Kill Call (23 page)

‘So you’re saying that the racing industry has to cut its losses and make something on the carcasses?’

‘That’s it. Horses can live to more than thirty years on average, but most are killed before their fifth birthday. There are a few specialist slaughterhouses around the country, like us, who deal with the surplus.’

‘What happens to the carcasses?’ asked Irvine.

‘After the horses are slaughtered, they’re shipped abroad in quarters. Overseas buyers bone them out and cut them up. Some of the meat goes into pet food, but there’s quite a demand for human consumption, you know.’

‘And what size of surplus are we talking about?’

‘Up to ten thousand horses a year. Mainly to France.’

Cooper watched Hawley carefully as he answered Irvine’s questions. ‘I take it you’re aware of the outbreak of trichinosis, sir?’ he said.

Hawley winced visibly. He couldn’t have gone any paler, but the pain was clear in his face.

‘Have they traced the origin of the meat yet?’ he asked.

‘Not so far as I’m aware.’

‘It will have come in from overseas. Someone has imported it illegally, you can bet.’

‘Have you been affected by the investigation?’

‘Have we! They’ve been all over this place with a microscope. We got a clean bill of health.’

‘You must have been relieved,’ said Cooper.

‘Oh, we knew we were clean. The trouble is, packaging indicates the location of slaughter, not the source of the animal. We had to produce documentation on where all our horses came from. It’s a real hassle. But 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,’ said Hawley. ‘But, if you’re thinking of the Eden Valley, I think I know the one you want. Senior Brothers in Lowbridge.’

21

Leaning back in his office chair, Maurice Gains shook his head at Diane Fry and wagged a long finger. ‘We don’t call it horse meat, as a rule, Sergeant. We prefer “cheval”.’

‘Oh?’ said Fry. ‘Why not call a spade a spade?’

‘Because of the sensitivities of the British consumer.’

Fry didn’t think Maurice Gains looked the sensitive type. Sensitive to the size of his own bank account, maybe. And that was about it. He was the type of businessman she hated most. Supercilious, complacent, obsessed with his own success.

‘We don’t eat cow, do we?’ he said. ‘We eat beef. We don’t eat pig – we eat pork, or ham. You see, it protects the housewife from having to picture the actual living creature when she’s doing her shopping in the supermarket. If we give it a different name, it becomes just another product on the shelf. It’s all about the image.’

Well, it would have to be. The unit occupied by R & G Enterprises was all about image, too. Money had been spent on the entrance and signage, a smart logo that must have been professionally designed. The carpets in reception and in the manager’s office were deeper and more luxurious than anything ever dreamed of at E Division headquarters. Fry had been ushered to a low, modernist lounge chair that Gavin Murfin would have had difficulty getting out of again, if he’d been with her. But this was one interview she’d felt might be better done alone.

‘Who eats this product of yours?’ she said.

‘Well, cheval has always been popular among the French and Belgian working classes, usually in urban areas. You may have seen the specialist butchers’ shops in Paris, the boucheries chevalines, with those wonderful gilded horse-head advertising signs?’

‘I can’t say that I have,’ said Fry. ‘I must be promenading on the wrong boulevards.’

Gains smiled, a condescending smile which got right on her nerves. ‘Well, in recent years, horse meat has become more popular in the fashionable arrondissements. A lot of French consumers began switching from beef to horse when mad cow disease appeared. Cheval is marketed as a healthy, low-fat alternative to British beef.’

‘They started eating horse instead of our beef?’

‘Yes. Ironically, it’s often our horses they’re eating,’ said Gains. ‘And even young people in France have taken to horse meat. I’m told there’s a horse meat dining society known as Le Pony Club. But Italy and Eastern Europe are big markets, too, and parts of Japan and China.’

‘We don’t eat horse meat in this country, though.’

‘Historically, that’s true. Though, actually, people have been eating horse meat for some time, without being aware of it. There was a Food Standards Agency investigation a few years ago which found salami on sale in the UK containing horse and donkey meat, without it being mentioned on the food label. No one died of shock. And times change, you know. We’re living in a much more multi-cultural country.’

‘So I’ve heard.’

Gains had a habit of stroking his hand along the smooth grain of his desk. A possessive, self-satisfied gesture, Fry thought.

‘I’m not just talking about ethnic minorities,’ he said, ‘but the large numbers of our fellow EU citizens who now live and work in the UK. Many of them are from countries where horse meat is perfectly acceptable. Indeed, the meat is highly regarded by some communities. And quite rightly, given its low fat content and excellent flavour.’

‘You think you can make horse meat part of the British diet?’

‘We acknowledge that we have a bit of a PR challenge on our hands. But it’s not an insurmountable problem. In fact, there’s a precedent. Thanks to the Asian and Caribbean communities, goat meat has become more common in the UK market during the last couple of decades. Now we just want to widen the food experience a little. The time is absolutely right, when you consider the increasingly health-conscious environment, the public awareness of the risks of eating too much fat. Horse meat is splendidly healthy, with half the fat of beef and ten times the Omega Threes to reduce your cholesterol. It’s free from bird ’flu, mad cow disease, tuberculosis, Foot and Mouth, and tape worm – all the scourges of our traditional meat industries. There’s a huge opportunity for a dynamic, enterprising company to break new ground.’

‘And that’s you?’

He smiled smugly. ‘Absolutely. R & G Enterprises are ideally positioned in the market place, Sergeant. We saw an opportunity, and we’re taking it. That’s what enterprise is all about. One day, we’ll expand into Europe and take on the French and Belgians at their own game. A shame we can’t establish a market in the USA. But the Americans are most against eating horse meat.’

Fry looked at the company logo, etched into the window of the manager’s office.

‘I take it Patrick Rawson is the “R” in R & G Enterprises, Mr Gains?’

‘Yes, poor Patrick. Do you know how it happened?’

‘Not yet.’

‘I spoke to Deborah yesterday. She said it was a robbery. Unusual place for it to happen.’

‘We can’t be sure of the circumstances,’ said Fry stiffly.

‘Pity. I was hoping you might have some news.’

‘How did you and Mr Rawson happen to go into business together?’

‘Well, it didn’t just “happen”,’ said Gains. ‘We had talked about the possibility for some time. Years, I suppose. We met through Hawley and Sons, the abattoir owners. I used to work for the Meat and Livestock Commission. Then, about a year ago, we agreed that the time had come, and we put the package together.’

‘Mr Rawson put up some of his own money?’

‘Yes. I was fortunate – I had an inheritance from my father, a few thousand I had put away for just such an eventuality. Patrick, I believe, raised some equity from his property in Sutton Coldfield.’

‘He used his house as security?’

‘That’s right. But the majority of the finance came from our business loan. That has to be serviced, and paid back first. But we’re building the enterprise well. Everyone will be happy with the outcome, I believe.’

Fry tried to ignore the complacent smile. ‘Do you know Michael Clay, Mr Gains?’

‘Oh, Clay? I gather he’s worked with Patrick on some other projects. But I’ve never met him.’

‘He’s not involved with R & G?’

‘No, that’s just the two of us. Me and Patrick.’

Fry was vaguely disappointed. At the moment, Michael Clay could only be counted as an elusive witness. But ever since she’d spoken to Erin Lacey in Great Barr this morning, she’d been bothered by a nagging feeling that he would soon turn out to be something more than that.

‘I see. And, Mr Gains, I have to ask you – were you aware that Patrick Rawson was the subject of a Trading Standards investigation?’

Gains hesitated, for the first time. ‘Yes, I was. It was quite well known in the trade. But no charges were ever brought against him, so I couldn’t see any problem. Innocent until proven guilty, eh, Sergeant?’

‘So they say.’

‘Patrick is in regular touch – sorry, was in regular touch. He phoned on Monday, in fact. Just for a chat, nothing specific.’

‘He was in his car when he phoned, I suppose?’

‘Yes, I believe he was.’

Fry was interested that Maurice Gains had volunteered the information about Rawson’s phone call before she asked the question. Clearly, this man wasn’t stupid.

‘Was that the last time you spoke?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he was happy with how things were going?’ said Fry. ‘No problems?’

‘None at all. Between you and me, we talked about future expansion. We’re modelling ourselves on a well-established Belgian company, which does the whole job – buys the horses, slaughters them, carries out the butchering, then packages and distributes the meat. But that’s for the future. We’re only just getting a toe-hold on the market at the moment.’

‘You’d be looking to buy a slaughterhouse, then? Like Hawleys, for example?’

‘Yes, that would be ideal,’ said Gains. ‘We’ve already had talks with Hawleys. Of course, the equine side of their business is a drop in the ocean. The countries supplying the most horse meat in Europe are Poland and Romania. And we do need certain types of horse. The optimum age for slaughter is between ten and fifteen years, the minimum about seven. Funnily enough, the older the horse, the more tender the meat. It’s the opposite of other meats.’