‘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.
7
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 the 999 call.’
‘A plain and simple robbery, then,’ said Murfin. ‘Mugger panicked when he realized he’d hit the victim too hard.’
‘Funny place for a mugging,’ said Fry. ‘Funny place to be doing anything, really.’
‘Well, if our suspect uses Mr Rawson’s phone again, we can trace him.’
‘He’ll have ditched it by now, Gavin. More likely he’ll try to use the plastic in Mr Rawson’s wallet.’
‘I’ll get on to that.’
‘Thanks, Gavin. Scenes of Crime on the car?’
‘Soon as they can get there. Wayne says they’re going to be a bit stretched, what with the field, the hut and the car.’
‘I know.’
Fry drove back to the West Street headquarters in her Peugeot, conscious of the water dripping from her clothes on to the seats and soaking into the mats in the floor well. She had the heater going full blast, but all the windows had steamed up immediately she got in, and she had to open the driver’s side a crack to clear the condensation. The result was that the lorries passing her on the A623 blew spray on to her face before she was even dry.
In the CID room, everyone had packed up and gone home. On a white-board, someone had scrawled their own bitter slogan:
Sergeant Wilson’s Law: lack of resources + shortage of staff = shit hitting the fan.
The paperwork waiting on her desk included a copy of the G28 sudden-death report form, completed by the first officers attending the incident this morning. By the simple act of filling in the paperwork, uniforms would feel they’d effectively passed on a problem to CID.
Fry sighed. It was one of the aspects of CID work that constantly baffled and frustrated her, this requirement for developing a love of paperwork and file preparation, a mania for detail that could border on Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.
True, there were a few moments of excitement, but they were usually in the court room, sitting behind a barrister when a jury brought in a guilty verdict that you’d been working towards for months. There were moments when you had to drop everything and rush off to a critical incident, but those were pretty rare. There were other occasions when you had to deal with families going through the trauma of losing a loved one.
The rest of the job consisted of making lists of exhibits, preparing Narey files, sitting in CPS case conferences, sweating over duty rosters. She spent most of her time worrying about interviews, memos, file upgrades and threshold tests. Being a detective no longer seemed to have any kudos.