The Kill Call

odd?’
    ‘I just thought that whatever deal he was doing must have fallen through. It happens.’
    ‘But what about the timing? You lost some business through his death, Mr Senior.’
    Streams of filthy water ran out of the sides of the transporter and down a steel ramp. Senior gestured at Fry with a yard brush.
    ‘We’ve had business from Rawson for years, but I wasn’t sorry to hear we won’t be doing his transporting again. I never liked the bloke myself, and I don’t mind admitting it.’
    Well, that was some form of communication, at least.
    ‘What did you object to about him?’ asked Fry.
    ‘He was a bit too smooth for my liking. Fancy talker, always trying to get one over on you, if you know what I mean. I prefer plain speaking, myself. I gave him a bit of plain speaking once or twice, too.’
    ‘You had disagreements? Why?’
    ‘Disagreements? That’s a big word for it. I told him to bugger off a couple of times. He was forever trying to knock us down on price, or put off paying for a few months. That’s no good for a business like ours. If he’d tried it again, I would have told him where to stick it.’
    Senior loped up the ramp with his brush, moving in a stooped kind of way as his feet pushed against the ridges in the ramp. Fry supposed they were designed for the hooves of livestock to grip on, but Senior seemed equally at home in his work boots.
    ‘When he phoned on Monday, he must have told you what he wanted transported?’ said Fry.
    ‘Oh, aye. Horses. It was always horses with Rawson.’
    ‘Did he say where you were to pick them up from?’
    Senior thought for a moment. She had obviously asked him a tough one, because his brow wrinkled ferociously. With his hairiness, large dangling hands and that slight stoop as he walked, there was a simian look about him. Fry was reminded of an illustration from a textbook on the theory of human evolution. Senior came from somewhere halfway along the scale, just after Homo erectus had stood upright for the first time and lost the sloping forehead.
    ‘Now then,’ he said, as if that was somehow an answer.
    ‘Perhaps you wrote it down,’ prompted Fry impatiently.
    But Senior shook his head. ‘Nay. I’ll remember. He didn’t give an exact address, just said it was Eyam way. He was supposed to give us the details when he called back. But he never did, you see.’
    ‘And the horses were supposed to go to …?’
    ‘Hawleys. Like always.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got this next wagon to do.’
    As she watched him lope away, Fry recalled that Homo erectus had borne a fair resemblance to a modern human. The main difference was, its brain was only about three-quarters the size.
       
    As Fry left Senior Brothers’ yard, she wondered what the other brother was like. Probably Rodney was the brains of the outfit.
    Though she was picking up bits and pieces about Patrick Rawson’s business activities, she needed to know much more. And she felt sure the man who could give her the information she needed was Michael Clay. A man who was rivalling the Scarlet Pimpernel for elusiveness.
    Before she got into her car, she tried his number again. Still on voicemail. What a surprise.
    Then, as soon as she ended the call, her phone rang. It was Gavin Murfin, of course. Fry hesitated before she answered it. Lately, Murfin had started to develop the habit of delivering bad news every time he called. It was getting so that she hardly dared to leave the office.
    ‘Yes, Gavin?’
    ‘Hey up, boss. Having a good time at Lowbridge?’
    ‘No,’ said Fry. ‘What have you called me about?’
    ‘Michael Clay.’
    ‘Excellent. He’s the man we most need to speak to right now.’
    ‘Oh. Well, I’m sorry, but it seems that Erin Lacey has changed her mind about her father’s whereabouts.’
    ‘His what?’
    ‘His whereabouts. Remember she told us Michael Clay was away on a business trip? Well, she’s telling a different story now. Mr Clay has officially been reported MFH.’
    ‘Missing From Home?’ Fry sighed. ‘He’s done a runner. That’s a very stupid thing for him to do.’
    ‘And strange, too, when there’s no evidence against him.’
    ‘No evidence that we’ve found yet, Gavin.’
    ‘It could just be a clever ploy,’ suggested Murfin.
    ‘Oh, right. A clever ploy to cast suspicion on himself.’
    ‘What do you want to do, Diane?’
    ‘We’ll talk about it when I get back.’
       
    On her way back to