The Kill Call. Stephen Booth
Fry. ‘But you’re quite sure this is your husband?’
‘Absolutely.’
Fry watched Mrs Rawson carefully, noting the unnatural paleness that indicated shock. The hand holding the cigarette trembled slightly, and the ash was tapped off a little too often. This was a woman trying to pretend to be calmer than she really was.
‘You understand that we need to establish how Mr Rawson died. It would help us a lot if you can give us some information. The sooner we know where to start –’
‘Yes, it’s all right. What do you want to know?’
‘Mrs Rawson, can you tell us why your husband came up to Derbyshire?’
‘He visits horse sales. There’s one in Derby, isn’t there?’
‘Is there?’
‘I think it’s on a Saturday.’
‘Today is only Wednesday.’
Mrs Rawson shrugged. ‘He came up a bit early, then. He must have had some other business to do.’
The woman was well dressed. Expensively dressed, at least. Fry could recognize designer labels, even when they were worn with more aggression than style.
‘And what is your husband’s business, exactly?’ she asked.
‘Patrick has lots of business interests. I could never quite follow all the ins and outs. He owns a share of several companies. You can probably get the names from his papers. Mostly, he buys and sells, then invests the profits in new enterprises. He’s been quite successful over the years. But he’s the kind of man who’s always looking for new things, new ideas to make a profit from.’
Fry had heard lots of people being vague about their ‘business interests’. Usually, it meant they were drug dealers, or running a protection racket, or handling stolen property. Buying and selling? Investing the profits? It sounded as though Patrick Rawson’s business dealings would take a bit of looking into. And was his wife really so innocent, so ignorant? Or was she being deliberately coy about the fact she’d been turning a blind eye to where the money had come from that bought her those nice clothes?
‘We’re going to have to go through Mr Rawson’s papers,’ Fry said. ‘Who keeps his appointments diary?’
‘Well, I suppose he does.’
‘You suppose?’
‘I never got involved in the business, Sergeant. Do you think I work as his secretary, or PA? Did you think I married the boss? Well, I didn’t. Whatever Patrick does in his business is his own affair.’
There was a shrill edge to her voice now that she couldn’t conceal. Fry knew she would have to be careful. People who tried so hard to hide their feelings were often the most likely to crack completely. That made them useless as witnesses.
‘Did he not mention anything about who he was planning to meet up here?’
‘No.’
‘And where were you on Tuesday morning yourself, Mrs Rawson?’ asked Fry.
‘At home, of course. In Sutton Coldfield.’
Fry noted that Deborah didn’t seem to understand the implication of the question. Another sign that she wasn’t thinking quite so clearly as she might?
‘We need to know where your husband stayed when he was up here. Can you tell us that, at least?’
‘Now, I thought you would ask that. Patrick always stays at the same place when he’s in Derbyshire. He says it has a nice golf course.’ She produced a card from her bag. ‘This is it.’
Fry took the card. The Birch House Country Hotel. She wasn’t familiar with the hotel, but judging from the address in Birchlow it must be practically within a golf swing of her crime scene.
‘Did you ever phone Mr Rawson while he was there?’
‘Yes, once or twice.’
‘Actually on the hotel number?’
‘No, I always call his mobile. Why go through a hotel receptionist?’
Why, indeed? Except that it would have established whether Patrick Rawson really was staying where he told his wife he’d be. A jealous or suspicious partner would have thought of that. But not Deborah Rawson, apparently. Fry wasn’t sure she believed it.
‘And the number you called would be this one, which you gave to the local police yesterday?’
‘Yes. That’s the one Patrick used for personal calls, the Sony Ericsson. He had another number for business calls, though.’
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