The Kill Call

mind, coarse and slurring in its Birmingham accent. ‘She’s a copper.’
    Some form of communication seemed to take place between the men around her. One of them stared at her keenly, as if he knew her, or would know her again if he saw her.
    And then they slipped away through the trees as quickly as they’d come. Fry breathed a sigh of relief, and realized that her hand was starting to cramp where it had been gripping the handle of her ASP.

    She thought of calling in the incident. The group had been armed with baseball bats and pickaxe handles, after all. But her reluctance stemmed from her fear of being a bad witness, a dread of expending her colleagues’ time and effort for no worthwhile result.
    She also knew she’d recognized the first man, just as he’d recognized her. She felt sure he was the same hunt steward who had stared at her on Tuesday as she’d waited for the hunt to go by.
    But there was a difference. On Tuesday, she hadn’t been able to recall where she knew him from. Her powers of recognition had failed her.
    This time, she knew who exactly he was.
    ‘Diane?’ The voice was Cooper’s, instantly reassuring.
    ‘I’m here.’
    ‘Are you all right?’
    ‘Did you see them?’ she said. ‘The hunt stewards?’
    ‘No,’ said Cooper.
    She stared at him, not sure whether she could believe him. Whose side was he on, after all? The realization that she had no one she could trust made her suddenly, irrationally angry.
    ‘Why did I come to this place? Why do I put up with these people?’ She gestured at the people down on the road, at the hunt kennels, at the whole world in general. ‘Horse-eating, fox-hunting, baseball-bat-wielding Neanderthals.’
    Cooper gazed after her in amazement as she strode off. ‘That’s a bit unfair.’
    ‘I don’t care.’
    ‘Diane,’ called Cooper, ‘don’t you want to know? Becky Hurst has come up with some information for us.’
    Fry stopped. ‘And?’
    ‘We have to get moving, if we want to make a quick arrest.’

32
     
     
    The A52 into Derby had been re-named Brian Clough Way some years ago, creating a fume-laden memorial to a legendary manager of Derby County Football Club. At the mere mention of his name, many people around here still shook their heads and said he should have been the England boss, if there’d been any justice in the world. But what a pity about the drink problem.
    In light traffic, Cooper made the Pentagon roundabout in a few minutes, and turned off past a Mercedes dealer, following signs into the Meadows industrial estate. Beyond a large car park stood a range of single-storey brick buildings with flat roofs – a plant centre, an equestrian supplies company, two firms of auctioneers, and the Meadows pub. The market was somewhere behind these buildings, occupying a stretch of ground between the railway sidings and the gravel pits.
    ‘Is this what I was called in for?’ said Gavin Murfin grumpily.
    ‘You were rostered on call, Gavin,’ said Cooper.
    ‘I know, but blimey – a horse auction?’
    ‘Diane has gone to the house herself. But the mother says they’ll be here. Don’t worry, we’ll get back-up if we need it.’
    Chequers Road was a strange place for a cattle market. It stood in the middle of this industrial estate, surrounded by
    car showrooms. Horse owners had to reach it by battling through the Saturday traffic jams. Outside the Meadows pub, someone had put up posters warning of GM crop trials taking place in a secret location in Derbyshire. There was no date on the posters, but they were starting to fray at the edges. Cooper was pretty sure those trials had been abandoned a couple of years ago. Too much of a risk, even for the bravest farmer.
    ‘It’s a bit public for an arrest,’ said Murfin, as they entered the market itself, mingling with the crowds of buyers and sellers.
    ‘If we see them, we’ll wait until they’re back in the car park,’ said Cooper.
    ‘OK.’
    Cooper walked along a line of tubular steel pens, glancing at the details attached to the front of each one: 15.2hh seven-year- old bay gelding Welsh cross, owner gone to college and has no time to ride . Labels with red numbers were gummed to the hindquarters of the horses. Some of the smaller ponies were dwarfed by the cattle pens. He reached through the bars to touch a soft nose, sensing the animal’s apprehension.
    The typical cattle-mart smell of animal dung had begun to fill the air. Handfuls of horse hair lay in clumps on