘I’ll do that,’ said Fry.

And she definitely would. Mr Clay might be a boring accountant, but it was possible that he would also be a bit more forthcoming with the truth.

She escorted Deborah Rawson back down to reception. A man was waiting for her there, a tall and smartly dressed middle-aged man, with unusual grey eyes and a face that was slightly too wide around the jaw line to be called good looking. Fry took him for Deborah Rawson’s older brother, and realized that she didn’t know what his surname would be.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr…?’

The man smiled, creases forming across his cheeks from the too-wide jaw.

‘Clay,’ he said. ‘Michael Clay.’

Fry was so taken aback that she couldn’t at first figure out where she had made a false assumption.

‘I’m sorry. Are you Mrs Rawson’s brother?’

‘No. Dennis is waiting outside. He wanted to have a cigarette. I came to see if I could be any help. I hope that’s all right.’

‘You’re Patrick Rawson’s business partner?’

‘Yes, in some ways. Patrick had other interests that I wasn’t involved in, but we worked quite closely. Has Deborah been able to give the information you need?’

‘Well, not exactly. We haven’t been able to establish why Mr Rawson was in Derbyshire, and who he was meeting yesterday morning.’

‘I can’t help you there either, I’m afraid. Patrick didn’t share the day-today details with me. But if your enquiries do turn up a business connection, please come and see me and I’ll give you whatever help I can.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Michael Clay gave her his business card, and Fry noted the Birmingham phone number. She also noticed the way he hovered protectively over Deborah Rawson as he began to usher her towards the door.

‘I’m not quite clear how you came to be here, sir,’ said Fry. ‘I understood Mrs Rawson’s brother had brought her from Sutton Coldfield.’

‘Yes, he did. Obviously, Deborah called to tell me what had happened to poor old Patrick. And since I happened to be in the area, I thought I’d come along to give my support. It’s going to be a difficult time for her.’

‘Indeed.’

Clay fixed her with his grey eyes. They were strangely cool and almost emotionless eyes, which emitted a great sense of calmness and confidence. He made you feel as though you’d be ready to trust him with your last penny.

But did Fry feel she could believe him? Was she convinced that he happened to be in the area for an entirely innocent reason? Not on your life.

‘I’ll be in touch, Mr Clay,’ she said. ‘Perhaps quite soon.’

Cooper had found himself invited inside number 6 Laurel Close. The resident was an elderly man, probably about eighty years old, but still reasonably upright and mobile, if a little slow. An old soldier, perhaps? Well, if that was case, it would soon come into the conversation.

Cooper had been prepared for residents in these bungalows to take a long time getting to their doors. He knew that stiff joints would have to be levered out of armchairs, walking frames grasped, hearing aids adjusted. And that was before they even got out of their sitting rooms. Then there would be chains on the doors, and his ID to be shown before anyone would talk to him.

All the precautions were justified, too. Laurel Close was the sort of area where distraction burglaries were most common, where opportunist thieves preyed on the elderly, keen to take advantage of their confusion, and their trusting natures.

He was able to hear movement from inside the bungalow for a few minutes before the door chain rattled and the face of the old man peered out.

‘Mr Wakeley?’

‘Aye.’

Cooper showed his warrant card, giving the old man time to scrutinize it carefully. Not so long ago, there had been several incidents of a thief posing as a police officer to gain access to properties just like this, with the intention of rifling the drawers for some OAP’s life savings as soon as their backs were turned.

‘You reported hearing a disturbance on Tuesday morning. Is that right, sir?’

‘Yes, that was me. Responsible citizen, I am.’

The old man laughed, and let Cooper into the bungalow, pointing the way through to a small sitting room. He waved his visitor ahead, and very slowly followed him into the room. He didn’t support himself on a stick or a frame, but moved as if he had all the time in the world, and no one was going to hurry him. Cooper was reminded of a giant Galapagos turtle he’d seen on a natural history programme, determinedly placing one foot in front of the other.

The sitting room was filled with too much furniture, and scattered with framed photographs of smiling family members. Biscuit crumbs lay on the carpet. Cooper could feel them crunching softly under his boots. Near the armchair he was given, the crumbs were thicker. He felt as though he ought to offer to do a bit of vacuuming while he was here.

‘Early in the morning, it was,’ said Mr Wakeley. ‘Folk having a row.’

Cooper felt a surge of interest. It was a small thing, and it might be irrelevant. But every detail should be followed up.

‘You heard people arguing? What time exactly, can you say?’

The old man glanced automatically at a handsome grandfather clock that stood in one corner. The clock dominated the room, completely out of proportion to the size of the bungalow. Cooper guessed it must have been brought from a former home, a house with larger rooms and higher ceilings, where all the rest of the furniture was heavy and dark. But the clock ticked away steadily, a deep thunk of a pendulum echoing gently inside the mahogany case.

‘Eight thirty, or a bit later. I couldn’t be more exact than that.’

‘You were here, in your bungalow? Were people arguing outside in the street?’

Wakeley shook his head. ‘No, I went for a walk. I don’t sleep too well these days, tend to wake up about five o’clock in the morning. There’s not much else to do at that time, I can tell you. No one to talk to, nothing on the telly worth watching. And who wants to sit around with nothing but their own thoughts for company at that time of the morning?’

Not me, thought Cooper. No one was at their best at that time. He decided it might be more fruitful to let the old man talk, rather than trying too hard to pry out the details.

‘So you went out when, Mr Wakeley?’

‘About seven thirty. I used to go out earlier, at first light — cock crow, if they actually allowed anyone to have a cockerel around here. I can’t manage it now.’

‘Was there anyone around?’

‘Not a soul to be seen on the estate, a few cars moving about the village — commuters, I suppose, off to their jobs in Sheffield.’