too gritty on the wind.
‘It depends,’ said Cooper. ‘It depends on what there was for anyone to see.’
Seventy-five miles away, in the Great Barr area of Birmingham, Erin Lacey was watching her father pack. The Mercedes already stood in the drive, and his laptop was in its case, ready to go.
‘How long will you be away?’ she asked.
‘I’m not sure, love.’
‘Will you phone?’
‘Of course.’
Michael Clay looked at his daughter. ‘I know how you feel about this, Erin. I realize you don’t approve.’
‘No. And I’m not going to pretend otherwise.’
Erin tried hard to control her feelings. She knew that getting angry wouldn’t do any good. Her father could be very stubborn when he got an idea into his head. For a middle-aged accountant, he was remarkably headstrong about some things. And this idea was the most ludicrous one he’d ever had, as far as Erin was concerned.
As he zipped up his bag, she thought about how much he’d changed, not just since her mother had died a few years ago, but after the death of her uncle Stuart. When pancreatic cancer took his older brother last year, Michael Clay had been hit very hard. It had taken him a long time to get round to sorting out Uncle Stuart’s possessions, to sift through the memories. She could understand that, of course.
But after that, everything had seemed to happen very quickly. Her father had developed this obsession with what had happened in the past – the very dim and distant past, so far as Erin was concerned. And then this woman had appeared.
Somehow, it was worse when a man of her father’s age started to act foolishly. He’d always had such a good reputation for being careful with money, and now he seemed to have lost his head. Unsuitable business associates, doubtful enterprises, a persuasive woman with an eye for the main chance. And this trip to Derbyshire was the last straw.
‘I wish you wouldn’t go. Haven’t you done more than enough for her? Why do you have to go yourself?’
‘I need to see her,’ said Michael simply.
‘Why?’
‘To sort a few things out.’
Her heart sank when he said that. ‘What things?’
Michael smiled. ‘I’ll tell you about it when I get back.’
But Erin didn’t feel like smiling. She was starting to get more and more upset as she watched her father put on his coat and pick up his car keys. He must have seen it in her face, and felt guilty.
‘If you don’t want to keep an eye on the house for me, love, I’ll understand. I’ll ask Mrs Fletcher next door.’
‘No, it’s all right. But, Dad … look after yourself, please.’
‘Of course I will.’
Erin kissed him as he went to the door. Her father was trying to sound bright and breezy, as if he was just popping down to the shop for a bottle of milk. But she knew it was much more than that.
Michael Clay got into his Mercedes and waved as he turned on the drive. As she watched him go, Erin Lacey felt a tear in the corner of her eye, as if she was saying goodbye to her father for ever.
By the end of the day, the body had been released for collection by the mortuary. Fry watched the anonymous black van crawl away from Longstone Moor in the fading light.
Now there was nothing more she could do at the scene. Inspector Redfearn’s men had rounded up as many of the anti-hunt protestors as they could and taken names and addresses, along with statements from any who had been in the area at eight thirty that morning. They had also seized video footage from several cameras, so that might help. The sabs seemed to have filmed anything that moved.
Fry felt uncomfortable about dealing with the protestors in a different way from the hunt supporters. But she supposed the hunt was organized in a more formal way, and there would be no trouble obtaining the identities of any individuals she might want to talk to.
The huntsman, John Widdowson, had finally appeared, looking very tired, and as damp as she felt herself. For a few seconds, Fry had found herself surrounded by the pack, dozens of panting brown-and-white dogs crowding around her legs, pink tongues lolling, the white tips of their tails flicking. Some of them had black patches around their eyes, like burglars’ masks, which gave them a peculiarly manic look. They sniffed at her knees and shook water from their coats.
Widdowson’s story was that the hound van had arrived outside Birchlow shortly after eight thirty. Although there had been a few horse boxes already at the scene, he had noticed no riders heading off on their own. It wouldn’t have been the custom, he said.
‘It’s a pity the air support unit weren’t on station a bit earlier,’ said Fry, as she left Inspector Redfearn. ‘They could have filmed the whole incident for us.’
‘They had a priority call,’ said Redfearn. ‘A pursuit on the A61.’
‘I know. It would just have been nice to get a bit of luck for once.’
Gavin Murfin called Fry before she could reach her car.
‘You’re on duty late, Gavin,’ she said. ‘What’s up?’
‘Thought you’d like to know straight away, boss. We’ve found a car. A Mitsubishi, 08 reg.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Way off the road, parked up by the old field barn on the edge of Longstone Moor. In fact, I think you might actually be able to see the barn from the crime scene.’
Fry called up a picture of the scene in her mind. ‘It’s about a mile away, I guess.’
‘That would be about right.’
‘So I presume we’ve done a check on the number. Who’s the registered owner?’
‘A Mr Patrick Rawson, from Sutton Coldfield, West Midlands.’
‘The same man who made the 999 call.’
‘Well, the call was made on his phone, anyway.’
‘Yes, you’re right, Gavin. And …?’
‘Local police have just called at his address. His wife told them he drove up to Derbyshire yesterday, on business. But she hasn’t had a call from him since. And, Diane …’
‘Yes?’
‘Mr Rawson’s age and general description match the victim.’
‘I thought we might be coming to that conclusion. Whoever was at the huts with Mr Rawson took his phone and wallet, and then made
