A Question of Pedigree

by Frank Edwards

  Brian briefly outlined the situation. Alison was deeply upset.

  “Dear Ambrose! A bit of a stuffed shirt at times, rode a high horse on others, but straight as a die. How bad is he? What about…” Brian broke in:

  “That’s why I’m here. Can you take on Roley? Even take him home tonight? Got to find someone. Just can’t myself. Not with my lot. In any case,” he added a little proudly, “I’m helping the police with their enquiries.”

  “Doesn’t that mean that you’re a suspect for something?”

  Brian laughed, relaxing a fraction for the first time since the abrupt awakening from his less-than-ten-minute sleep. “You’ve said it! Inspector Yale has said it! As I know for certain I haven’t committed any crime, he’s taken me on. I mustn’t exaggerate, only to help until the proper team arrives. Still, I do know the set up here and I was the nearest to the old boy. Next bench.”

  “Why the police? Or is it that they always come when someone collapses in public?”

  Brian paused, but saw no further need to pussyfoot about the truth.

  “Sorry to tell you, Alison. This is not thought to be a collapse like as from heat or from heart trouble. The doctor’s still there. There’s no hiding it. Ambrose is dead. They suspect, I guess from what he and the Inspector said, they suspect foul play.” That shook Mrs Jeffery. She groped for words.

  “What a sad way to go!” That did sound feeble. Alison went on, floundering as she coped with the news, “although, I suppose in one way he couldn’t have been happier. Here. At a show.” Her mind had fixed on a stroke. She and her husband, elsewhere today, were long-standing friends of Ambrose Graveney. She sat down alongside her dog, Sam taking the opportunity to clamber onto her lap in best English Toy Terrier manner. She stroked him, automatically, for comfort. She could think of nothing further to say.

  “Please, Alison. Just get on with things. The dogs have to be shown. It will be better to carry on as near normal as we can. There’s no talk of cancelling things. Too difficult, I reckon. The police, when they come, will want to talk to everyone, I’ve no doubt, but there’s nothing to be gained by sitting around waiting for them. Can you? Take on Roley? No clash with Sam, and having to take two into the ring will help take your mind off things.”

  “How many know?”

  “If they don’t already, and most have been too busy to notice much, they soon will. There’s no secrecy even if there is a great mystery. Can you do that? For Ambrose?”

  Alison Jeffery took a deep breath and, to Brian’s relief, said in a firm voice that she would be only too pleased to handle Roley. And take him home if nothing else turned up by four o’clock. ‘If we are allowed away by then,’ Brian couldn’t help thinking.

  He returned to base. Yale told him that Trott was at any moment coming over the horizon with marshals. Wiseton was thrilled with what came next.

  “While I sort things out with the Doctor, and chase up that scene-of-crime team, I shall tell Mr Trott that you are my agent, my man on the inside as it were, and that the two staff members he’s bringing will be directed by you. On my orders, of course. You will be my LO. Is that the right jargon?”

  “Liaison Officer? Correct! I’ll do all I can. I’m free of the dogs now, and at your disposal.” He had scarce said this when the 7th Cavalry arrived. Yale advanced to meet the leading Trott and, drawing him aside, explained his plan of campaign. Both ends of aisle five were to be sealed. To all. Those inside were only allowed out to compete. They would all be counted out and they would all be counted in again. All had to return as soon as they were free of the ring. He, Mr Trott, was asked, as by far the most senior person there, to get a copy of the entry lists and times of judging – especially the last as the programme was vague on this. In particular, the list of the classes about to start. These he was asked to give to Mr Wiseton who would understand them and be able to interpret them to help control movements, briefing the Hall staff on who should and who should not be coming and going into that lane of benches. Yale needed to make sure those there would be available for interview. He did not express his earnest internal prayer that it would not be by him. Any delay, however, he foresaw would leave it down to him to set the ball rolling.

  These arrangements took some careful negotiation, but were accepted as necessary. Manager Trott wanted to emphasise his over-riding powers and his need to command the all-enveloping strategy. Yale told him that, while he fully acknowledged the manager’s position, it was he who had to conduct the interviews. It would be in the greater interest of them both that the campaign should be as contained, and controlled, as subdued as possible. As yet, there was not widespread knowledge of what had happened. Trott, in his way, took it, but, on this last theme tried a last desperate throw.

  “No chance, still, that it is severe faint, I suppose?” He had experience of people in hot Halls, especially people under pressure. “You know, teaching my grandmother and all that, but whatever the cause of the faint, the effect is the same. Pale, giddy, then the loss of colour; pale lips; the fall. You know, breathing seems to cease and the skin is usually cold and moist.” Mr Trott had been on a course. As an efficient manager, he remembered, almost verbatim, what he had been taught.

  Yale quietly reminded him that two medics and a doctor had studied the recumbent Graveney. It was not a long faint. It was the long goodbye. There’d be family, N.O.K as Corporal Wiseton would no doubt term it, to notify, and a range of procedural items to tackle. All ever more pressing as time wore on. Where was that team? He thanked Trott, possibly too effusively but it got the good man on his way to get the judging lists, leaving the minions in his hands. Simon also managed to raise a near smile from the Pooh-Bah by saying that the public doors could be opened at nine-thirty, subject to any countermand from the expected CID team. Turning to the Hall staff, he told them in Brian’s hearing, what his plan was and urged immediate application of the curfew area. They set forth, Wiseton almost calling out ‘eff, ‘ight, ‘eff, ‘ight, as they paraded their separate ways to the ends of bench row five to take up their stations. The inspector turned to the doctor who was making ‘I’m off out of here’ sounds and gestures. The two medics, equally, were indicating, by clearly understandable grunts and sighs, that they had other things to do as well. Were they to take the corpse away or not? Time was passing.

  Chapter Five

  Saturday, 9.05am

  Yale repeated the question to which he already knew the answer.

  “About what time do you think he died?”

  “Seven thirty, give or take a little.”

  “And you are surely suspicious. Of something?”

  “Yes. There could be a puncture mark, small but it’s there, in his neck. Other things, too, put my hackles up. Prick my ears so to speak. Something smells fishy. Not quite right, like my metaphors! The two chaps here agree.”

  Yale excused the time-harassed doctor his vocabulary. He now faced a physical problem. Still no team. Grant had not got back to him after saying that he would get one ‘from somewhere’. Time was passing, not merely for a doctor with other calls and medics with other duties, but in which to establish a crime scene. Meredith’s opinion made that unavoidable. At least they had got there. As, unfortunately – was that selfish? Well, so be it – so had he. They had responded to the same direction. How did the CID team get away with spurning the Chief Super? Seven thirty the man had died. It would be nine thirty soon enough. A physical problem threatened. Rigor mortis! He turned to Meredith.

  “Remind me, as they say, but aren’t we in danger of having a rigid, doubled-up corpse on our hands before long?”

  Meredith cleared his throat. He knew his medicine even better than Trott.

  “You are right, of course. Rigor Mortis sets in after around three hours. It is rather hot in here, so it shouldn’t be quicker than usual, but so far as the corpse is concerned, there’s not a great deal of difference in the onset with varying backgrounds. Then he’ll stay stiff for, say, twelve hours, before s
lowly unwinding again over the following sixty or so. All due to the lack of oxygen in the energy molecules sent to the muscles. The calcium content increases and the muscles remain contracted.” Meredith felt that was as suitable a summary as fitted the circumstances and certified his position. Yale saw his problem confirmed.

  “So, we’d be best to move him.”

  “Got the boys here to do it. What’s more, I should think your manager friend will be easier in the mind once this particular visitor departs.” Where was that dammed team?

  “Right! Must get some photographs first. None of you got a camera I suppose?” The medics looked somewhat guilty; the doctor spurned the suggestion that he had time for or need of such accessories to his trade. He made a positive contribution, however.

  “Must be plenty about. Most of the owners here will be photographing, or getting photographed or filmed, their little specials as they prance around the judges. Probably snapping the opposition as well, to get an insight into what tactics their competitors are plying.”

  Yale cheered up at that. Best to get someone from this ETT section. Wiseton could go round and ask. Quickly, before Graveney seized up on them. He looked round to see where the marching Corporal was, but Meredith broke in with a second thought.

  “You could, of course, do that. Ask someone. But think of the complications! Somebody else’s camera! Unlikely, in this digital age, that you would get someone to loan you their camera, let alone one that we could transfer onto any computer you might have access to. All these things will be geared to their own machines at home. What control could you have?”

  “Hmm. Yet we must get a scene of, well, let’s face it, crime, pictures. Can’t just do nothing. Have no record, however many feet have trodden the adjacent ground in the meantime. Must.”

  “One Four Three”, said a voice. Clear. Confident. Knowledgeable.

  ‘Oh no!’ Groaned Yale inwardly. ‘Not another former serviceman wanting to get in on the act? First double eight seven and now one four three.’ The voice continued as the face from which it came rose over the back of the benches of Brian and the dead man.

  “Two ninety-nine. Special offer.”

  The face Yale felt sure, such state was his mind reaching, could only be that of a former Regimental Sergeant Major in the Royal Military Police. Certainly it belonged to no mere corporal. Feminine it most certainly was; commanding, it was even more. The face of one who could stop a squaddie in his tracks at fifty paces by voice alone and who could, should one so dare to continue on his way, throw any such soldier onto the ground in a rigid arm lock. Yale struggled to comprehend. His blank look, if not his internal fear, was understood by Janice Mulholland. Waving her trimming scissors to emphasise the point, she pronounced:

  “You need pictures. Go to trade stand 143. They have disposable cameras for sale. On offer. Very good price of two pounds, ninety-nine. Take twenty-four pictures for you.”

  Yale gasped at the answer. Did he have £2.99 on him? Expenses? Brian Wiseton replied.

  “Thank you. Sounds a good offer. ’Spose it’s because no one is buying the things any more. Had a friend who tried them. Quite good at first but he tells me he’s given them up. Processing takes too long. Weeks, now, he says. No good. Hardly any firms doing such old-fashioned stuff these days. All digital.”

  “That shouldn’t trouble us.” Yale’s mind was getting back into gear, and his searching hand had found the £5 note he had put in his pocket ready for a coffee on the train. He gestured to Wiseton. “Go and get one. Quickly, please. Solve one problem. Should mean the CID will be here by the time you get back. The phone always rings when you’re in the loo, doesn’t it.”

  Brian dashed off, trying to get the meaning of the last sally. Janice was on to it at once.

  be one in the eye for “Or in the bath. Anyway, glad to be of help.” The face disappeared before Yale could thank her or make any further comment. Ah well! Not to worry. She wasn’t going anywhere. Neither, the way things were turning out, was he. He kicked himself mentally, though. He hadn’t blocked off the row of benches behind the deceased. Could he get two more stalwarts from Trott? He sensed that great man’s resources would be running thin rather more than his patience. Yet he had overlooked the obvious fact that someone, as the RSM-ish appearance had so clearly demonstrated, someone could have leant over the divide to do the dirty deed. Could have. When Brian came back he would ask his opinion of the next-door neighbours. He hoped his side-kick would get a move on, didn’t get lost, and returned while Ambrose Graveney was still in a pliable state. He could then get the body on its way. That would be one in the eye for CID. Arriving at a crime scene with nothing to see!

  As he waited the return of the shopper, he began to hum a well-known theme from the film Oliver! which he had recently seen re-run on television. He was a sucker for such stuff. He had, he could honestly claim, read the book. The film was far better. Now he, in the pause while his envoy carried out a, legal, military-type forage, began to hum what to him were becoming the ever-more meaningful words of the song ‘I’m reviewing the situation’. Dum dee dum dee, dum dee dum dee, dum de dum de dum de dum de dum dee dee. He stopped as a briskly moving Wiseton made his way through the moving crowd, past the barrier of Trott’s guard, now under his command and appearing to realise it with a welcoming semi-salute of recognition as their temporary master pressed through, came down the line of boxes triumphantly holding a small cardboard carton aloft.

  “Got it, sir. As the lady said,” and he handed the change to the Inspector.

  “Ever used one? You say you have a friend who did.”

  “No. Simple enough though. Point and press. The machine does the rest.” He unpacked the box as the visage of Janice Mulholland arose once more from behind the spot where Wiseton had first dozed off.

  “Got it? Jolly good. Can I help further?”

  Yale realised how swiftly the mind can work at times of need. In his ‘review’, barely two minutes or so long, his had raced over the possibility that a killer, as surely they were now looking for, could have leant over from the Bichon line behind Graveney and stuck something into the sleeper’s neck. If that is what had happened. In truth, he didn’t have any idea whether that had happened or not. He had to surmise something, and this line had been suggested by Meredith.

  With no realistic hope of further manpower help from Trott, he could see, in military terms to which he was ever more turning, a gap opening on his left flank. Left, that is, facing up the row of benches with the dead man’s on his left hand side. To add to Trott’s praetorian guards, applying their control over the ETT lines and with the promise from the stressed manager that they would be relieved regularly, he needed a similar cordon on the parallel Bichon lane. A cohort of Amazons? So far as he could see, straining to look over the bench tops, there were no men exhibitors in the backing row. His best, his only, bet was to recruit a similar service from among them. What next! What the hell! There was still no sign of proper support. He had to improvise. In his desperation a sort of pleasure began to enter. The whole set-up was becoming near hilarious. What was happening on the ground would be dismissed as an impossibility in the training seminars of modern policing. It just could not arise, what with the power of modern communications and the resources of a highly professional and wonderfully trained Force. His recruitment of completely unqualified staff, a policy he was about to compound, was entirely improper. So? That little wave of pleasurable excitement, of daring experimentation, returned. Maybe this fine specimen of an RSM-ess could marshal a similar control on her line of dog owners as he had managed to put in place, slightly more formally, for the ETT one. He hesitated just long enough to ask Wiseton to get Doc Meredith to show him what photos to take, and then to take them, before turning to the eager face.

  “Yes. You could. Would you be kind enough – could you possibly arrange –” and he went on to explain his plan of keeping tabs on all those in the immediate neighbourhood of the death while keeping all non
-participants out. There was not a moment’s hesitation. Quick reactors these lasses with dogs. He braced himself for another series of ‘rogers’ and ‘wilcos’ but got instead a quick acceptance of the role, heard a flurry of conversations over the barrier, and the task was set in hand. What on earth would the Super think? What on earth, more to the point, was the Super up to?

  The Super was in despair. All was drear. His secretary tapped the door with a cup of coffee, black with no sugar, and a biscuit, one Rich Tea. Neither brightened his mood, but he was not too lost in despair to thank her. As he did so he could only dream of ‘the good old days’; he had, for the instant, almost forgotten Yale amidst the encircling gloom. Back then, his problems would have been soothed away by efficient and, even more to the point, available staff. Stations were properly manned. Senior officers only had to ask, and a thing came about. Now, his mood told him, it would only be so if the Super was a woman and the secretary male. He and his kind were dinosaurs in a world of ever-accelerating electronic speeds and fast-track promotions.

  Something of an amateur history buff was Chief Superintendent Grant. Especially of the First World War, a period in human affairs which he found fascinating. His mind turned that way as he nursed his cup and hoped for someone, somewhere, to contact him with some sensible news. A phrase, he fancied from the Battle of Jutland, sprang to his mind. “There’s something wrong with our dammed ships today”, or somesuch, was what Admiral Beatty had cried out as his cruisers failed to blast the German ships out of the water. Something like that. He was a buff but not one with an embracing memory. There was something wrong with his damned police force that day. Could he, from some corner, dig out a constable to go to the aid of Yale, whom he suddenly recalled? He was given no time to answer his own question. A report was placed before him. Another vehicle pile-up! Some blasted Hungarian or Rumanian or whatever had tried to take his artic down Fish Street. Heavens! If he had cleared the High Street roundabout it would be something, but no. His container eight-wheeler was stuck out across its centre! This Common Market moron – the Chief Super was in no mood to be kind about anyone or anything – had, no doubt trusting his cheap East European sat nav, swung around that tight circle and had jammed his bonnet into a narrow gap between a parked white van and the jewellers on the corner. The jeweller, anticipating a ram-raid, had screamed down his special phone link for help. The white van driver was nowhere to be found. Maybe the double yellow lines beneath his near side tyres played a part in his temporary anonymity. Of course he shouldn’t have been there, the white van that is; delivering, no doubt. Yet, even so, to try to turn an articulated lorry at more than ninety degrees into a street built for the thinnest of fishmongers in the sixteenth century was neither sense nor possible practice. Didn’t these guys have eyes on their heads? All anyone had to do, white van or not, was to glance right before turning into the Street to see that it was virtually impassable for anything wider than boy on a delivery bike. The resultant chaos, the traffic silting up all around the junction, meant even more police. Choked, by now, was the centre of town. The horn blowing would soon be enough to bring down the walls of Jericho or, more immediately, the wrath of those from above. What a day!