The Kill Call. Stephen Booth
‘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 décor, 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.
‘What do you remember about him?’ she asked.
‘Well, he was rather loud. Not drunk or anything awful like that, you understand. He was just one of those terribly over-confident men. Ridiculously masculine, wanting to be dominant all the time – and wanting everyone else to see it, too. It turns me right off.’
‘Interesting.’
Fry smiled at him, feeling a growing surge of relief that she wasn’t going to have to dig for details. Connelly’s impressions of Patrick Rawson would be as valuable as gold.
The manager warmed to her approval. ‘Oh, I suppose he was quite good looking in a rugged kind of way. Knew it, too.’ He studied the photograph again. ‘Mmm. Has to be the centre of attention all the time. You can see it in his eyes.’
‘Was he having dinner with a woman?’
‘Oh no, love. His companion was an older man.’
‘Can you describe him for me?’
Connelly shook his head. ‘We see so many middle-aged businessmen in here. There was nothing about him that would have made him stand out from the rest. Greying hair, clean shaven. A suit and tie. What else can I say? He was a diner. We don’t exactly look at the colour of their eyes.’
‘Just the colour of their money.’
‘The colour of their plastic. Our customers rarely use cash.’
‘Had either of these two men been in the restaurant before?’
‘I couldn’t say.’ The manager hesitated. ‘I suppose I could go back through the book and see if your chap made a reservation some time, or check the credit-card records –’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Fry. ‘We can get hold of his credit-card statements ourselves.’
‘That must be fun. I’d love to be able to do that.’
Powerful smells of cooking were starting to drift from the kitchen. They made Fry think of garlic bread, which she daren’t eat during the day, even if it was offered to her. That didn’t stop her salivating, though.
‘I’m interested in this second man,’ she said. ‘Did you hear him speak at all, Mr Connelly?’
‘Yes – when he ordered, of course. And at the end of the meal there was a bit of an argument about who should pay the bill.’
‘Oh? Mr Rawson didn’t want to pay?’
‘No, no, it was the other way around. Both gentlemen wanted to pay, and they had one of those terribly polite little argie-bargies over who had got their credit card out first. We see it so often in here. It’s a sort of ritual they go through. My opinion is, there’s a question of status involved. They all want to be the one who paid for the dinner.’
‘Did you gain an impression of the relative status between