The Kill Call

convincingly.
    ‘What about Patrick Rawson? Do you know him?’
    ‘Who’s he?’
    ‘Michael Clay’s business partner.’
    ‘Wasn’t that the man who died up the way there? You asked me about him before.’
    ‘So I did.’
    Cooper showed him the photograph of Rawson. But Massey shook his head. ‘I’ve never seen him.’
    ‘You’ve never done anything with the old bunker.’
    ‘It was lucky there was no aircraft recognition post here. Some of them were snapped up by mobile telephone people, so they could put masts up. This one wasn’t of interest to anybody, so they just gave the site back to the landowner.’
    ‘Your father?’
    ‘Yes. It’s been abandoned since 1968, you know. It always flooded badly, and my dad said it was too dangerous to go down. So we locked it up and let the cows graze over it. When we had cows, that is.’ Massey gave him an odd look, curiously hopeful, almost plaintive. ‘Why? Did you want to have a look what it’s like inside an ROC post?’
    ‘No, thanks,’ said Cooper. ‘I’ve seen one.’
       
    ‘And you’re sure that Mr Massey was telling the truth when he said he’d never met Michael Clay?’ asked Fry when he phoned her.
    ‘Yes. I’m certain of it. He never batted an eyelid. Besides …’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Well, if there’s a family feud involved here, I’m just not seeing it, Diane. Les Clay and Peter Massey were the two men who might have been considered responsible for Jimmy Hind’s death in 1968. But Clay died years ago, leaving Massey as the last man standing, so to speak. And Jimmy Hind doesn’t have any family still around to worry about it.’
    ‘Yes, I see what you mean. There’s no logic in it. No logic that would make Michael Clay either an obvious target as a victim, or a man looking for revenge either. Neither scenario fits.’
    ‘And yet …’ said Cooper. ‘There’s still something I’m missing.’
    ‘So what next?’ asked Fry.
    Now it was Cooper’s turn to look at his watch. ‘I’ve got to get myself a new cat.’
       
    Cooper had never actually had to choose a cat for himself before. There had been plenty of them around the farm over the years, of course, but they’d just sort of appeared under their own initiative, and the main problem had been controlling their numbers.
    At Welbeck Street, he’d inherited Randy with the flat, courtesy of Mrs Shelley, who encouraged strays without any favour or distinction. Judging from Randy’s battered looks, there certainly hadn’t been any selection process based on cuteness, or the potential for posing as a cover model for calendars and birthday cards.
    There were all kinds of animals at the Fox Lane Sanctuary – dogs and cats, of course, a few horses and donkeys, even a pig and a couple of sheep. He was surprised to find an injured owl in an aviary, its feathers ruffled miserably, a broken wing hanging at an unnatural angle. It was a tawny, just like the one he’d heard calling again last night. It had woken him in the early hours of the morning with its hunting cry, a sound that would strike fear into some helpless prey.
    Cooper stopped in front of a loose box, eyeing an old horse who stared straight back at him unblinkingly.
    ‘Hello. What’s your name?’
    He glanced aside to look at a notice on the wall next to the loose box. It said: ‘ This horse has been ill-treated. Watch her – she bites .’
    Cooper had been warned just in time. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw an enormous set of teeth flashing towards him. He jerked his head back instinctively. What had happened to the animal in the past that it would lunge at a complete stranger the moment his attention was distracted?
    Ah, well. That wasn’t what he was here for. He made his way to the cattery, which was at the back of the sanctuary: a couple of low buildings with concrete walkways.
    When he got there, Cooper hesitated. So how, exactly, did you go about choosing a cat? How on earth did you make a judgement when you were faced with rows and rows of felines in mesh cages? All of them were animals who’d been abandoned or mistreated in some way. All of them deserving of a good home.
    It wasn’t like buying a car, when you could look at the mileage, check under the bonnet, sit in the driving seat and try out the controls. He hadn’t even thought about what colour of cat he’d like, which was the first question that Claire had asked him when he told her. Did it matter whether it was a tabby, a