The Kill Call

you robbed him. Didn’t you also hit him over the head?’
    Now he was really anxious.
    ‘No. I would never do that. He was just lying there in the hut. I never even heard anything. I didn’t know anyone else was around until I smelled something. And it was his aftershave. He was wearing a really strong aftershave. He was lying near the back door of the big hut, and he had blood coming from his head.’
    ‘And what did you do, Sean?’
    ‘I took his phone. It was on the floor, as if he’d been trying to use it.’ He glanced at the solicitor, who nodded. ‘And then I took his wallet.’
    Sean looked so ashamed when he got out the last part of his admission that Fry didn’t know what to say for a moment.
    ‘Go on. What next?’
    ‘I got out of there, scarpered. I was scared of getting caught.’
    ‘Oh, were you? What did you do with the phone?’
    His shoulders slumped with embarrassment. ‘I realized after a minute or two that it was stupid to have taken it. They can trace you by a phone, can’t they?’
    ‘Right. But you made a call on it, didn’t you. Sean?’
    ‘I dialled 999 and told them there was a body.’
    ‘Why did you do that?’ asked Fry. Despite the conclusion she was gradually arriving at, this was a question she really wanted to know the answer to.
    Sean sighed. ‘I had this horrible thought. Like I said, no one else ever goes up there. Not ever. And I had this awful idea that the next time I went up to the huts, that man would still be there, lying dead on the floor. Rotting. Because no one had found him.’
    ‘And that would ruin your little sanctuary,’ said Fry.
    He hung his head again. ‘And then I got rid of the phone.’
    ‘By throwing it into Watersaw Rake.’
    ‘Yes. It made it all seem so pointless, but I knew I had to do it, or I’d get caught.’
    ‘But you got caught anyway,’ said Fry, ‘thanks to your mother.’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘She seems to know everything you’ve been up to, Sean.’
    ‘It really pisses me off. Not having any privacy, no life of my own.’
    Fry looked at him for a moment, considering the irony of what he’d just said. It was an irony that was lost on Sean Crabbe.
    ‘Sean,’ she said, ‘what made you think Mr Rawson was dead when you first found him?’
    ‘What made –? Oh, I get it. Well, I’ve seen a dead man before. There was an old homeless bloke who died there months ago, some down and out. I thought … well, I thought it would be the same this time. Except I got a new phone.’

23
     
     
    DI Hitchens was waiting for Fry expectantly when she came out of the interview room. She felt faintly grubby, and depressed by what Sean Crabbe had done with his life.
    ‘So, Diane. Can I tell the Super we’ve got a result?’ said Hitchens with a grin.
    Fry wished for all the world that she could say ‘yes’. She very much wanted Superintendent Branagh to hear that DS Fry had brought the Rawson case to a successful conclusion. And she knew that her DI wanted to give her that opportunity.
    ‘No, I’m sorry,’ she said.
    ‘But we’ve finally got a suspect in custody,’ protested Hitchens.
    ‘Yes, sir. The trouble is, I believe he’s telling the truth.’
       
    A file would have to be prepared on Sean Crabbe for the Crown Prosecution Service before a decision was made on any charges he’d face. Fry supposed that theft would be on the list, given the confession. And perhaps perverting the course of justice, which was a CPS favourite.
    Meanwhile, Becky Hurst and Luke Irvine had been doing their research, and the extent of the picture they were building up was alarming. Listening to them give their reports, DI Hitchens looked as though he might be starting to feel out of his depth.
    ‘It’s back to square one, then,’ he said. ‘If Sean Crabbe is telling the truth, the answer must lie in Patrick Rawson’s business activities. Someone he got the wrong side of.’
    ‘And there must be plenty of those.’
    The DI listened carefully to the results of the visits to Hawley’s abattoir and the meat distributors.
    ‘So we could be talking seriously big money here,’ he said.
    ‘The value of the horse industry has been estimated at three and a half billion pounds,’ said DC Hurst, reading eagerly from her notebook. ‘Bookmakers alone generate an annual profit of more than a billion from horse racing. Owners of leading stallions can charge hundreds of thousands for a single mating, and a stallion can cover two hundred mares in a