‘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 4×4 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.’

Chapter Twenty-one

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.