Most cases of trichinosis were mild, but if you didn’t get treatment with anti-inflammatory steroids, you could die. Someone in Paris had done exactly that, during the last French epidemic from eating raw horsemeat that originated in Poland.
‘This case in Paris,’ said Cooper. ‘Raw horse meat from Poland — It’s…’
Words seemed to fail him.
‘I know,’ said Fry.
She had begun to feel even sicker when she read the details of that case. An infected horse head had entered the human food chain. Not just meat, but the head. The number of people infected was explained by a high concentration of larvae in the horse’s carcass, and by the custom of mixing meat from several horses’ heads, to be eaten as raw mince.
Worst of all, the originating farm entered on official documents did not exist. No one would ever know where that outbreak of trichinosis had come from.
Fry looked up at Cooper when he’d finished reading. He looked just about as sick as she felt.
‘Will you take the abattoir, Ben?’ she said.
‘Oh, how did I guess? What about you?’
‘I’ll go where the meat is.’
The three men were on their weekly hike. They were three retired police officers, puffing a little as they reached the top of the track on the remaining unspoiled stretch of Longstone Moor.
Inquisitively, one of them diverted away from the path towards the deep gash of Watersaw Rake, the abandoned opencast quarry workings. There was a fence around the hole, but it was low enough to step over.
‘Careful, Jack,’ called one of his friends. ‘We’re not carrying you home if you break your leg.’
‘You’d think they’d do something with this,’ he said. ‘Fill it in, or whatever.’
‘They’ve certainly wrecked the hillside with their quarrying.’
‘It employs local people, though. That’s the important thing.’
His friends came to join him at the fence, pushing their way through the heather to find a rabbit track wide enough for their boots.
‘Come on, Jack. What are you doing?’
‘He still thinks he’s on the job. Always wants to know what’s going on.’
But the first man wasn’t listening to them. He was over the fence and looking down into the rake. The sides were steep and lined with shattered rock. The bottom was fifty feet below, littered with debris from the quarrying.
‘There’s something down there,’ he said. ‘Right on the bottom of the rake.’
‘Just rocks. Or a dead sheep.’
‘No. That’s not what it is.’
20
The Snake Pass had been closed between Glossop and Ladybower for several weeks after another landslip. The floods in January had also burst an old mining adit, the build-up of water cracking a hole the size of a railway tunnel in the side of Drake Hill.
It was proof, if anyone still needed it, that too much rain could change the landscape dramatically. If you watched the hills after a heavy downpour, you could see the smallest streams gushing into brown cascades as they tumbled into the valleys, washing down peat from the moors and loose stones from the hillsides.
But Cooper was driving eastwards from Ladybower, heading in towards Sheffield on the A57, now clear of the previous night’s fog. From Sheffield, he had to find his way north, skirting Howden Moors, to enter the tangle of former mill towns on the Yorkshire side of the Pennines.
DC Luke Irvine had declared himself free enough of the backlog of file preparation work to accompany Cooper on the trip to Yorkshire. Fry had looked a bit sceptical at first, but had given him the nod. Cooper was glad to have Luke with him. It made such a difference being in the car with the younger DC instead of travelling with Diane Fry and having to watch every word he said.
‘My family are from West Yorkshire,’ said Irvine as they came in sight of the wind farm near Penistone.
‘I didn’t know that,’ said Cooper, who had assumed Irvine was of Scottish origin, what with his surname and the blue eyes, and the sandy hair.
‘Denby Dale, between Huddersfield and Barnsley. My Dad used to work in the mining-equipment industry, but his job went when all the pits closed down. So he got a job at Rolls-Royce in Derby. And the family moved down. I was only five at the time, so I don’t remember much about Denby Dale, except visiting my grandma.’
‘You never thought of going into engineering like your dad?’ asked Cooper.
‘No.’
Irvine said it so abruptly that Cooper wondered what the story was behind his decision to join the police. There was a long history of conflict between the police and men working in the coal industry, going back to the 1984-85 miners’ strike. Communities had been split, families divided, and the resulting bad blood had lingered for twenty-five years in some areas. He decided it might be better not to ask — until he knew Luke better, anyway.
‘I think we need to get on to the A636,’ said Irvine.
‘Sure.’
A few minutes later, Cooper steered the Toyota down a bumpy lane, following directions taken from a local. Sheltered behind a line of dense conifers, the slaughterhouse was almost invisible to a casual passer-by. Even if he’d been a rambler out on a stroll, he might not have seen it. The approach was via a long, winding lane that would have been difficult to find in itself without directions. At the end of the track was a collection of grubby stone buildings, devoid of any signs to indicate what they were. In the yard stood a row of steel-sided wagons that had brought animals for slaughter.
But once you reached it, and got out of the car, there was no mistaking what this place was. A distinctive smell filled the air. Blood, urine and dead flesh.
Cooper was no vegetarian. He liked a good steak as much as the next man. But the smell of meat in large quantities was cloying and sickly. It made him think of an old-fashioned butcher’s shop his mother used to take him to in town when he was a child. There had always been joints of meat hung all around the shop, and some had probably been there for days. It was one of those childhood impressions that could be brought back instantly by a smell like this.
The butcher’s was long gone now, of course. If his mother was still alive, she would be buying her meat shrink-wrapped from a chill cabinet at the supermarket, just like everyone else. That, or she would have found her own private source, which was still possible if you knew where to ask.
‘I hope we get masks,’ said Irvine. ‘I don’t think I can hold my breath until we get back to the car.’
‘You’ll get used to it.’
But this was more than just the smell of meat. There was an underlying odour of putrefaction that no amount of cleaning and disinfectant could alleviate. It was obvious to anyone with a functioning sense of smell. With one sniff, you could tell whether meat was fresh or had gone off.
Cooper glanced around the site. Somewhere, there would be skips where the waste and offal were discarded to await incineration. He pictured hoppers full of skins from butchered animals, drains where rivulets of blood soaked away.
There used to be a small, privately owned abattoir in Lowbridge, near Edendale, which he’d visited once with Diane Fry. But it had gone out of business, like many local operations, unable to bear the cost of regulations and new equipment. Now Hawleys was the sort of place that animals went to, travelling longer distances to meet their fate.
‘Slaughterhouses like ours aren’t doing anything wrong or inhumane, you know,’ said Melvyn Hawley, who introduced himself as one of the sons in C. J. Hawley and Sons. ‘These animal rights people are talking out of their arses.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, there might be a bit of ill treatment in the industry, here and there. But the level of welfare abuse is nothing compared to what would go on if there was no abattoir trade. Abattoirs like ours are regulated and inspected to the nth degree. If you were to take away that commercial structure, and the professionalism that goes with it, you would lose control of the whole process.’
‘I suppose so.’
Melvyn Hawley was a tall, thin man, and so pale that he looked as though he’d never eaten meat in his life. Did working in a place like this put you off? If he was one of the sons, Hawley must have grown up with the idea of what went on in an abattoir. Killing as a means of earning a living. It was enough to make anyone a little awkward in normal company.
When they arrived, Cooper and Irvine had been taken into a small office. Bright, white-painted walls, the smell of disinfectant. Just enough room for three or four chairs, and a row of filing cabinets.
‘Besides,’ said Hawley, eyeing Cooper cautiously, ‘when it comes to the slaughter of horses, we’re just clearing up the mess left by the racing industry. That’s what I always say.’
‘How is that, sir?’
‘Well, they have massive breeding programmes, you know. Far too many horses are produced, and only the best survive. It’s a dirty little secret the racing industry would rather no one knew. I dare say horse lovers fondly imagine that all those unwanted racehorses live out their days grazing happily in some sunlit meadow. Some nice, kind person is looking after them somewhere in their old age? Yeah, right.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Well, that nice person would need to have very deep pockets. It costs thousands to feed and look after just one retired race horse.’
‘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.’
Cooper nodded. For the unwanted, the end was pretty brutal. If not a bullet, then a steel bolt into the side of the brain. Then their butchered carcasses loaded on to refrigerated lorries and driven to France.
‘Why thoroughbreds, though?’
‘It’s what the trade wants. Thoroughbreds make good, lean meat. You might think the shire types would be better, but they have too much bone, and too much fat in the carcass. And those overweight ponies that some child has ruined — they’re no good, either.’
‘There must be dealers who find the horses to send to the abattoirs,’ said Cooper.
‘Yes, of course. The animals that come here are sourced in a variety of ways.’
‘Horse auctions?’
‘That would be one way.’
‘You take horses from dealers like Patrick Rawson, don’t you?’
‘I knew Rawson,’ said Hawley. ‘He died, didn’t he? It was on the TV news. I thought that must be what you came about. You being from Derbyshire Police.’
‘Your number was one of the last that Mr Rawson called before he died,’ said Cooper. ‘Did you speak to him yourself?’
‘Yes, I talked to him on Monday.’
‘What time?’
‘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 4x4 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.’
21
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 th
e 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.
‘We don’t eat cow, do we?’ he said. ‘We eat beef. We don’t eat pig — we eat pork, or ham. You see, it protects the housewife from having to picture the actual living creature when she’s doing her shopping in the supermarket. If we give it a different name, it becomes just another product on the shelf. It’s all about the image.’
Well, it would have to be. The unit occupied by R amp; G Enterprises was all about image, too. Money had been spent on the entrance and signage, a smart logo that must have been professionally designed. The carpets in reception and in the manager’s office were deeper and more luxurious than anything ever dreamed of at E Division headquarters. Fry had been ushered to a low, modernist lounge chair that Gavin Murfin would have had difficulty getting out of again, if he’d been with her. But this was one interview she’d felt might be better done alone.
‘Who eats this product of yours?’ she said.
‘Well, cheval has always been popular among the French and Belgian working classes, usually in urban areas. You may have seen the specialist butchers’ shops in Paris, the boucheries chevalines, with those wonderful gilded horse-head advertising signs?’
‘I can’t say that I have,’ said Fry. ‘I must be promenading on the wrong boulevards.’
Gains smiled, a condescending smile which got right on her nerves. ‘Well, in recent years, horse meat has become more popular in the fashionable arrondissements. A lot of French consumers began switching from beef to horse when mad cow disease appeared. Cheval is marketed as a healthy, low-fat alternative to British beef.’
‘They started eating horse instead of our beef?’
‘Yes. Ironically, it’s often our horses they’re eating,’ said Gains. ‘And even young people in France have taken to horse meat. I’m told there’s a horse meat dining society known as Le Pony Club. But Italy and Eastern Europe are big markets, too, and parts of Japan and China.’
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