‘Yes, but that often isn’t good enough for bereaved relatives. They demand answers.’

Hitchens shrugged. ‘It takes different people in different ways. There’s often a period of shock, when they seem cold and lacking in any reaction. The questions might not come into her mind until later. You watch – another twenty-four hours, and we’ll find we can’t get rid of her.’

‘So who’s going to examine Rawson’s house?’

‘I thought you might like to do it. West Midlands have put a watch on the place for us.’

‘I’ll be looking for indications of what Mr Rawson’s business was in Derbyshire, and who he was meeting.’

‘Yes, that’s what we want.’

‘And another chat with Mrs Deborah Rawson, I think,’ said Fry.

Hitchens nodded. ‘I’ll let West Midlands know you’re coming.’

AS FRY HEADED back to the CID room, Luke Irvine met her in the corridor. She found Irvine touchingly young and eager. She supposed she might have been like that herself once, when she first got a chance to take off the uniform and work as a detective, back in Birmingham. Uniformed officers thought CID got all the excitement and the glory. But when you’d worked behind a desk for a while with your groaning case-load and your stack of Narey files, you soon learned the truth.

‘Sarge, you know we’ve been finding whatever we can on Patrick Rawson’s background,’ said Irvine.

‘Yes, Luke?’

‘Well, the PNC shows that he has no criminal record as an adult, but I checked intelligence, and his name was flagged up by another agency – Trading Standards.’

‘Trading Standards? So, what? Has Mr Rawson been a bad boy in his business dealings? Sold something that breached the Trade Descriptions Act?’

‘No, not exactly. He was entered in intelligence as a known associate of some dodgy characters Trading Standards got convictions for about two years ago. I rang the case officer, by name of Dermot Walsh. He’s coming in to talk to us about it this morning.’

‘So soon?’

‘He’s very keen,’ said Irvine. ‘It’s funny, but he sounded quite pleased to hear about what had happened to Mr Rawson.’

Chapter Eighteen

DERMOT WALSH CAME in to West Street with a female colleague he introduced as Daksha Patel. They were an odd pair – Patel small and elegant, Walsh built like a prop forward, square and broad-shouldered, his neck padded with muscle.

As he was introduced to Walsh, Cooper thought he might actually have seen him playing against the Derbyshire Police first XV. He recalled a gap-toothed tight head with bandaged knees who’d tried to maim his opposing prop in the scrum every time the referee looked the other way. Even cleaned up and wearing a suit and tie, Walsh was still a bit scary.

The CID team had crowded into the small conference room to hear the Trading Standards officers. The room was nearly full and overly warm.