The Kill Call

He’d grown up with a different relationship to the Eden Valley Hunt. Not only did the hunt rely on the goodwill of local farmers, it was one of the great organizers of social events. A dinner dance at Hassop Hall, a hunt ball at the Palace Hotel in Buxton, Buck’s fizz and a horn-blowing competition, a charity auction in aid of the air ambulance … Not many weeks ago, the hunt had thrown their annual Christmas party for farmers’ children. Cooper could recollect being taken to it himself a few times, when he was very small. The parties actually took place just after Christmas – but nevertheless involved a visit by Santa, dropping in at Edendale on his way home to Lapland.
    ‘But apart from the hoof marks, you have no evidence anyone from the hunt was involved?’

    ‘Well – that, and all the people milling around on horseback a few hundred yards away from the scene. It’s pretty persuasive circumstantial evidence.’
    ‘Was it the hounds who found the body?’ asked Cooper.
    ‘Apparently, they came down this way, but the dog men were on hand – oh, what do you call them?’
    ‘The huntsman? The whipper-in?’
    ‘Yes, them. They called the hounds away, but didn’t realize what the pack had found. They assumed it must be a dead sheep or something. It was the helicopter crew who actually called it in.’
    ‘The hounds are supposed to follow a scent trail. I wonder why they would get distracted by a human smell?’
    ‘I don’t know. Perhaps he smelled a bit foxy.’
    Cooper could see that Fry was getting exasperated. But the light was fading anyway, and there wasn’t much else that could be done here. There was just one thing more.
    ‘If he was killed at around eight thirty, it would have been daylight,’ said Cooper. ‘I wonder who would have been able to see the scene from the surrounding area.’
    Fry gazed around. ‘Can’t tell in this light. There seems to be a farm way over there, past that barn. Maybe a lorry driver on one of the quarry roads. No one in Birchlow – the village is in a dip from here.’
    ‘You might see the lower part of the track, though.’
    ‘If his killers came that way. The SOCOs will try to establish an approach route in the morning when the light is better. And hopefully, the weather.’
    Cooper peered through the dusk. ‘What about Eyam? Some of those houses are in a direct line of sight to the crime scene. And there aren’t even any trees in the way.’
    ‘It’s way across the valley,’ said Fry. ‘Too far away for anyone to have seen anything, surely?’
    The southern side of Longstone Moor was occupied only by a few quiet, self-contained farmsteads sheltering behind their walls of silage bags. But on the north side of the moor, it was quite different. Lorries and giant dumper trucks ran backwards and forwards to the quarries on unmade roads, blowing clouds of white dust behind them, as if their wheels were on fire. The rain had carved channels down some of those roads, forcing lorries up on to eroded bank sides. Cooper could hear the booming of the empty wagons, the scream of reversing alarms on the dumpers. Nobody would be out walking in this area – the dust was too thick, 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