Stephen Booth - The kill call

‘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 answered it. Lately, Murfin had started to develop the habit of delivering bad news every time he called. It was getting so that she hardly dared to leave the office.

‘Yes, Gavin?’

‘Hey up, boss. Having a good time at Lowbridge?’

‘No,’ said Fry. ‘What have you called me about?’

‘Michael Clay.’

‘Excellent. He’s the man we most need to speak to right now.’

‘Oh. Well, I’m sorry, but it seems that Erin Lacey has changed her mind about her father’s whereabouts.’

‘His what?’

‘His whereabouts. Remember she told us Michael Clay was away on a business trip? Well, she’s telling a different story now. Mr Clay has officially been reported MFH.’

‘Missing From Home?’ Fry sighed. ‘He’s done a runner. That’s a very stupid thing for him to do.’

‘And strange, too, when there’s no evidence against him.’

‘No evidence that we’ve found yet, Gavin.’

‘It could just be a clever ploy,’ suggested Murfin.

‘Oh, right. A clever ploy to cast suspicion on himself.’

‘What do you want to do, Diane?’

‘We’ll talk about it when I get back.’

On her way back to Edendale, news came in that a horse had been badly injured in an RTC somewhere outside the town. Fry had barely managed to calculate that it was directly on her route, before she saw the flashing lights ahead. That was going to mean another hold-up, unless she could find a way round.

Like dogs and sheep, horses came within the definition of ‘animal’ in the Road Traffic Act. That meant you had to report it to the police, if you ran over one. If it was a cat, a badger or a fox, you didn’t. It was strange how some laws stuck in your mind, while more recent legislation had to be looked up and puzzled over for a sensible interpretation every time it came up.

Fry caught a glimpse of the body in the roadway. A dead horse must be an incredible weight. This one looked to weigh as much as a small car, and there was no way it was going to be shifted easily. They’d need a flatbed truck and a winch to get it off the road.

She reversed the Peugeot into a field entrance, and turned round. Then she began to search for a way to get back on track.

The machinery was soon swinging into action. A stop on Michael Clay’s Mercedes, a description issued of the man they were looking for. But it was always the same in these cases. The moment a man’s description was circulated, people would start to see him everywhere.

‘So Michael Clay has suddenly become our number one suspect?’ asked Cooper. ‘Because he’s gone to ground?’

‘Well, perhaps he wasn’t directly involved,’ said Fry. ‘He doesn’t seem to have been in Derbyshire at the time that Patrick Rawson was killed.’

‘Well, no…’

‘I think there must be something in their business affairs that will cast a light on the motive for Rawson’s death, though. The trouble is, that could take time for us to figure out now.’

‘You know we were looking for a rival dealer who might have had a feud with Patrick Rawson?’ said Cooper.

‘Yes?’

‘What about the relationship between Patrick Rawson and Michael Clay? Partnerships like that can easily go wrong, especially where there’s criminality involved.’

‘You’re right, Ben. And even more so if it’s just one of the partners who happens to have criminal tendencies. I can imagine Rawson filling his own pockets, and Clay catching him out.’

‘Do you think it could it have been Clay who shopped his partner to Trading Standards?’ said Cooper.

‘He might not have gone that far in the first instance. But it’s possible he provided evidence against Rawson when the investigation started.’

‘To save his own skin?’

‘Yes.’

‘Trading Standards never mentioned that, though, did they?’ said Cooper.

‘No. They might have been able to put a case together without Michael Clay, once they’d got the information they needed. That would have allowed Clay to look clean.’

Cooper eased back in his chair, teasing out the theory. ‘But perhaps Rawson found out what he’d done, that Clay was the informant. That would cause a problem between them, all right. But then it would have been Rawson who came after Clay. What do you think?’