Give a Dog a Name (Three Oaks Book 4)

by Gerald Hammond

  Andrew Williamson was a tight man with his money but, to give him his due, he grudged his own dogs nothing. ‘Yon mannie in the village won’t have a surgery until the morn’s afternoon. You think Mrs Kitts would take a look at her?’

  ‘I should think so,’ I said. ‘I’ll go and phone her.’

  ‘Aye. Please,’ he added. It was the first time that I ever heard him use the word. ‘Tell her the wife’s at home.’

  The assumption that Isobel would be willing to brave the muddy and rutted farm track made sense. He was certainly in no condition to chauffeur dogs around the public roads. The reason for leaving his Land-Rover near the mouth of the farm road was that he could get home, across the fields if he could not follow the bend in the road, without leaving his own land. It was his belief that the breathalyser laws applied only on the public roads and he was probably correct.

  ‘If Isobel decides that Brent needs to be spayed, that’s all right?’ I asked.

  ‘Aye. Whatever she thinks. But’ – he paused and blew his nose – ‘if she thinks Brent needs putting down, tell her not to do it until I’m there. I want to be with her when she goes. She’s been a good dog to me.’

  ‘I don’t think it’ll come to that,’ I said.

  Florrie brought our drinks. I paid her, making sure that I had change for the telephone coin-box.

  ‘Don’t be a meanie,’ Beth said. ‘Aren’t you going to offer Mr Williamson a drink?’

  My relationship with the farmer had been such that blows rather than drinks were likely to be exchanged, but we seemed to be establishing a new rapport. ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘What will you take?’

  I added a large Glen Grant to my order, paid up and went off to the phone.

  Isobel was none too pleased to be interrupted at her evening meal. ‘I know all about needing to keep in with neighbouring farmers,’ she said, ‘and with Andrew Williamson in particular if he’s at the root of this latest trouble. It may even take the pressure off us. But removing a pusfilled womb from a crabby and flea-ridden collie isn’t my idea of an evening’s relaxation when I’ve got other things on my mind.’ I let her rattle on. I knew that the needs of the dog would be paramount in the end. ‘I suppose I’ll have to go,’ she said at last. ‘If it’s pyometra, I’ll take her back to the surgery. But I’ll need a hand.’

  ‘You’ll get it,’ I promised.

  ‘Have you found out yet what’s on Beth’s mind?’

  ‘I’m trying,’ I said. ‘I’m trying.’

  Back at the bar, Williamson gave a grunt of relief when I said that Isobel would be out to look at his collie within the hour. ‘I’d not want anything to come over the old bitch for want of a wee bittie siller,’ he said.

  He had finished his whisky. Beth, who seemed to feel the need of a clear head, had settled for a half-pint of shandy and was holding the empty glass. The farmer looked at my beer-mug sitting full on the bar and ordered another whisky and a shandy for Beth. Florrie looked at him in mild surprise. He did not often put his hand in his pocket.

  ‘Mr Williamson was telling me all about set-aside land, Beth said brightly. ‘He thinks that it’s an excellent idea.’

  That did not surprise me. Any scheme that gave a farmer money for no work and at no risk from pests, the weather or falling prices would find favour in Williamson’s eyes.

  Beth gave me a meaning look. Evidently I was expected to carry the topic a stage further. I had no idea what she wanted but there seemed to be only one avenue open. ‘George Sievewright agreed with you,’ I said. ‘But Dan seemed to be against it. Now that George is away, Dan’s ploughing up the set-aside land. He says the ragwort got into it.’

  ‘That can cost a braw penny,’ Williamson said, nodding gravely. ‘A terrible price, these selective wilkers. Weedkillers,’ he corrected himself. He paid for his round of drinks, counting out the coins with care. ‘A terrible price,’ he repeated. ‘But George was all for the set-aside scheme and he was senior partner.’

  ‘George owned more than a half-share, did he?’ Beth asked.

  Williamson waved a contemptuous hand and nearly spilled his whisky. He drank it quickly before disaster could occur. ‘George didn’t own a damn thing,’ he said. ‘Nor Dan. Only the stock and machinery and the standing crops. It’s rented. But George was the elder brother and that’s the way their dad willed the tenancy. Not because George was the older, I’m thinking, but because George was a chip off the old block. Left a wheen of bastards around Fife and Tayside did old George Sievewright.’

  ‘Who’s the farm rented from?’ Beth asked quickly.

  ‘Yon land’s a’ part of Mr Stoneham’s estate.’

  I was taking a pull at my pint of stout and I nearly choked on it. Beth, who seemed less taken aback, gave me a warning headshake and a nudge. ‘It’s your round,’ she said.

  She had only taken half of her second shandy but I bought her another and renewed the farmer’s whisky.

  ‘I wonder how George is settling in on the west coast,’ Beth said. ‘Has anybody heard from him yet? Or is he too busy looking for a new ladyfriend?’

  The farmer gave vent to a short crack of laughter. ‘Dod’s no’ on the west coast,’ he said. ‘That’s just a tale they put about to save face. Run off wi’ yon Mrs Ellingworth, so he has. Been carrying on for months, aabody kenned that except Ellingworth himself. Her Dada has a big spread in Wiltshire, the way I hear it, and can’t thole his son-in-law. George reckons to fuck himself into a fortune. And the best of luck to him. She’s a fine wee woman and there’s a few years of childbearing left in her.’

  Beth, it seemed, had ordered a steak for me and scampi for herself. They arrived on the bar and I dug into my pocket again to pay for them. She unwrapped her cutlery from its napkin but then put it down.

  ‘I’ll have to go now,’ she said. ‘Mr Williamson can eat my scampi. No,’ she added to me. ‘I can walk home on my own. You stay here and eat your steak. Then see if Isobel needs help with Mr Williamson’s collie. Do you have the keys of the car on you?’

  I gave her the keys. ‘I thought there was some more you wanted me to tell you,’ I said.

  ‘There was, but I don’t need it now.’ She kissed me on the cheek. ‘Don’t wait up for me.’

  She was gone, leaving three quarters of a pint of shandy on the bar, before I could ask her what the devil was going on.

  ‘Yon’s a grand quyne,’ Williamson said. ‘As well for you that George Sievewright’s away south.’ He chuckled evilly and then forgot my presence, attacking the scampi in his fingers and washing it down with shandy.

  Chapter Ten

  I took out the pocket radio receiver. The dogs were quiet. If the equipment was in order, as it usually was, there were no intruders at home. I listened for a few moments and heard Horace move and whimper. All was well. I took my steak over to a table and ate most of it, slowly, while I tried to work out what Beth was up to.

  Perhaps she was taking the opportunity to search Andrew Williamson’s outbuildings for Stardust while the farmer was safely in the pub. But for that purpose she would hardly have taken my car. And it was far too late to do anything about the elopement of a farmer with a neighbour’s wife, an event which might be romantic but was not unusual. My mind roamed onward. Dougal Henshaw now. If he had taken a couple of shots at Horace, perhaps for mauling the valuable pelt of the snared fox, he would certainly not want me spilling the beans to Arthur Lansdyke, his landlord, and putting the tenancy of his home at risk. But—

  The radio relayed a short outburst of barks, not alarmed but rather an announcement that somebody had arrived. Isobel would be at Three Oaks. I thought that I heard the sound of a car. A minute or two later her voice came over the radio. ‘If anyone’s listening, I’ve got Brent with me and I need some help.’

  I left the rest of my steak and an inch or two of Guinness and hurried up the road.

  Horace was still occupying the surgery but Walnut had been moved in with one of the brood bitches for company, lea
ving the isolation kennel free. While Isobel was leading Brent indoors, I carried Horace all the way and opened the full-sized door in the back of the kennel to put him down on the dog-bed. He sniffed suspiciously at his new accommodation but seemed to accept his demotion as no more than was to be expected in this rotten world. I gave him a pat and told him that it was a dog’s life.

  Brent might be a long way below par but she had no intention of allowing strangers to shove needles into her. I got a good grip on her collar and held tight while Isobel gave the anaesthetic. The collie bitch’s reproductive system was in a mess. I passed instruments and held things while Isobel operated. It was past midnight before we had finished and cleaned up but there was no sign of Beth. I gave Isobel a small drink and packed her off home.

  For a while I dawdled, expecting Beth to return or phone at any moment, but soon I gave her up and went to bed. I meant to lie awake and wait for her, but suddenly there was daylight and morning had arrived. This was the day on which we would sink or swim among the sharks of the press and the bed beside me was cold and undisturbed. I thought that I remembered the sound of a car in the night or the very early morning, but it might have been a dream.

  Fumbling in haste, I dressed and went down to the kitchen. From the surgery I could hear a furious growling. The makings of my breakfast were neatly set out on the table. Beside them was a note.

  You were sleeping like a baby so I didn’t want to wake you yet. Pups have been fed. Back soon.

  It seemed that Beth had been neither murdered nor kidnapped during the night. I got on with breakfast. While I was picking my way through some cereal Isobel arrived, looking played out.

  ‘You’re early,’ I said. ‘After last night’s triumph of modern surgery, I thought you’d sleep in.’

  ‘With reporters coming this morning? You must be joking. After about three hours’ sleep I woke up at five, convinced that the entire media, complete with television cameras, were about to arrive and find me in my nightdress. How’s the patient?’

  ‘Sounds hung over. I didn’t dare to go in.’

  ‘I’ll phone Williamson to come and collect her later.’ Isobel’s lip had curled in a sneer at my pusillanimity, but I noticed that she was no keener than I was to face a notoriously fractious collie just out of the anaesthetic and upset by the strangeness of her surroundings. ‘Where’s Beth?’ she asked.

  ‘Damned if I know. She was out most of the night. She left a note but it doesn’t help much. Ask her yourself,’ I added. The car that was arriving at the door had the clattering valves and rattling exhaust peculiar to my old estate car.

  Beth plunged into the house like a spaniel following a scent into cover. She was wearing Wellingtons and one of my waxproofed coats, all liberally muddied, but otherwise she was dressed as she had been in the pub. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Had to wait and make sure that they’d followed their usual Thursday routing.’

  ‘Who or what—?’ I began.

  She ignored my attempt at a question while shedding the coat and boots into a corner. ‘John, will you put Horace in the car, please? Have you eaten a good breakfast?’

  ‘You mean Walnut?’

  ‘Don’t mess about, I mean Horace. I may want to see if he reacts to places.’

  ‘Beth!’ Isobel said loudly. Beth stopped and looked at her, puzzled. ‘Beth, will you sit down for a moment and tell us what’s going on.’

  Beth wound up again. ‘No time for that. I’ve already phoned round the large contractors from the call-box outside that pub at the crossroads. I struck lucky. One of them can send off half a dozen labourers in a van straight away. We’ve got to get moving.’ She sat down to lace her brogues. ‘Isobel, can you phone Henry to come and keep things ticking over?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Isobel said. In addition to being played out, she was now looking slightly stunned.

  ‘Tell him to bring his car. Then, when the reporter and photographer arrive . . .’ Beth paused for a split second’s thought. ‘If they’re too early, say in the next hour and a half, keep them talking. Tell them the story, show them the photograph – it’s on the table next door – and take them to look at the oak tree. Let them meet Walnut. Spin it out a bit. Then bring them to the Old Manse. Will you do that?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘And get hold of the local Bobby and bring him along.’

  ‘He’s off today. I saw him drive off in civvies as I walked by,’ Isobel said. She seemed relieved to have something factual to say.

  ‘Then the call will be relayed to Cupar,’ Beth said. ‘Try to get hold of John’s friend, Constable . . .?’ She looked at me.

  ‘Peel,’ I said.

  ‘Constable Peel. Tell him that it’s very important and urgent. Will you do all that?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Isobel said. She ran her fingers through her usually tidy hair. ‘But – for God’s sake, Beth – you’ll have to tell me—’

  ‘No time for that. We’ve got to be there before the men. John, is Horace in the car?’

  ‘I’ll go and get him,’ I said.

  ‘Put a warm coat on.’

  I put a warm coat on and went out. I carried Horace back from the isolation kennel to the car, where Beth had already opened the rear door for me and installed herself in the driver’s seat. Horace stirred uneasily in my arms at this evidence that he was to travel again. The car had been through a carwash only a few days earlier but it looked as though it had taken part in an autocross in the rain.

  Beth was wolfing a hastily buttered roll. As soon as I was more or less in the passenger’s seat she pushed the second half of it into her mouth and let the clutch out. The car set off with a jerk, clattering gravel against its own underside.

  We went through the village like a greyhound coursing a hare. When we passed the derestriction sign, she speeded up. Her mouth was almost too full for her to chew the remains of her roll, let alone to answer questions, and I wanted all her concentration to be on the road. The Old Manse was almost in sight before she managed to empty her mouth.

  ‘Why the hurry?’ I asked.

  Beth wiped her mouth with her sleeve. ‘We have to be there before the men,’ she said. ‘I told you. And we have to look as though we belong there. I don’t want the car still pinging and clicking.’

  ‘It’ll ping and click for an hour if you don’t slow down,’ I said. She covered the last quarter-mile at a more sedate pace, pulled into Tony Ellingworth’s yard and parked against the gable. The place seemed to be deserted but his van was tucked in behind the house, half hidden.

  Beth saw me looking at it. ‘Dan Sievewright picked him up,’ she said. ‘They took the youngest child with them – to drop off with Mr Buccleugh’s daughter, I suppose. The older ones went off to school. I had to bank on them doing what they always do on Thursdays. They wouldn’t want to start people talking. Let’s take a look at Horace.’

  I opened the rear door. Horace took one look around, sniffed the air and curled up into a shivering ball. I gave him a pat and closed the door. Without raising his head, he looked up at me through the glass with apprehensive eyes.

  ‘That’s what I wanted to be sure about,’ Beth said. ‘Come on. We’d better stand at the front door as though we’d just come out of it.’ But when we reached the Ellingworth doorstep, she looked at me doubtfully. ‘There may be a lot of standing around,’ she said. ‘Are you sure you’re warm enough? You could go for a drive or something.’

  I was wearing a coat which was almost too warm for the mild day. ‘The cold doesn’t bother me,’ I said. ‘What does worry hell out of me is that you’re taking the law into your own hands and you haven’t given me the least hint that you know what you’re doing. You could land us with a lawsuit, if nothing worse. Shouldn’t you have told the police instead of rushing in?’

  Beth smothered a yawn. She was looking very tired. Now that she had no urgent action to buoy her up she seemed ready to doze on her feet, but her mind was working away, somewhere beyo
nd the fog of exhaustion. ‘If we call the police,’ she said sleepily, ‘they won’t take action until long after you’ve been pilloried in the press. Do you want to go through the rest of your life being addressed as “Shock Horror” by any rival competitor who wants to unsettle you? Imagine a two-page spread of those photographs, with your face somewhere near the top and quotes from a whole lot of self-styled experts. They could retract for ever afterwards, but we’d still be out of business. It’s worth a bit of risk, isn’t it?’

  ‘How much of a risk?’

  ‘I don’t know. You’d better speak to the men when they come. They’ll take orders better from a man.’

  I was quite used to having this particular buck passed to me although it was not Beth’s gender but her apparent youth that diminished her authority.

  ‘We’re Mr and Mrs Ellingworth,’ she said more briskly. ‘We live here. Our water supply’s gone off and we think there’s a break over there, where the bonfire was.’ She pointed towards the scar, a disc of white ash with a fringe of blackened material. ‘It’s urgent, because of the children. Lay it on thick.’

  ‘What if they don’t find anything?’ I asked.

  She giggled nervously. ‘Then I should think we run for it,’ she said.

  There was no time for more questions. A Transit van pulled in from the road and five men piled out. The driver, a cocky little man with bright eyes, was also the foreman. I repeated Beth’s words to him, almost verbatim.

  ‘Plastic pipe?’ he asked.

  It seemed easiest to agree.

  ‘What were you thinking of, lighting a fire above it? Well, we’d better see what damage you’ve done.’

  He called the men over and they started to dig. Beth nudged me and led the way towards the hedge as if we were inspecting our garden. I was beginning to see how her mind was working. Not that the working of her mind was important. What mattered was that she had to be right first time. ‘Why there, for God’s sake?’ I asked her.

  ‘Where do you think I’ve been for half the night?’ she countered peevishly. As if the mention had reminded her, she put her whole being into an enormous yawn. ‘This is the only place.’