Yale, congratulations done, had got his request across to Janice. She saw the point but also the snag.
“Might be some resistance, you know?”
“To helping the police?”
“Put that way it sounds bad. There will be some hesitation though, believe me, to volunteering to record evidence from fellow members. Apart from any fear of come-backs, reprisals, or flat refusals to speak in front of a colleague or friend, what if the notes are questioned? Recanted. Declared wrong? As they will be, I am certain, if this thing comes to court. Then again, there will be the going to court thing itself. I’m not at all sure that I would want to risk being tied up for days and days as well as, who knows, being torn to bits by a defence lawyer. All in all, offering to be your secretary could turn out to be tricky, to say the least. If I feel that way on my own behalf, I can’t really go around asking anyone else to do it, especially if it means catching them off guard or before they have time to think through the consequences for themselves. Can you see? I have had a little experience, don’t ask me what, of a court case. I don’t really want to volunteer for another.”
Yale had to admit the logic and the sense of this argument. One he had not foreseen as he had begun to be carried ever more into his fantasy land of ‘make do and mend’. Of course! She was right. He pondered briefly then, feeling that he had to make some sort of move, tried another tack.
“You’ve got me there. Yet I must get a move on. The situation demands it. Time is passing and the trail, such as it is, is not so much getting cold as fast disappearing altogether. Look”, and here he chanced his arm, “if someone will take what in effect will be my notes then, in any court, I can swear that they are just that. Dictated to a scribe. More, I shall, in front of witnesses, before we leave here, sign them off as my own. Under such an arrangement, I don’t think that said scribe will be required to make a statement. At the most, he or she would be called on for no more than confirmation of these conditions.” He wondered how right he was.
To his relief, Janice seemed to buy it. He desperately hoped so. Chaotic conditions or not, his clear duty was to press on as best he could until relieved by the arrival of the CID team.
What did arrive was a steaming Anna Goldey. Just what he needed at that juncture.
“Are you in charge?” Simon Yale wished that he was. Yet had to answer, in the policeman’s traditionally calm and unemotional manner:
“Yes. I am.”
“Your praetorian guards pointed me in your direction. I thought for a moment I might have to fill a form in triplicate and have my, dabs is it you call them?, taken to be allowed into your presence.”
“They should have called me to you, rather than let you through.”
“They were uncertain. So am I. Uncertain as to why you are turning away people who want to visit the stars.”
This had Yale flummoxed. He was informed, not for the first time, by Janice who greeted Anna as a fellow-competitor of many a year.”
“So you’re set up! Good. I must come across. Great idea. Wish I had thought of it. Though of course, if I had, I wouldn’t have been able to start Freddie on his pilgrimage to the Limit. Good on you.”
Both women smiled in common understanding, and Janice went on to tell the Inspector of the wonderful side show Mrs Goldey had organised. Anna was not too happy at that description, but allowed that the rings were the top priority – for the dog owners if not, necessarily, the public. Yale got the message. He assured her that any redirection was no more than a misunderstanding. He would clear any confusion up at once. People were free to pass the benches and go on to see her display. Mollified, Anna was about to turn away when Janice broke in.
“Hang on, old thing. Wait a moment. Want to speed things? Get this barricade, as it were, cleared away as soon as poss?” Anna had only to look to give her answer.
“Well then! You were a crack PA in your time,” Anna was happy with that description. “Could give the Inspector here a leg up by acting as his amanuensis? No more than that. He’ll underwrite all that you record. You are very good at that sort of thing. It’s only to get him started until the police team arrives. Then you’ll be free to concentrate on your work, and the marshals who you say are causing problems for you will no longer be needed.”
Listening to this, Yale was not altogether sure that Janice’s description was exactly accurate. However, needs must, and his Catholic friends had often described to him the philosophy of the ‘greater good’. If she would do it, then who was he to argue. Only had to find a pen, and paper of a sufficient calibre to match her apparent superior skills. This had to wait upon her reply. Janice put in an encourager.
“Buster will be safe, surely, and you won’t really be essential, now that all the real work is done, until the TV crew comes. You’ll be done long before then. If they come early, the Inspector will release you. Surely?”
The question was aimed at Simon who was only too happy to smile an assurance. Anything to get this bloody business started, in hand, off the ground. His mind was being battered by too many eddies, of the unusual, to think as clearly and as succinctly as he would normally have done. Such uncertainty wouldn’t get him far in Fraud! He felt a mental and a physical pressure as the heat in the Hall increased with the increase of the crowd. He turned to Anna.
“Bit of a cheek, but truly it would be a great help. A fine service. One that will be much appreciated.” Anna had long felt that her MBE for services to the canine world was overdue. Maybe a grateful police ‘authority’ would put in the decisive word necessary to clinch the matter. She was decisive.
“Right ho! Bit of a lark, even if I’m not quite sure what it is that is going on and what you are doing anyway.”
Yale bit back his embarrassment. Of course she wouldn’t know. He rapidly made amends. Anna noted that John had been near enough to the truth. Having implied the Official Secrets Act, Simon told her of the suspicious death that he was, unexpectedly, investigating. He explained about the unfortunate and, he hoped, soon-to-be resolved absence of the CID team, and how it was that it had thus fallen to him to take over. He guessed that Anna Goldey would not be averse to hearing at first hand, and recording, the statements of the dog owners that he was about to start quizzing.
“Right! My goodness! Quite a departure for little old me. Just give me time to tell my team where I am, pick up my notebook and pen,” ‘Glory be!’ sighed the harassed copper inwardly, “and I’ll be back.”
She strode off as purposefully as she had arrived. Yale went to summon Brian and to advise the guardians of the lanes to encourage folk to move on to the Dogs from Shows stands.
Good as her word, Anna was soon back and suitably armed for her part in the fray. While waiting, Simon caught up with Brian Wiseton and sent him ahead into the ETT row to warn them of his approach and his purpose. Some were in the ring. That had to be managed. By now, Ms Thorpe was on to the Open dog. That meant, according to the programme, there were three away from their benches, along with the winners of the earlier classes awaiting the best dog round. Telling Brian, a little to that good man’s disappointment, that while he and Anna made a start, he was to join those in the ring and direct them straight back once completed. Yale, with his Fraud mind now functioning more constructively, checked the programme Brian had given him. He hadn’t found time to get his own. He decided to start with those entering puppy bitch, a class yet to start. He knew there was a risk in this. It might be wiser to begin interviewing those already completed. That way, he wouldn’t risk holding up proceedings in the ring. Yet those still in their benches hadn’t had opportunity to talk to others while away from them. Although this might be of little consequence in the mêlée of comings and goings, it was one cautionary step that he could take. He had in mind the two men standing close to the judge’s table seeming to observe Ms Thorpe. Such as could be agents of dissemination and gossip. He told Brian, when over there, to tell Agnes Thorpe that there might be a short delay before the puppy bitches
appeared. He hoped this would not cause too much of a problem. Chances were all would be well. There were seven, and shouldn’t take him too long.
Brian departed on his mission, Yale told Anna the sort of approach he was going to take, the accuracy of record he hoped she could manage, and set off with her to begin at the far end of the benches from where Ambrose had died.
“Quite all right. My shorthand is not all that rusty. And where I can’t recall fast enough I’ll just make it up.” Yale involuntarily pulled a face. Anna continued:
“Just joking. I’ll use shorthand if I have to, but I’ll try and take as much as I can in full. Then I’ll decipher before you sign my efforts off.”
Yale had to go with that. He began with Madge Donnelly. She was the one that Brian had seen chatting to Susan Goodlife when he had arrived, before Ambrose Graveney had come in, down at the other end.
“If”, he had said to Simon. “I could see them then, when the row was pretty clear before everyone arrived, then they could see me. And, more importantly, Ambrose, when he hove to.” This provided a start point to the questioning.
Madge was one of those listed for puppy bitch. That suited well. He went up to her, sitting, as most not in the ring now were, alongside her dog. Some had the picnic chairs that Mr Trott felt signalled their pleasure at waiting around until 4 p.m. She was in the bench itself with her young charge cradled on her knees.
“We are all a bit fed up, you know, Inspector. Normally, we are either looking at what’s going on in the rings or wandering about a bit. This is rather like a long detention at school. Some are getting quite worked up about it. I think it’s only fair to warn you. Quite fed up. You might find a few of them less than co-operative.”
“A risk I must take. It has been difficult, but things have had to be arranged. Anyway, the faster I can take statements the quicker we’ll all be free to move at will.” He didn’t dare suggest that when CID arrived they would want to start the whole process over again. That would be depressing and unconstructive.
“When you arrived, what time would that have been?”
“Seven, I suppose. Thereabouts. I was one of the first in when the doors opened. So much the best thing to do I always feel. Getting in first, I mean. Nearer parking, and you can grab a good spot to set up your grooming table. More important for long-haired dogs I know, but we all have our standards.”
“I’m sure you have. You don’t mind Mrs Goldey here taking notes for me do you? Just as an aide-memoire. I could forget things otherwise. Seven o’clock, you say. How many were here then?”
“Not many. Not in these benches. Not anywhere really. As I said, I like to be in first if I can. The doors opened a few minutes before seven. Not by much but, yes, I suppose I can say that I was here as near seven as makes no difference.”
“Who was next. Into this row?”
“Hard to say. I was busy with my unpacking and so on, you see. I saw Brian quite early. He was behind me on the way in but got caught up in some small delay. Someone’s trolley jammed the way or something and there was a bit of a kerfuffle. I was just ahead of it. He was soon after me though, so there couldn’t have been much of a hold up. I saw Brian, and then Susan booked in. I saw her dump her trolley up the top there”, she pointed up the row to where Brian and Ambrose had been placed. “She gave a wave and came down for a quick chat before getting on with things herself.”
“Did you see Ambrose Graveney?”
Madge paused in her confident flow of recall. “I’m not sure that I did. Could have. On the way in I did. In the car park, and then coming along I was, as I say, just ahead of him. I saw Brian too,” she repeated, “but I was anxious to get started. I was glad that Susan came down, of course, but she isn’t exactly the smallest of ladies. I’m sure you know what I mean. We can’t hide it, can we? As I say, she came down but, of course, I couldn’t see much past her. Behind her, as it were. Ambrose could well have followed me in. I don’t know. He might have been caught in the pile up. When Susan moved a bit to the side, not that you have much of a side to move in to but others were beginning to pile in and she had to get out of their way, well, at that point Brian gave me a wave. Yes, I’m sure that’s it, that’s how it was. That’s the time I saw Ambrose inside the Hall.”
“So what would the time be by then?”
“No more than ten minutes past, I’d say. Are you going to pull that time trick on me now, Inspector?” Yale didn’t get her point. Madge was happy to expand.
“I’ve seen in plays and films and things. You know. The one where Perry Mason or someone clever like that asks ‘How long?’ and the witness says something like ‘a couple of minutes’ and then Perry says ‘all right, then. Just think back, recall the scene, and when you think a full minute has passed tell me what you saw’. And, you know Inspector, of course you must know, the witness after about twenty seconds says ‘that was it’ and his evidence is scuppered. Are you going to try that on me?”
Yale didn’t want to try anything on the voluble witness before him. He just wished that every two minutes he was in this blithering situation would turn into twenty seconds then he could be away. He breathed deeply, gathered himself for the task, took a fruitless look up the row to see if the CID team had arrived, thought about ringing Trott to ask if he had any message from the Super, then, giving up on the chances of such succour, bravely and with resigned dedication, turned to the time-taking task on which he was at last, unavoidably, launched.
Chapter Nine
Saturday, 11.41am
It was exactly forty-one minutes past on Chief Superintendent Grant’s infallible mobile. He had long since given up wearing a watch. ‘If you want to know the time, check a mobile’. Simon would have agreed. His duty visit to the car-damaged foot soldiers complete he, in a mood at one with a tommy in the trenches, geared himself up for the inevitable, the parade in the Assistant Chief Constable’s boudoir. He engineered another moment or two of delay, to check back with base on the progress of providing the scene-of-crime team for the Hall. The negative reply did not ease his foreboding as, with no further excuse available, he set out for the single ward.
Grant supposed, First World War buff that he was, that even facing going over the top, no individual soldier – for all, surely, felt in themselves that they would survive, such is the human condition – was any more apprehensive than himself. He did not say to himself ‘scared’. That would be silly, but nonetheless, apprehensive. The ACC was, on the whole, a fair man. An affable man. Easy to chat to. On social occasions. This, hospital visit or not, was no social occasion. The first glimpse of his Chief confirmed this image. There lay the wounded victim of fate, cleanly bandaged and suitably propped up in the bed as though ready for a police promotional photo-op. Quite glamorous one might have said. A beautifully choreographed bandanna of bandages swathed his serene brow. Turban-like, it gave an aura of oriental contemplation. The aspect was marred by the look in the eyes. The ACC did not, it was only too evident, feel either glamorous or contemplative.
“You took your time, Grant. Been doing something to solve this mess?”
“Visiting the chaps first, sir. Thought it only right.” Grant was sure that was in accordance with the best army tradition of horses first, then the men, and lastly the officers. He had not been to the car compound to view the mangled vehicles. He did not equate metal with horse flesh. He awaited the onslaught.
“Very well. Get to the point. And?”
“Both will survive, sir.” Grant tried to make his tone light.
“More than they bloody deserve! Mad oiks! Driving like that. Where in the name of blazes did they think they were going?”
Grant thought it better not to try and answer that. He had only one concern, and that was where his career was going. He began a report of where all the policemen had gone. Where the officers were, other than the two in the nearby ward. The ACC was professional enough both to let him complete his saga of London demos, street chaos and so on, and human enough to
fasten onto the main human interest case.
“What news of this missing child? Boy? Girl?”
“Girl, sir. Seven years old. Sent to the shop to get the morning paper. Often did. At that age when they want to help. To help grandpa, in her case. Parents gone to work. Kid was fortunate – sorry, maybe the wrong word, but you’ll get the point – to have both her mother’s parents to look after her.”
“As well as to have both a father and a mother at home”. The ACC was quick to the use of ‘parents’, plural. The police, he was wont to declaim, were becoming little more than a branch of Social Welfare. He fastened next onto the immediate task that faced them, the search for the child being properly in hand.
“Now we have a murder, and no one to solve it. Great publicity for the force!”
A Question of Pedigree Page 7
