The kill call bcadf-9

by Stephen Booth

  ‘We don’t eat horse meat in this country, though.’

  ‘Historically, that’s true. Though, actually, people have been eating horse meat for some time, without being aware of it. There was a Food Standards Agency investigation a few years ago which found salami on sale in the UK containing horse and donkey meat, without it being mentioned on the food label. No one died of shock. And times change, you know. We’re living in a much more multi-cultural country.’

  ‘So I’ve heard.’

  Gains had a habit of stroking his hand along the smooth grain of his desk. A possessive, self-satisfied gesture, Fry thought.

  ‘I’m not just talking about ethnic minorities,’ he said, ‘but the large numbers of our fellow EU citizens who now live and work in the UK. Many of them are from countries where horse meat is perfectly acceptable. Indeed, the meat is highly regarded by some communities. And quite rightly, given its low fat content and excellent flavour.’

  ‘You think you can make horse meat part of the British diet?’

  ‘We acknowledge that we have a bit of a PR challenge on our hands. But it’s not an insurmountable problem. In fact, there’s a precedent. Thanks to the Asian and Caribbean communities, goat meat has become more common in the UK market during the last couple of decades. Now we just want to widen the food experience a little. The time is absolutely right, when you consider the increasingly health-conscious environment, the public awareness of the risks of eating too much fat. Horse meat is splendidly healthy, with half the fat of beef and ten times the Omega Threes to reduce your cholesterol. It’s free from bird ’flu, mad cow disease, tuberculosis, Foot and Mouth, and tape worm — all the scourges of our traditional meat industries. There’s a huge opportunity for a dynamic, enterprising company to break new ground.’

  ‘And that’s you?’

  He smiled smugly. ‘Absolutely. R amp; G Enterprises are ideally positioned in the market place, Sergeant. We saw an opportunity, and we’re taking it. That’s what enterprise is all about. One day, we’ll expand into Europe and take on the French and Belgians at their own game. A shame we can’t establish a market in the USA. But the Americans are most against eating horse meat.’

  Fry looked at the company logo, etched into the window of the manager’s office.

  ‘I take it Patrick Rawson is the “R” in R amp; G Enterprises, Mr Gains?’

  ‘Yes, poor Patrick. Do you know how it happened?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I spoke to Deborah yesterday. She said it was a robbery. Unusual place for it to happen.’

  ‘We can’t be sure of the circumstances,’ said Fry stiffly.

  ‘Pity. I was hoping you might have some news.’

  ‘How did you and Mr Rawson happen to go into business together?’

  ‘Well, it didn’t just “happen”,’ said Gains. ‘We had talked about the possibility for some time. Years, I suppose. We met through Hawley and Sons, the abattoir owners. I used to work for the Meat and Livestock Commission. Then, about a year ago, we agreed that the time had come, and we put the package together.’

  ‘Mr Rawson put up some of his own money?’

  ‘Yes. I was fortunate — I had an inheritance from my father, a few thousand I had put away for just such an eventuality. Patrick, I believe, raised some equity from his property in Sutton Coldfield.’

  ‘He used his house as security?’

  ‘That’s right. But the majority of the finance came from our business loan. That has to be serviced, and paid back first. But we’re building the enterprise well. Everyone will be happy with the outcome, I believe.’

  Fry tried to ignore the complacent smile. ‘Do you know Michael Clay, Mr Gains?’

  ‘Oh, Clay? I gather he’s worked with Patrick on some other projects. But I’ve never met him.’

  ‘He’s not involved with R amp; G?’

  ‘No, that’s just the two of us. Me and Patrick.’

  Fry was vaguely disappointed. At the moment, Michael Clay could only be counted as an elusive witness. But ever since she’d spoken to Erin Lacey in Great Barr this morning, she’d been bothered by a nagging feeling that he would soon turn out to be something more than that.

  ‘I see. And, Mr Gains, I have to ask you — were you aware that Patrick Rawson was the subject of a Trading Standards investigation?’

  Gains hesitated, for the first time. ‘Yes, I was. It was quite well known in the trade. But no charges were ever brought against him, so I couldn’t see any problem. Innocent until proven guilty, eh, Sergeant?’

  ‘So they say.’

  ‘Patrick is in regular touch — sorry, was in regular touch. He phoned on Monday, in fact. Just for a chat, nothing specific.’

  ‘He was in his car when he phoned, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, I believe he was.’

  Fry was interested that Maurice Gains had volunteered the information about Rawson’s phone call before she asked the question. Clearly, this man wasn’t stupid.

  ‘Was that the last time you spoke?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he was happy with how things were going?’ said Fry. ‘No problems?’

  ‘None at all. Between you and me, we talked about future expansion. We’re modelling ourselves on a well-established Belgian company, which does the whole job — buys the horses, slaughters them, carries out the butchering, then packages and distributes the meat. But that’s for the future. We’re only just getting a toe-hold on the market at the moment.’

  ‘You’d be looking to buy a slaughterhouse, then? Like Hawleys, for example?’

  ‘Yes, that would be ideal,’ said Gains. ‘We’ve already had talks with Hawleys. Of course, the equine side of their business is a drop in the ocean. The countries supplying the most horse meat in Europe are Poland and Romania. And we do need certain types of horse. The optimum age for slaughter is between ten and fifteen years, the minimum about seven. Funnily enough, the older the horse, the more tender the meat. It’s the opposite of other meats.’

  ‘No young horses?’

  ‘Well, foal is OK up to fifteen months, but it’s a specialized market. Italy likes white meat from very young horses, but the French prefer red. We think the UK market will favour red meat, too.’

  Through a window, Fry could see into the packing room, where women dressed head to toe in white plastic aprons, hats and hair nets, were processing the meat. The steaks she could see going through the line were enormous — big slabs of purplish-black meat, thickly marbled with fat.

  Gains had followed her gaze. ‘The taste is a bit sweet, compared to beef,’ he admitted. ‘Traditionally, it was thought that it would never suit the British palate, even if we didn’t have a cultural problem to overcome. But the taste can easily be improved with seasoning and spices. Like lamb, it goes rather well with herbs such as rosemary or sage. You really should try it.’

  Fry wished there was some way she could shake Maurice Gains’ complacency, make that hand stop stroking the smooth wood of his desk, just for a moment.

  ‘Mr Gains, an outbreak of trichinosis from eating infected horse meat isn’t very good news for you, is it?’ she said.

  ‘No connection with us,’ snapped Gains, losing his composure for just a moment. ‘I made a call this morning, and I’m told the suspect meat came from Poland. Brought in by some Polish workers living in a multi-occupancy property in Birmingham. That’s up to the Polish authorities to deal with, if they’re the country of origin.’

  ‘But, Mr Gains, don’t you think you might have something more serious to deal with than a PR challenge?’ she said.

  ‘We’ll take all the steps that are necessary to protect our brand.’

  ‘“Protect your brand”? That wasn’t what I meant.’

  ‘I don’t know what you do mean, then.’

  ‘I mean animal rights activists,’ said Fry. ‘Some of the protest groups out there can be pretty extreme in their actions. You must have taken that into account?’

  ‘We con
sidered it, naturally,’ said Gains. ‘It was a factor that our business partners raised at the planning stage.’

  ‘Business partners?’

  ‘Our financial backers. Banks, I mean. They don’t play any active role in the business, but we needed finance to meet our start-up costs. So we had to put together a business proposal for them, and the public reaction was factored into that. But we’re not dealing with live animals here, you see. Currently, all our meat comes from Italy. It’s boned, cut and packaged in a plant near Turin, then shipped back to the UK in refrigerated lorries. You won’t find any ponies gambolling around in paddocks waiting to go on to the slaughter line. Not here. There’s nothing for the animal rights fanatics to get steamed up about.’

  ‘You think not?’

  ‘Look, we’re only distributing to specialist shops at the moment, and a few restaurants where the owners are willing to be innovative. But wait until we get our products into Tesco and Waitrose. Then public acceptance will soon follow.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re so confident.’

  ‘I suppose it might just be me, Sergeant, but I don’t understand where these animal lovers are coming from,’ said Gains. ‘Why do people who eat cows and sheep get so upset at the idea of eating a horse?’

  ‘They think of them as companions, not food.’

  ‘That’s the way most of us think about dogs, isn’t it? Yet the Chinese and Koreans eat dog meat, even consider it a delicacy. One man’s pet is another man’s protein.’ Gains smiled. ‘Isn’t that right, Sergeant?’

  Fry was relieved to get out of the R amp; G distribution centre. Though the smell had been clean, and maybe even overly hygienic, there had been a strange contradiction in the sight of those purple slabs of meat being handled and shipped out. By the time she got back to her car, she was very glad that Gavin Murfin wasn’t with her. She couldn’t have stood it if he’d produced something to eat right at this moment.

  A message from Murfin was waiting on her phone. There must have been no signal while she was inside R amp; G Enterprises.

  ‘Thought you might like to know,’ said Murfin when she called him back. ‘SOCOs lifted some latent prints from that gate on Longstone Moor. They’ve visited the farmer and printed him for comparison, but some of the latents don’t match. Could be you were right, Diane.’

  ‘Well, actually, Ben Cooper was right.’

  ‘I’ll tell him that.’

  Fry sighed. ‘Yes, do.’

  ‘Are you OK, Diane?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. I’ve just escaped from a vision of the future — R amp; G Enterprises.’

  She told Murfin about her visit, not leaving out the slabs of meat.

  ‘I know you said Patrick Rawson had a finger in a lot of pies,’ said Murfin when she’d finished, ‘but I didn’t realize some of the pies were made of horse meat.’

  Fry winced. ‘Don’t, Gavin.’

  ‘Oh, got to go,’ said Murfin. ‘There’s something happening.’

  ‘What?’

  But he’d gone. And Fry had to sit tapping her fingers on the steering wheel while she waited for him to phone back.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘We’re just picking up a suspect,’ said Murfin breathlessly. ‘The DI’s taking the lead, and we’re on the way there now.’

  ‘Who, Gavin? Who is it?’

  ‘It seems we’ve got information on some youth who has Patrick Rawson’s wallet and credit cards in his possession. His mum saw the appeals on TV and shopped him. Good news, eh?’

  Fry looked at the frontage of R amp; G Enterprises, with its smoked glass and its designer logo. Had she just wasted a precious hour of her life being patronized by Maurice Gains while all the action was happening elsewhere? And on her case, too?

  ‘Yeah. That’s great news, Gavin.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Murfin. ‘And one more thing: we’ve got another body.’

  22

  Cooper and Irvine were the first to arrive back in the area from their trip to Hawleys. They diverted off the A57 to Longstone Moor, where the body that had been spotted by a walker was being carefully recovered from Watersaw Rake. Mountain rescue had lowered a stretcher and rigged up the ropes to get it safely clear of the broken rocks.

  ‘We’ve identified him,’ said the officer in charge of the recovery team, as Cooper and Irvine reached the scene. ‘He was overdue to return to his B amp;B. Chap went for a walk right before the weather came down. Just bad timing.’

  ‘A tourist?’ said Cooper.

  ‘Yes, and a keen walker. Fit for his age, too. But he was walking on his own, and he seems to have stumbled into the rake in the fog.’

  ‘There’s a fence, though.’

  ‘He climbed over it — you can see his boot prints are right there. He must not have realized what was on the other side, poor sod.’

  Cooper looked down at a damp blue object lying on the ground at the officer’s feet.

  ‘Is that his rucksack?’

  ‘Yes. He wasn’t heading far, but he came well equipped.’

  ‘Where was he staying?’

  ‘Middleton Dale. He told the owner of the B amp;B that he was going to walk up to Wardlow and back.’ The officer shook his head. ‘I know it was really foggy. But all he had to do was keep going in a straight line, and he would have reached the road, no problem.’

  ‘In fog, the loss of visual clues destroys your sense of direction,’ said Cooper. ‘In open ground like this, the tendency is to go round and round in circles. I reckon that’s what he must have done.’

  ‘At least the weather has kept most of the public away. No casual passers-by to disturb the scene. All you need with an incident like this is fifty members of the Healthy Life Rambling Club trampling through the scene with their fell boots and hiking sticks.’

  ‘But he was found by walkers?’

  ‘Three nosy retired bobbies.’

  Cooper drew a damp wad of paper out of the pocket of the rucksack and carefully unfolded it on the ground.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Irvine.

  ‘An Ordnance Survey map, Luke. Outdoor Leisure series, White Peak area.’

  ‘He should have been able to find his way with that, shouldn’t he? They’re incredibly detailed. Every slope and contour line is on them. Every field boundary.’

  ‘Yes, two and a half inches to the mile. You’d think it would have helped him, even in dense fog.’

  When Cooper unfolded the wet mass, he discovered a cover picture of Dove Dale, one of the Peak District’s most popular limestone valleys, photographed in the summer, of course, with a few strollers by the riverside. And the cover of the map bore a price:? 2.95.

  ‘This is an old edition of the OS map,’ he said. ‘Yes, look — last revised in 1979. It’s thirty years out of date.’

  ‘Does that make a difference?’

  ‘Well, compare it to mine.’ Cooper drew his own map from a pocket of his coat. ‘I’ve got the most recent edition, reprinted in 2006. There’s Middleton Dale, just the same. And Black Harry Lane going up across the moor to Black Harry Gate. But then, see — in this big hollow — ’

  ‘Blimey,’ said Irvine. ‘There’s a lake.’

  ‘A flash. Flooded quarry workings. On the old map it shows “Brandy Bottle Mine (Disused)”. But the mine has gone from the new map. The workings filled up with water, and the OS took it into account when they did their revisions.’

  ‘But our tourist wouldn’t have seen a stretch of water on his map. It wasn’t there, because his map was out of date.’

  Cooper nodded. ‘When he reached water, he must have thought he was completely lost. He ended up disorientated, trying to work out where he was on the map.’

  ‘The poor bloke,’ said Irvine, looking at the map. ‘He was never more than a few hundred yards from a road.’

  ‘Which doesn’t help at all. Not if you’re walking round in circles.’

  Cooper took a call from Diane Fry. She was still in her car somewhere, stuck i
n a bottleneck near Glossop.

  ‘This body,’ she said. ‘I suppose you’re at the scene, Ben?’

  ‘Looking at it right now.’

  ‘It isn’t Michael Clay, is it?’

  ‘Why would you think it’s him?’ asked Cooper.

  ‘Because he’s too elusive. I’m starting to think I’ll never get the chance to interview him. So please tell me this body isn’t Michael Clay.’

  Cooper watched the body slowly being lifted to ground level, and an officer passing up something else that he’d found in the bottom of the rake. He leaned closer to take a look, and could see the manufacturer’s name and model quite clearly.

  ‘It isn’t Michael Clay, Diane.’

  ‘Thank God.’

  ‘But,’ said Cooper, ‘we do seem to have found Patrick Rawson’s phone.’

  Fry drove back to West Street as fast as she could, bearing in mind the speed cameras on the approach to Edendale. But Sean Crabbe had already been processed through the custody suite by the time she arrived. His fingerprints had been taken in Live Scan, a sample of his DNA had been obtained on a buccal swab, and his personal possessions had been logged by the custody sergeant. Now he was waiting for the duty solicitor before being questioned.

  DI Hitchens explained that a call had been put through after the young man’s mother had responded to the public appeal on the local TV news. She hadn’t called straight away, but had waited a couple of hours.

  ‘Otherwise, you would have been here for the arrest, Diane,’ he said. ‘It was just one of those things.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Fry, though they both knew she was lying. ‘What made the connection for her?’

  ‘The mention of the old agricultural research centre. The TV people took some footage of it for background to the piece. You know — crime-scene tape, bobby fidgeting in front of the camera. She recognized the place. And she knew perfectly well that young Sean goes up there regularly when he bunks off from college. It turns out she’s been worried about him for a while, thinks he’s been going off the rails a bit.’