‘The problem was establishing a chain of events. Without that, it wasn’t even possible to consider pressing charges. Of course, it was mad not to have had a proper loan agreement in writing from the start. It should have specified whose authority was needed before the horse could be destroyed. A verbal agreement is worthless in evidence.’

‘So Rawson did the deal.’

‘That was his speciality – dealing. He would buy and sell, always to his own advantage. He worked with the abattoirs all the time, places like Hawleys.’

So that was at least one woman who had been taken advantage of. All she’d wanted was a good retirement home for her beloved horse in the last years of his life. How many more owners were there who’d had similar experiences? The list of people who had reason to hate Patrick Rawson was growing rapidly.

‘Couldn’t uniforms help with some of this?’ asked Murfin.

‘They’re more used to looking for stolen cars.’

‘In some ways, finding a missing horse ought to be a lot easier than locating a stolen car,’ said Cooper.

‘Why?’

‘Look at this – each horse now has its own passport containing a full description – silhouettes from front, back and both sides, showing the colour and all the animal’s markings. Whether it has a stripe, a blaze or star. Exact placing of whorls and feathers. Its microchip number, freeze brand, its height, age, the colour of its hooves. That should help, surely? You don’t get that level of description for any car.’

‘And you can’t exactly give a horse a re-spray and change its number plates.’

‘Also, it’s possible to consult NED for information on the identity of horses in the UK.’

‘NED? For goodness sake.’

‘The National Equine Database. You can get microchip numbers and freeze brand information.’

‘We’d have to find someone who knows the difference between a skewbald and a piebald.’

Fry was gathering her phone and car keys, pulling on her jacket.

‘Where are you going, Diane?’

‘I’ve still got a call to do on my own list. One of Patrick Rawson’s business contacts: Senior Brothers in Lowbridge.’

FRY COULDN’T QUITE believe Rodney Senior’s appearance. No one still had sideburns like that, surely? They must be a joke. He was probably wearing false ones for a fancy-dress party later that day. Some event with a Dickensian theme. He was going as Mr Micawber, or Bumble the Beadle.

To find him, Fry had picked her way carefully across a muddy concrete yard where several livestock transporters were parked, following the sound of hissing water. Then she saw a cloud of spray rising from one of the vehicles, and found a man in boots and blue overalls at work. She had to call his name twice over the noise to get his attention.

‘Aye, Rawson rang on Monday and said he might need some stock transporting later in the week,’ said Senior, turning off a power hose he’d been using to wash out a wagon. ‘I never heard from him again.’