Yet waiting he was. He knew why, as surely as Brian Wiseton would have known had he not been engrossed in more martial affairs, as dramatic to him as any of the fateful events of the ring. The expected seven post-graduate dog owners were jockeying for position. All doing some version of the ‘After you, Claude’ ‘No, after you, Cecil’ routine. No one wanted to be first. All would rather be third or fourth. He knew. Oh God! After all these years and all these shows, didn’t he know! His feet wouldn’t let him forget it. There was a bonus. While he was, in his terms, being kept hanging about, he had time to look over to the next-door ring. There, Agnes Thorpe was about the same stage with the English Toy Terriers. Her post graduate owners had got themselves organised, and she was feeling the forechest and point of shoulder of the first entrant. All appeared normal, yet he fancied she was on edge. Rushing a little? Tension was unavoidable. People took the whole process very seriously. He had known tears as dogs had been thrown out before the final line-up. Judges were more settled when down to the final group. Five in a big class. He never enjoyed the elimination. Pressures. There had been cases of veiled threats. He had been ‘warned’ by a disgruntled loser. Nothing ever came of these things, but they took their toll on judges. Agnes seemed calm, yet he sensed something was hurrying her.
The log jam broke and the dogs came marching in. Here we go! He pounded his feet from the marshals’ table towards the inspection one and began his task anew. With pleasure, he told himself. This is a life he much enjoyed. On the whole. He hoped Agnes’ day would be the same.
Inspector Yale got back to his staff, putting on a positive face. He tried to imagine what was going on in the mad world outside, and how the conversation would go at the hospital, but such speculation was not for his volunteers to know. Grant would start his sick round with a ‘cheer-up-the-chaps’ visit to the injured officers, he knew, before braving the wrath of the ACC in the separate ward. It would be to the Super’s advantage if that were to have sound proof walls rather than a flimsy curtain. The Hall, by comparison only, provided an ordered realm over which he, next to the Great Trott, was now sovereign. He greeted his two slaves of duty provided by the Supreme Manager. They seemed cheerful enough. One was seated; both appeared content with their lot. Sitting in attendance was more pleasant than many of the jobs they would otherwise be doing. Maybe, like those GD men of Brian’s far-off National Service days, they would now be cleaning out the loos. Certainly, he sensed no resentment as he asked them how things were going.
“No one’s pushed us yet,” was the first reply. The crowd had yet to reach its peak, but even so, from his experience of these events, he knew that the earlier the arrivals the more likely they were to be people with a specific purpose in mind – to see a particular ring in action or to visit friends in the bench lines to wish them luck. The later arrivals tended to drift more, with no specific purpose, to the joy of the many stall holders.
The second sentinel joined in. “Had one or two asking why they couldn’t wander down, like, but they seemed satisfied when we murmured the magic words ‘health and safety’. We are getting conditioned to that as an excuse for anything these days.”
Yale nodded a knowing acknowledgement and went to pass them into the ETT benches. He saw Wiseton at the far end, apparently on sentry duty. The second marshal spoke again.
“About to go back up there. Had to check with Bill here about our break times. Won’t be a tick.” Yale took it that, content in their role or not, they were so only as long as it was defined by their Union rules. He nodded once more, and made his way up to his sergeant-of-the-day.
“Quiet, sir. Mind you, the people coming in will tend to arrive at the other end. That is if they particularly want to get into this row. A couple have drifted past from along to the left, but they weren’t too concerned when I told them that, for the moment, we were asking visitors not to excite the dogs who were about to go in the ring.” That, thought Yale, was a more credible and sensitive reason to give than the H and S mantra.
“I’ll need to start questioning the ones along here first, so, good man! Before I start, I’ll just check on how things are going on the left flank.” He liked that. Bringing the military manner into his speech. “See how things are faring along there. You don’t do shorthand I suppose?”
“Not one of my skills. I can write, though. We were taught that at school in my day. No computers to get in the way of education then.”
Yale grinned. “I’ll see what I can find next door. Must be someone with secretarial skills there. I’ll need someone to take notes as I interview. With you,” he added, to maintain Brian’s status, “as my aide and companion, of course”. Wiseton liked that ‘of course’.
He went round to the neighbouring line of benches, those containing the bulk of the Bichons Frisés. The remaining animals shared the third row with the Chinese Crested. Yale had no intention of including that one in his purdah state. A row too far. At the entrance, resting on a shooting stick, was a short, grey-haired but sturdy woman. He hoped he would be recognised. He looked over her head, easily enough as she was barely five feet when standing, but five feet of determination, to see if he could spot Janice Mulholland, in case he needed her to clear him on an identity parade. He needn’t have feared. Maybe the efficient Ms Mulholland had, herself, bought a camera from a stand, an instant one, and distributed a snap of him to her guardian ladies. Whatever, he was greeted by name.
“Inspector Yale! Come to inspect your constables have you?”
“I’m glad you recognise me. I don’t think I would break through your cordon otherwise.”
“My friends would soon rally round me if you tried to.”
“Scarcely need back-up, then, in case of attack.”
“Very kind of you to say so but, you know, I’m eighty-two next.” Yale took it that she meant her next birthday, and that it was time to change conversational line.
“No one tried to come or go other than the authorised owners?”
“Not a soul. Janice will confirm that. She’s in the ring at the moment with her Freddie. His first show at post graduate you know. Do you know? I shouldn’t assume a knowledge of dog shows.”
“You may. To that extent. Far from an expert, but I learned a lot from my father who was. Still is, though retired from showing.” That explanation sounded more comfortable than expounding on his parent’s disillusion with the business. “I’ll pop along for a moment, and see how she’s getting on. Help me get a feel of the day. The other end is efficiently blocked as this?”
“Most certainly. A panzer tank wouldn’t escape notice or get past.”
Yale didn’t suppose such a vehicle would pass anyone’s notice, should Mr Trott have allowed it floor space. As for getting past, that was another matter. Satisfied that things were as stable as they could be, partly through a desire to put off the interviewing and partly in the still-clung-to hope that a CID team would yet appear, he moved off to look in on the Bichon ring in action. As he passed Wiseton he told him of this decision, and walked swiftly on to where, in the neighbouring rings, Agnes Thorpe and Alan Jenkins were plying their craft.
Both were in full swing. Agnes had completed her examination of the seven post-graduate dogs, and was watching their final circling of the paddock. Jenkins, also with seven but a later starter and slower, being a little more thorough in his checking, still had dog six on the examination table. Yale saw that it was Janice Mulholland’s. ‘Bit of luck’ he thought to himself, and settled on a conveniently spare seat at the ringside from where, without too much of a lean forward, he could also see the ETT ring. Although his attention was on Freddie as he, duly freed from the hands of the judge, was being paraded up and down the ring, first the triangle then the return, as Jenkins followed the movement with great care, he noticed two men standing as closely as they could to Agnes Thorpe’s inspection table. The younger one, forty-ish, tall, either unshaven or with a designer stubble somewhat out of control, wore a bobble hat matching in colour his
designer-faded jeans. Indoors. A well-heated indoors. A fashion statement perhaps? The other, shorter, older man was well dressed. In Simon’s judgement, expensively so. Out of habit, he began to speculate. They were, clearly, together. Exchanging comments. He took them to be knowledgeable observers, reason enough for them to stand where they were, yet making an odd couple. He told himself to snap out of his former CID role, and returned his attention to the near ring. So what, if two different types shared a common interest? Nonetheless, he felt that the two were trying to influence the ETT judge by weight of presence. Probably fanciful! Almost certainly impossible. He returned his attention to Freddie.
The dog, to his eyes, moved very well, keeping his tail well over. So easy for a Bichon to let its tail droop on these vital occasions, and then no result! Satisfied, Janice was directed to rejoin the line by Jenkins as he turned his attention to the last of the seven, already placed up on the table by its comb-wielding owneress. Yale thought how easy it would be to commit the sort of murder he knew he was now investigating while at the ringside. All eyes were on the dog. Or the judge. Not paying attention to any person, however shifty, who might pull out a syringe and stick it into someone’s neck. He wondered, such was the atmosphere as the time for the judge’s decision neared, whether even the victim would notice such a prick. True, at the ringside cameras and videos were plentiful. They could provide information on such an attack whereas, in the confusion and congestion of arrival, there would be none. Even less attention paid at that crowded period by anyone to anyone else. A few shouted greetings across the moving heads, no doubt, but little else.
Yale dreaded the coming interviews even more as he mentally prepared for that task. He told himself that, being where he was, it was his duty to await the decision. He looked again across to the ETT ring. The dogs there had left and limit dogs, five or six so far as he could see, were arranging themselves in order before a stern looking Ms Thorpe. The two characters who had caught his eye were, if possible, even closer to her as she summoned the first one up onto the table. The Hall, being used for all Groups in one day, had made its rings as small as possible. As cramped as practical. Thus, the ETT examining table was very near the defining rope that marked out the ring. ‘Easy to lean over that with a syringe, too’ mused the policeman, before focusing on Jenkins for the vital few minutes that would bring joy and despair, in their quite unequal measures, to the owners. He felt the old thrill, from his boyhood, when he had tried to interpret, from the judge’s glances and demeanour, how his decision would go. ‘Would Dad win?’ The Inspector tried to resurrect his old skill of soothsaying Which would it be? Jenkins was taking a last look at the dogs as they, each adoringly, gazed up into their kneeling owners’ faces. Then, with a theatrical deliberation, he turned his back on the final line-up and paced to the side of the ring opposite them.
Turning, he moved his head rather than his eyes steadily from one end of the waiting pairs to the other and then back again. Taking a clearly-seen, and intended to be so seen, breath he stepped forward one step, two steps, three. Sufficient to make his selection-pointing gesture unmistakable. It was Janice. First! She rose from her one-knee-down posture with a long-practised grace, and tried to look both modest and triumphant as the marshal moved up to hand the certificates to the judge. The second, third and the reserve joined her. The others left the ring to the astonished gasps of their friends and the certain knowledge that the result was far from what it should have been. Yale felt an almost family pride. ‘Good on her. That’s her reward for coming to the aid of the Force. Well done.’ He joined in the scattered applause. The clapping was not solid. A few non-winners bravely tapped a finger or two together to show what good sports they were. The majority were too deep into their post-mortems to give two hoots leave alone two cheers. ‘Would-be killers all’ was the copper’s summary.
Among so many ‘would-be’ assassins lay his immediate job. To prove somebody was one. Someone right there. Someone, possibly, in all probability, he had already met or was looking at that very moment. One to whom he may have already spoken. He could not wipe the so-keen Corporal Wiseton from that list. Judging finished, he could no longer put off starting the formal conversations. Depressing, as this case was not his. Not his scene. The investigation was, although he still hesitated to say it to his professional self, becoming embarrassing. Akin to an amateur performance. He had no prejudice about amateurs. In their place. He had played for his rugby club, amateurs all. He had cheered them on from the touch line. He had been to a local rep performance of his beloved Oliver recently, hence the ease at which the tunes popped back into his mind reinforcing the film. But this was not the right situation for amateurs, in which category he part included himself. He had been promoted out of CID into Fraud he believed as much because he was not cut out for the former as much as his attributes suited the latter. Unlike politicians promoted upwards to get them out of the way! Yet, it was his policeman’s duty to do all he could. To act while there was still some hope of getting at the truth, access the immediate memory, trip someone up before they had time to polish the story or to further smudge the evidence.
He had to go into the interview fray, with fading memories of the correct procedure. Dealing with high-powered business men and their extremely savvy agents and lawyers was quite another scenario. To help him, he had a one-time army red cap, useful to interpret the dog world lingo, but not up to recording it. He must now get a secretary cum note taker. There should be one in the largely female ranks of the exhibitors. Also, like Brian, probably long retired, but willing to rally to the flag. To help find one, he advanced towards the triumphant Ms Mulholland. A few well-chosen words of congratulation would lead him easily into that request for further help. He had little doubt that if anyone knew a short cut to pinning down a willing and, oh please! able and accurate, scribe, it would be she. He stood by the exit as, certificate issued, record made and photograph taken, the said victor moved with an impossible-to-hide grinning grace, out of the ring, having duly thanked the good Mr Jenkins for his wisdom and skills of judgement. Yale drew a deep breath. Why? He had a simple, valid request to make of her. There was something in the occasion, in the majestic Janice of that moment, that put him in mind of his long-ago infant school teacher. Miss Morse had been small in stature, for sure, unlike the crowned head now striding towards him, but the aura was the same. He stood to near attention, worthy of the military Brian, and prepared to explain his predicament and his need. He sensed both would be viewed as weakness.
Chapter Eight
Saturday, 11.15am
Very well done!” Janice Mulholland gave the correct response in words and by sign. It was good of the Inspector to take the trouble. She was pleased, with the result if not entirely with her own performance. And that of Freddie. Room for improvement. Even so, good start. One down and four to go before the choice of Limit or Open had to be faced.
Someone hoping, planning, expecting of congratulations, on her display of dogs as well as for herself, was Anna Goldey. Buster, of course, always drew attention. It was hard for a Neapolitan Mastiff not to. This she expected. His size alone, leave alone those jowls and the deeply-lined face, always drew the eye of any passer-by. A champion, too, to attract the attention of those in the know. Today, however, was the culmination of a lot of hard work. Serious organising. Many phone calls. Meetings. Letters. All served with a lot of campaigning zeal on her behalf. Now, she had brought it off and it needed only the visit of the paying public to prove her case. To make all the effort worth while.
The idea of ‘Dogs from the Shows’, as a way of adding to the public attractions while, at the same time, raising funds for her favourite doggie charity, had come to her, if not in the bath, then certainly in a moment of relaxation. One needed to be relaxed, Anna knew from long experience, to have any truly good ideas. This was one. She was quite thrilled as she looked along the line of booths, each with a dog or two, proud owners, suitable material about the breed and the needs
of the Charity – contributions voluntary but who could resist the appeal in a dog’s eyes? – and, her master stroke, the posters. Real, genuine, honest-to-goodness large posters gathered, by the dint of much searching and not a little pleading, from the entertainment industry. It was going to be a roaring success, she was sure. As all good, simple plans deserved to be. So much for the few spiteful comments her project had aroused. That dreadful magazine article!
Lined up, along with her Buster (Harry Potter, of course) were a Jack Russell (Frasier), a Lassie or two,(naturally), the Dalmatian from 1001, the dogs from The Strangest Journey, and so on. There had been a problem with Toto. Not his film pedigree; that was impeccable. Dorothy’s loyal and lifesaving friend from Wizard of Oz won everyone’s hearts. A sure show-stopper. But what breed? ‘Nothing but a mutt’ she had been told, but Anna wanted an audience, thus one had to be found. Toto had to be there. So? She settled on an Australian Terrier as the nearest pedigree appropriate for her Buster’s company. A cross with a Cairn might have got nearer the hallowed picture, but not on her hallowed turf. Television dogs had to be included. The long-missed pug Little Willie from Eastenders, along with his successor Gumbo the St Bernard, were certs. She knew her market. Her husband, unavoidably elsewhere on this day of all days, had been unconstructive. ‘No one would enjoy being reminded’, he had said, ‘that Little Willie was the first dog to be put down on telly. Anna knew better. The punters wanted just that. Resurrected! Since when had a few tears not helped fill a collection box?
All set up, where were the punters? Rumours had reached her, Simon would have been upset to learn, of some serious upset in the ETT ranks. John Pugh had passed her on the way to the ring and had said Ambrose had been taken away, ill, and the police were in with the ambulance. None of that sounded good. Could be why her deserved audience was slow to flow in, though she couldn’t think why. Not really. She expected enthusiastic attendance. Deserved as reward for her hard work and self sacrifice, but also looked for to bolster the charity’s coffers. Both were deserving. Not enough people would realise that, in order to run today’s display, she had passed up the certainty – certainly a certainty – of yet one more First in the Working Group. Her concept was sure to be taken up by other shows once the word got round. Such success wouldn’t come about if its first outing was a flop. She peered down the Hall. There were people coming in but, for some reason, although it was early days yet and she didn’t want to rush things, they seemed to be turning away as though by order. As though not allowed to come on to admire members of the breeds they so loved and admired starring on the silver and the small screens. She decided to go out and find out what was happening. She did not like a mystery did Anna Goldey. Leaving her beloved Buster in carefully selected hands, she strode forth to solve same.
A Question of Pedigree Page 6
