‘Perhaps you wrote it down,’ prompted Fry impatiently.

But Senior shook his head. ‘Nay. I’ll remember. He didn’t give an exact address, just said it was Eyam way. He was supposed to give us the details when he called back. But he never did, you see.’

‘And the horses were supposed to go to . . . ?’

‘Hawleys. Like always.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got this next wagon to do.’

As she watched him lope away, Fry recalled that Homo erectus had borne a fair resemblance to a modern human. The main difference was, its brain was only about three-quarters the size.

AS FRY LEFT Senior Brothers’ yard, she wondered what the other brother was like. Probably Rodney was the brains of the outfit.

Though she was picking up bits and pieces about Patrick Rawson’s business activities, she needed to know much more. And she felt sure the man who could give her the information she needed was Michael Clay. A man who was rivalling the Scarlet Pimpernel for elusiveness.

Before she got into her car, she tried his number again. Still on voicemail. What a surprise.

Then, as soon as she ended the call, her phone rang. It was Gavin Murfin, of course. Fry hesitated before she answered it. Lately, Murfin had started to develop the habit of delivering bad news every time he called. It was getting so that she hardly dared to leave the office.

‘Yes, Gavin?’

‘Hey up, boss. Having a good time at Lowbridge?’

‘No,’ said Fry. ‘What have you called me about?’

‘Michael Clay.’

‘Excellent. He’s the man we most need to speak to right now.’

‘Oh. Well, I’m sorry, but it seems that Erin Lacey has changed her mind about her father’s whereabouts.’

‘His what?’

‘His whereabouts. Remember she told us Michael Clay was away on a business trip? Well, she’s telling a different story now. Mr Clay has officially been reported MFH.’

‘Missing From Home?’ Fry sighed. ‘He’s done a runner. That’s a very stupid thing for him to do.’

‘And strange, too, when there’s no evidence against him.’

‘No evidence that we’ve found yet, Gavin.’

‘It could just be a clever ploy,’ suggested Murfin.

‘Oh, right. A clever ploy to cast suspicion on himself.’

‘What do you want to do, Diane?’

‘We’ll talk about it when I get back.’

ON HER WAY back to Edendale, news came in that a horse had been badly injured in an RTC somewhere outside the town. Fry had barely managed to calculate that it was directly on her route, before she saw the flashing lights ahead. That was going to mean another hold-up, unless she could find a way round.

Like dogs and sheep, horses came within the definition of ‘animal’ in the Road Traffic Act. That meant you had to report it to the police, if you ran over one. If it was a cat, a badger or a fox, you didn’t. It was strange how some laws stuck in your mind, while more recent legislation had to be looked up and puzzled over for a sensible interpretation every time it came up.