The Kill Call

thought for a moment. ‘Whoever landed him in court, I suppose.’
    Murfin laughed as he banged the filing cabinet shut. ‘Not Trading Standards.’

    ‘No, I don’t think so. They’re a bit hard to get angry with, aren’t they? I was thinking more of one of Mr Rawson’s customers, someone who got stung when a deal went wrong. Or someone else in the same business, perhaps.’
    ‘Dermot Walsh said that Rawson blamed jealous rivals when they first brought a case against him.’
    ‘So he did. We should give Walsh a ring when we get back to the office, and ask him if Rawson mentioned any rivals in particular.’
    ‘Right. You’re thinking there might have been some kind of feud?’
    ‘Yes, a feud that Patrick Rawson lost.’
    ‘If that’s so – and since Rawson seems to have come up to Derbyshire to meet him – the rival could well be someone local to us.’
    ‘So he could, Gavin. So he could.’
    Fry checked the desk for hidden drawers, ran a hand along a book shelf. Telephone directories, a road atlas, the Official Form Book 2009 , with cover picture of jockeys straining hard for the wining post. Diaries, but filled only with dates of birthdays and dental appointments. She found the most recent diary and turned to the current week. Derby horse market was marked on Saturday, and the name of the Birch Hall Country Hotel on Monday night. But no names, no times of meetings he might have arranged. This really was a man who had learned not to put anything in writing.
    ‘There’s nothing here,’ she said in disgust. ‘Absolutely nothing of any use to us, Gavin.’
    ‘Where to next, then?’ said Murfin.
    ‘We need to talk to Rawson’s partner. Let’s go and see Michael Clay.’
       
    Michael Clay’s home was further into the city, Birmingham proper. Well, after a fashion. Great Barr was a suburb on the outer edge of Brum, an ocean of pre-war red-brick semis bordering on Walsall and West Bromwich. The Clay home was easier to find than Rawson’s, though. No need for a sat-nav here.
    ‘No, I’m sorry, Mr Clay isn’t at home.’
    The door had been answered by a woman of about her own age, so tightly buttoned up in a woollen jacket that she appeared to have almost no shape. Her dark hair was pushed untidily behind her ears, and there was a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead, as if she’d been caught in some physical exertion. Moving furniture, or beating the carpets. Something she could take her feelings out on, judging from that sour expression.
    ‘And you are …?’ asked Fry.
    ‘His daughter. Erin Lacey.’
    The woman carried on looking at Fry blankly. Then she began to take a step back, as if to close the door firmly on an insurance salesman or a Jehovah’s Witness. Fry held up a hand.
    ‘Does your father have an office address, Mrs Lacey?’
    ‘Well, he has an office in a business centre in Kingstanding. But he’s not there, either. He’s gone away for a few days.’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘He went up to Derbyshire.’
    ‘But that’s where we spoke to him yesterday. I thought he would have been back home today.’
    Mrs Lacey threw out her hands helplessly. ‘I’m sorry. If you had an appointment, he must have forgotten.’
    ‘It wasn’t exactly an appointment,’ said Fry. ‘But he did give me the impression he would be available. I need to talk to him about the death of his business partner, Patrick Rawson.’
    ‘Oh, of course. How dreadful.’ Her brow crinkled. But to Fry the frown seemed to suggest a concern at whether she’d left a piece of furniture in the wrong place, rather than sadness at the death of Mr Rawson. ‘All I know is that my father is away. I’m looking after the house for a while.’
    ‘What about Mrs Clay? Your mother?’
    ‘She died, five years ago.’
    ‘I’m sorry.’
    The woman seemed a little nervous. Fry would have loved to get inside the house to have a look around, but she had no warrant, no justification. Michael Clay wasn’t a suspect, or even a material witness.
    ‘I presume you can give us a contact number for him, though,’ she said. ‘A mobile? Mr Clay must have a mobile number we can reach him on?’
    She raised an eyebrow, as the woman hesitated. ‘I’ll write it down for you.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    Fry took the number and exchanged it for her card. ‘When your father returns, or if he gets in touch in the meantime, please ask him to contact us as soon as possible.’
    ‘Is there trouble?’
    ‘Not for Mr Clay. We just want to