The Kill Call

we’re properly regulated in this country, like I said. There’s very little enforcement of the regulations in some other EU member states. Everyone knows that.’
    Hawley led them into a viewing area overlooking the slaughter line. Blood could be seen seeping under the edges of plastic doors. Four men were working in the butchering room, their white overalls spattered with blood. Above them, three horse carcasses hung from metal shackles fastened to their hind legs. Their hooves had been cut off, and their heads removed. One man was using a set of knives to skin a dead animal.
    ‘I’m afraid we can’t allow anyone into the killing room,’ said Hawley. ‘It’s too dangerous.’
    ‘You still use live bullets?’
    ‘Yes. It’s quicker and more efficient – provided you have an experienced operative.’
    Outside were holding pens, full of more horses waiting their turn. As they walked through the pens, a gunshot went off. Two young horses jumped and began biting each other’s necks.
    Hawley looked from Cooper to Irvine. The younger detective had gone pale, almost as pale as Hawley himself. He gulped the fresh air eagerly.
    ‘I know it’s a tough fact to face,’ said Hawley, sounding a little more apologetic. ‘But there are thousands of British thoroughbreds that are too old, too slow, or just not good enough jumpers. A lot of them never even make it to the starting gate.’
    Cooper nodded. For the unwanted, the end was pretty brutal. If not a bullet, then a steel bolt into the side of the brain. Then their butchered carcasses loaded on to refrigerated lorries and driven to France.
    ‘Why thoroughbreds, though?’
    ‘It’s what the trade wants. Thoroughbreds make good, lean meat. You might think the shire types would be better, but they have too much bone, and too much fat in the carcass. And those overweight ponies that some child has ruined – they’re no good, either.’
    ‘There must be dealers who find the horses to send to the abattoirs,’ said Cooper.
    ‘Yes, of course. The animals that come here are sourced in a variety of ways.’
    ‘Horse auctions?’
    ‘That would be one way.’
    ‘You take horses from dealers like Patrick Rawson, don’t you?’
    ‘I knew Rawson,’ said Hawley. ‘He died, didn’t he? It was on the TV news. I thought that must be what you came about. You being from Derbyshire Police.’
    ‘Your number was one of the last that Mr Rawson called before he died,’ said Cooper. ‘Did you speak to him yourself?’
    ‘Yes, I talked to him on Monday.’
    ‘What time?’
    ‘Oh, during the afternoon some time. He sounded as though he was in his car. But then, he was almost always in his car when he called. That was the way that Patrick did business.’
    ‘On the move, yes.’
    ‘Exactly.’
    ‘And this was a business call?’
    ‘Oh, yes. I wouldn’t say I was on social terms with him exactly.’
    ‘What was the reason for his call?’
    ‘The usual,’ said Hawley. ‘He expected to have some stock to bring in. He was calling to make sure we could take them.’
    ‘Stock?’ said Irvine.
    Hawley turned to him. ‘Horses. Horses for slaughter.’
    ‘Did he say how many?’
    ‘Up to a dozen. He wasn’t sure on the number.’
    ‘Which suggests that he hadn’t actually bought them at that stage,’ said Cooper.
    ‘I suppose so.’
    Hawley walked with them towards the car park, away from the nervous horses and the smell of blood.
    ‘Mr Hawley, if a buyer went to a horse auction, what would he be bidding on?’
    ‘Horses from riding stables, some from private punters.’
    Cooper thought about Patrick Rawson’s Mitsubishi 4x4 parked by the field barn near Longstone Moor. He recalled that it had a tow bar, but there was no sign of a trailer, let alone anything that would be big enough to accommodate a dozen horses.
    ‘How would Mr Rawson have transported the animals that he wanted to bring to you?’ he asked. ‘Would he bring them himself?’
    ‘Sometimes, if it was just one or two. But if there were bigger numbers involved, he would use a local haulier. He had contacts in every area.’
    ‘You would keep records of each delivery, I suppose?’
    ‘Are you kidding? There are mountains of paperwork. The drivers hate it.’
    Cooper produced his card. ‘Would you do something for me? Check your records for hauliers that Mr Rawson has previously used in the North Derbyshire area. Then give me a call with their names.’
    ‘I can do that, certainly,’