Death of a Friend by Rebecca Tope

uncouthness, as if he possessed no respect for his origins. Everything about him suggested a purposeful movement down the social scale, away from wherever he’d started.
    ‘When did you last see him?’ Phil proceeded, producing a notepad and ballpoint.
    ‘Weeks ago,’ came the ready response. ‘Months, even. We had little to do with each other.’
    ‘Could you be more precise?’
    ‘Let’s see.’ With exaggerated care, Gratton scanned his memory. ‘It was in that cold spell. Early February, must have been. First week of the month, near enough.’
    ‘And you were on good terms with him, were you?’
    ‘Not so sure about that. Every time he saw me he’d get on to the subject of the horses, how I was condemning them to a life of misery, with a stream of novices trying to ride them and no chance for them to be their real selves. Sheer bloody nonsense, every word of it. I’ll never understand where he got it all from.’
    ‘How did you react to that sort of thing?’ Phil asked. 
    Gratton shrugged. ‘With a laugh, usually. It made no odds to me, when it came down to it. My horses are the best you can get. I told him he should be glad of people like me. Without us, horses would probably go extinct. They’d suffer, at any rate. They’re nothing more than a hobby for idle rich people these days, I know that. But they pay well and the beasts are well looked after. It was the stupidity of it I couldn’t get used to. Some causes you can see the point of, but not this one. Nobody but our Charlie could have made a campaign for the liberation of gee-gees.’ He laughed sourly, but Den noticed that the frown had returned to his face and a twist of pain lurked around his nose and mouth.
    ‘Are you familiar with the Cattermole family and the farm where your brother was found?’
    Again a shrug, half-suppressed. ‘In a way,’ he answered. ‘Been there once or twice. I knew Charlie was seeing one of the sisters. Heard about the woman being killed in the hunt protest.’
    Den gave him a close look and said, ‘You mean Nina. You paid her a visit not long ago, I understand.’
    Frank rubbed a grimy hand down one cheek; stubble made a rasping noise against the rough skin. ‘That’s true,’ he said.
    ‘For what purpose?’
    Frank was silent for a long minute. ‘I was passing and called in on the off-chance of a cup of tea.’
    Den gave him a sceptical look before asking, ‘So what was your reaction to her death? Especially as it was inflicted by a horse. It must have struck you—’
    ‘It struck me as damned carelessness,’ Frank said heavily. ‘A senseless waste of a life. It also struck me …’ he turned his head away, but darted brief glances at Den as he spoke, ‘that people would probably think Charlie was to blame.’
    ‘And you?’ Phil interrupted eagerly. ‘Did you think that?’
    Frank’s head sank further into his shoulders, like a turtle withdrawing from the world. ‘It crossed my mind,’ he said.
    Den couldn’t stop himself. ‘Nina’s death was an accident,’ he said. ‘I saw it happen myself, and—’
    ‘Okay, Den,’ said Phil repressively, reminding his younger colleague that personal observations were inappropriate. ‘Now Mr Gratton, can I ask you whether you know of anyone who might have wanted your brother dead? Anyone who had a grudge against him?’
    Gratton’s mouth worked a little as if tasting something bitter. ‘Nobody I know would want Charlie dead.’ He tapped a forefinger on thetable. ‘Charlie was … well, people wanted to protect him,’ he finished weakly. ‘It didn’t matter what he said or how much of a nuisance he made of himself. There’s nobody would wilfully kill him.’ His eyes grew shiny and he swiped a hand across his nose.
    ‘And can you account for your own movements earlier this week?’ Phil proceeded, having made a brief note on his pad. ‘Sunday and Monday in particular.’
    ‘I’ve been here all week. In and out, of course. Monday I did a