The Kill Call

vegetable oil, laid by followers.
    ‘Tarmac and concrete won’t hold scent for long,’ said Cooper. ‘Wet ground provides good scenting conditions, but not in heavy rain – the scent gets washed away.’
    ‘Just like our DNA and trace evidence.’
    ‘Yes.’
    Of course, it wasn’t always a scent that attracted the hounds. The hunt wasn’t riding through local villages to exercise the pack any more, not since someone’s pet cat had been killed by them early one morning. You’d think the sight and sound of a few dozen hunting dogs would be enough of a warning to a cat, let alone the scent. Cooper could smell these hounds himself.
    ‘Now, if we get among the horses, Diane, remember that a red ribbon on the tail of a horse means it’s liable to kick, so avoid passing behind it.’
    ‘Don’t worry. I have no intention of getting behind a horse ever again.’
    ‘Oh, I heard.’
    Fry changed the subject rapidly.
    ‘Hunts are always policed, whether there are protestors or not. And we do make arrests sometimes, don’t we?’
    ‘The hunts expect it.’
    ‘How do you mean?’
    ‘You’ll find every hunt supporter carries a Countryside Alliance membership card. If they get arrested, they’ll use their right to a telephone call to phone the CA legal team. So they get expert legal advice from the word “go”.’

    ‘There’s the huntsman now,’ said Fry.
    ‘You recognize him?’
    ‘Yes, I’ve spoken to him. John Widdowson.’
    ‘Widdowson?’ said Cooper. ‘That reminds me, Diane – there was something I meant to mention to you.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘There was a Naomi Widdowson on Walsh’s list of complainants in the Trading Standards investigation. But she was also one of the IPs on the Horse Watch list. I know you told me those calls weren’t so important any more, but I didn’t like to leave the job half finished, so I tried again. It turned out she was the owner of the Dutch Warmblood mare. Miss Widdowson. She sounded a bit annoyed when I told her who I was.’
    ‘When did you speak to her?’ asked Fry.
    ‘Yesterday morning, while you were out with Gavin.’
    ‘I see. Well, she was annoyed because we’d just visited her and got her back up.’
    ‘Oh, of course.’
    ‘Just a minute,’ said Fry, ‘This Dutch –’
    ‘Warmblood.’
    ‘What was its name?’
    Cooper hesitated. He was always nervous when faced with that tense, expectant expression from Fry. Every time, he felt as though he might be going to let her down.
    ‘Its name?’ he said. ‘I didn’t ask.’
    Fry groaned. ‘Who’s on duty this morning? Luke Irvine or Becky Hurst? Whoever it is, give them a call and get them to check. Right now, Ben.’
    ‘I’ll have to get out of these woods,’ said Cooper. ‘There’s no signal here. I’ll walk back down to the car.’
       
    Almost as soon as Cooper had left her alone, Fry became aware of several figures in balaclavas appearing silently through the trees. They were carrying pickaxe handles and baseball bats. She stood facing them, hand on her extendable baton, ready to fight if necessary, but knowing there were too many of them.
    Motion attracts , she kept telling herself. If you stay completely still, they don’t see you, even if you’re right out in the open. It’s movement that the eyes notice. The instincts of an animal. Motion attracts .
    For two minutes, nothing seemed to happen. Fry tried to take in as many details as she could. Four men, she counted. Camouflage jackets, black balaclavas, only their eyes showing, like bank robbers anxious to avoid security cameras. But there were no cameras out here, no witnesses to identify them later. Only her.
    Though it was broad daylight, and the woods couldn’t be more different from the back streets of Birmingham, her mind overlaid the scene with memories of a dark night. She felt as though she could sense other bodies, further back in the woods, watching, laughing, waiting eagerly for what would happen next. Voices murmuring and coughing in the darkness.
    Something had stirred up the images that she always tried to keep buried. Today, once again, those dark forms seemed to loom around her, smudges of silhouettes that crept ever nearer, reaching out towards her. They merged with the trees, like creatures that had risen from the undergrowth.
    She remembered the movements that crept and rustled closer, the reek of booze and violence. She was waiting for the taunting laughter, for that familiar voice to break into her