Stephen Booth - The kill call

The woman walked away towards the stables, and could be heard speaking to the girls. Fry turned her attention to Alicia.

‘You’re a member of the hunt, too?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you were out on Tuesday, I gather?’

‘Of course. We all want to show our support. But we didn’t see anything, really we didn’t.’

As the daughter spoke, she moved a hand to stroke the inside of her horse’s leg, where the skin looked smooth and soft. Fry found the gesture somehow disturbing.

‘I’ve no idea who that man was who died, and I’m sure Mummy hasn’t either,’ said Alicia. ‘We were just trying to get on with our own business, and avoid the antis. You’d be better talking to them, wouldn’t you?’

‘We have talked to them,’ said Fry. ‘But, you see, they weren’t on horseback.’

Alicia looked away. ‘I can’t help you.’

The horse swung around restlessly, pointing its haunches at Fry. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Cooper moving away towards Alicia Forbes. But she was feeling more confident now, and she stood her ground, even when the rear end bumped gently against her.

‘Do you happen to know the bridlepath called Badger’s Way, Miss Forbes?’ Cooper was asking.

‘Yes, I’ve ridden there a few times. But everyone uses it — it’s good to be able to get away from traffic for a while.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘There have been several incidents of reckless driving near horse riders in this area. Perhaps you know.’

‘Any motorists identified are being warned,’ said Cooper. ‘They could face prosecution for driving without due care and attention.’

Fry watched, feeling suddenly like a spare part, as Alicia Forbes looked Cooper up and down. She’d experienced this moment so often.

‘Do you have any animals yourself?’ she asked him.

‘Just a cat,’ he admitted, patting the horse’s neck.

‘Oh.’ Then she looked at his hand. ‘And you’re not wearing a wedding ring.’

‘No.’

‘I just wondered — I know not all men wear them, even when they’re married.’

‘So I’ve heard.’

‘So… are you? Married?’

‘No.’

‘You must be, what… thirty by now? Isn’t it time to settle down?’

‘Well, it’s not quite so simple.’

‘Mmm. I suppose not. Still — a single man, living alone with a cat. It could give the wrong impression.’

Just then, a powerful odour filled the yard. Not just the pervasive background smell, but something much more pungent and immediate.

‘Diane, watch out,’ said Cooper.

But he was too late. Fry felt the soft impact of warm, steaming lumps of fresh horse manure splattering on to her trousers and covering her shoes. For a second, she was so shocked that she couldn’t move. And the plops just kept coming. How did one animal manage to produce so much at one go?

As if by magic, Mrs Forbes herself had re-appeared to witness the moment.

‘Oh, I’m so terribly sorry,’ she said. ‘It appears you were standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

‘These hunting people,’ said Fry angrily as she got back into the Peugeot. ‘Honestly, talking to them is like flogging a dead — ’

She stopped, realizing the stupidity of what she’d been about to say. As she started up the engine, Cooper got into the passenger seat. Fastening his seat belt, he wafted a hand in an exaggerated gesture.

‘Diane,’ he said, ‘I hope you don’t mind if I open the window? Only, it’s a bit — ’

‘Yes,’ said Fry. ‘I know.’

Back at the office, Cooper found a place to hang his damp coat and fetched himself a coffee from the vending machine. Hardly coffee, really — but it was hot.

He stood for a moment watching Irvine and Hurst busy at work in the CID room. He was remembering again his first ever visit to Eyam, with the school party. He recalled that he’d brought back a souvenir from the village museum. Cooper smiled when he pictured it. His mother had hated the thing, and didn’t even want it in the house. She paid no attention to his explanation. Eyam was most famous as the Plague Village, right? So what else would you choose as a suitable souvenir to commemorate the Black Death? It was obvious, really. A black, plastic rat, with red eyes and a long, scaly tail.

The young Cooper had thought it was a fine example of Rattus rattus, the Black Rat — now one of the rarest mammals in the UK, thanks to its more successful cousin, the brown rat. The souvenir rat even came with its own information leaflet, explaining that this was the little beast that had spread from Asia to Europe in the Middle Ages, bringing its little gift of the bubonic plague. In dark corners of barns and warehouses it could be active at all hours, and ate almost anything it could find, its family groups organized on a hierarchical basis, dominated by one strong individual. They carried not only the plague, but typhus, rabies, salmonella, hantavirus, Weil’s disease… oh, and trichinosis, the pork roundworm. Thank God the natural mortality rate of rats was ninety per cent.

Cooper recalled very clearly standing outside the Plague Cottage that first time, reading the names of the dead on the plaque. It was all very well for people like Diane Fry to scoff at Eyam’s fame as the Plague Village, to laugh at the idea of souvenir rats and tableaux of people in night shirts with their necks covered in bubos. But for him, there was one fact which had made the whole story different, and much more personal. According to the well-documented history of Eyam’s plague year, the very first family to fall victim to the Black Death had been Coopers.

Fry had been only a few minutes late for her appointment to see Detective Superintendent Branagh. Yet when she entered the superintendent’s office, she felt a bit like the naughty child sent to see the head teacher for breaking wind in class.

The superintendent’s office was on the upper floor of Divisional HQ, looking down on Gate C and the back of the East Stand at Edendale Football Club. That view seemed to have become a status symbol among the senior management team. It was also one of the few offices with air conditioning, but it wasn’t in use today, and the room was a bit too warm. Branagh sniffed as she entered, like a disapproving matron.

After her visit to Mrs Forbes this afternoon, the first thing that struck Fry as she sat down was that Superintendent Branagh would make a good Master of the Hounds. She had a sudden image of Branagh, whip in hand, boots polished, riding britches specially tailored to accommodate her hips. The perfect companion for Lord Somebody or Other, whose portrait was in the National Gallery.

The superintendent flicked a file open impatiently, with no time to spare for the social niceties, making it plain that Fry had kept her waiting.

‘As you know, DS Fry,’ she said, ‘I’ve been reviewing the files of all CID staff in this division. Some of the Personal Development Reviews make interesting reading. Very interesting.’

‘I’m sure they’ve all been done properly, ma’am.’

‘Indeed. I’ll be talking to you about your team in due course. But, in the first instance, I’ve been looking at your record, and your case histories, DS Fry,’ she said. ‘Would you accept that there have been some weaknesses in certain areas of your development during your time with E Division?’

‘Well… I suppose I still have some experience to gain in a supervisory role.’

Branagh was watching her, waiting for more. But Fry wasn’t about to give it to her. Why hand her superintendent ammunition by criticizing her own performance? It was an old managerial trick.

‘Well, the fact is,’ said Branagh, ‘that you haven’t really been getting results. At least, not the sort of results I would have hoped for from you, if I’d been here during the past couple of years. Would you agree with that assessment, DS Fry?’