‘Dermot Walsh said that Rawson blamed jealous rivals when they first brought a case against him.’

‘So he did. We should give Walsh a ring when we get back to the office, and ask him if Rawson mentioned any rivals in particular.’

‘Right. You’re thinking there might have been some kind of feud?’

‘Yes, a feud that Patrick Rawson lost.’

‘If that’s so – and since Rawson seems to have come up to Derbyshire to meet him – the rival could well be someone local to us.’

‘So he could, Gavin. So he could.’

Fry checked the desk for hidden drawers, ran a hand along a book shelf. Telephone directories, a road atlas, the Official Form Book 2009, with cover picture of jockeys straining hard for the winning post. Diaries, but filled only with dates of birthdays and dental appointments. She found the most recent diary and turned to the current week. Derby horse market was marked on Saturday, and the name of the Birch Hall Country Hotel on Monday night. But no names, no times of meetings he might have arranged. This really was a man who had learned not to put anything in writing.

‘There’s nothing here,’ she said in disgust. ‘Absolutely nothing of any use to us, Gavin.’

‘Where to next, then?’ said Murfin.

‘We need to talk to Rawson’s partner. Let’s go and see Michael Clay.’

MICHAEL CLAY’S HOME was further into the city, Birmingham proper. Well, after a fashion. Great Barr was a suburb on the outer edge of Brum, an ocean of pre-war red-brick semis bordering on Walsall and West Bromwich. The Clay home was easier to find than Rawson’s, though. No need for a sat-nav here.

‘No, I’m sorry, Mr Clay isn’t at home.’

The door had been answered by a woman of about her own age, so tightly buttoned up in a woollen jacket that she appeared to have almost no shape. Her dark hair was pushed untidily behind her ears, and there was a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead, as if she’d been caught in some physical exertion. Moving furniture, or beating the carpets. Something she could take her feelings out on, judging from that sour expression.

‘And you are . . . ?’ asked Fry.

‘His daughter. Erin Lacey.’

The woman carried on looking at Fry blankly. Then she began to take a step back, as if to close the door firmly on an insurance salesman or a Jehovah’s Witness. Fry held up a hand.

‘Does your father have an office address, Mrs Lacey?’

‘Well, he has an office in a business centre in Kingstanding. But he’s not there, either. He’s gone away for a few days.’

‘Where?’

‘He went up to Derbyshire.’

‘But that’s where we spoke to him yesterday. I thought he would have been back home today.’

Mrs Lacey threw out her hands helplessly. ‘I’m sorry. If you had an appointment, he must have forgotten.’