‘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.’