‘It wasn’t exactly an appointment,’ said Fry. ‘But he did give me the impression he would be available. I need to talk to him about the death of his business partner, Patrick Rawson.’

‘Oh, of course. How dreadful.’ Her brow crinkled. But to Fry the frown seemed to suggest a concern at whether she’d left a piece of furniture in the wrong place, rather than sadness at the death of Mr Rawson. ‘All I know is that my father is away. I’m looking after the house for a while.’

‘What about Mrs Clay? Your mother?’

‘She died, five years ago.’

‘I’m sorry.’

The woman seemed a little nervous. Fry would have loved to get inside the house to have a look around, but she had no warrant, no justification. Michael Clay wasn’t a suspect, or even a material witness.

‘I presume you can give us a contact number for him, though,’ she said. ‘A mobile? Mr Clay must have a mobile number we can reach him on?’

She raised an eyebrow, as the woman hesitated. ‘I’ll write it down for you.’

‘Thank you.’

Fry took the number and exchanged it for her card. ‘When your father returns, or if he gets in touch in the meantime, please ask him to contact us as soon as possible.’

‘Is there trouble?’

‘Not for Mr Clay. We just want to speak to him.’

‘I’ll tell him,’ she said, already closing the door.

Fry could see her shape moving behind the glass, long after they had walked down the drive to their car.

Standing on the pavement, she made a point of phoning the number she’d been given in full sight of the windows of the Clay house. She got a voicemail message, a man’s voice claiming to be Michael Clay, but not available at the moment. At least it was a genuine number.

‘Mr Clay, this is Detective Sergeant Fry of Derbyshire Police. We spoke yesterday. I’d be grateful if you could give me a call at your earliest convenience.’

‘Not at home, then,’ said Murfin, when she finished the call.

Fry glanced at the house again. ‘I wonder . . .’

‘What are you wondering?’

‘I’m thinking about what Dermot Walsh said this morning, about Patrick Rawson using someone to take the fall if things went wrong. And I’m wondering whether Mr Clay discovered what his role was in Patrick Rawson’s scheme of things.’

Chapter Nineteen

THE BARREL OF the gun was held to the horse’s forehead. There was just a brief moment when the only sounds were the nervous scuffling of the horse’s hooves on the tiled floor, and the distant background of pop music, something bright and bouncy, probably Abba. Then a high-pitched crack echoed off the walls.

As Cooper watched, the horse’s legs folded underneath it, collapsing as if someone had dropped the strings on a puppet. Its body hit the floor, and its head dropped lifelessly. As the animal rolled on to its side, the front legs went rigid, but the hind legs continued to kick furiously – that primal flight instinct still powering the muscles for long seconds after the brain had ceased working.