“The team that, er, bumped into you, sir, was on its way to the scene.” Grant had to explain.
“Bit late. As likely to kill themselves as catch a killer. Tell me more.”
The Super recounted the saga of trying to provide a scene-of-crime team once more.
“Is there a team on the way now?” Grant, from the call made before entering the ACC’s presence, couldn’t avoid a direct answer.
“No, sir.”
There was a pause. The Chief Super needed to fill the gap.
“We are fortunate in having Inspector Yale on the scene. Almost as promptly as the police doctor. Not all is gloom. He’s an able officer. I know him well. He was under me in CID for four years or so. Good man. One who can think on his feet. As he seems to be doing.” He went on to tell the ACC of Yale’s Dad’s Army brigade of recruited marshals and volunteer infantry, and how he was trying to contain movement and ensure that no one who might possibly be involved got away. He described the value to the case of the four o’clock rule. That helped minimise movement and, importantly, kept people from leaving. In particular, he stressed, those occupying the benches surrounding where Graveney had been killed.
“You mean they are trapped in their, what did you call them? benches? They won’t like that. Yale’s a brave man.”
“True. There will be some resentment at not being able to wander freely. But not at the ruling itself. It’s part of their contract. Even so, I want to get reinforcements to the Hall pronto. Yale’s on his tod. Where the hell they’re going to come from I don’t know. My well is dry.”
“Not mine. Give me my mobile. On the chair there, under my coat. Yes, that’s the one. Give it here. It is about time we got something sensible happening. Too much hand wringing already.”
Grant feared that, in addition, there would be much teeth gnashing to come.
While the great wheels of power were being set into motion to relieve him, Inspector Simon Yale was plodding on through the task of taking statements. He had, he was pleased to note, an efficient aide in Anna Goldey. More than efficient, as she was well versed in all the jargon and the details of how these affairs were run. She had the programme of the day off in detail. Yale had got through five so far, each predictable. Indeed, he felt that he didn’t need Mrs Goldey’s script at all. She could just as well have used four carbon papers under the first. Not that twenty-first century Anna would have used carbon papers. She was, she would tell all the committees for which she worked, a paperless-office type. Here, her bits of paper were all that Yale had between some semblance of a police enquiry and complete disaster.
Five down including Madge Donnelly meant that, according to the book, there were still two puppy bitch owners to get through. Only one was there, according to his roll call. The policeman was worried. Had one got away? Anna consoled him.
“Quite likely just hasn’t turned up. Not uncommon. People enter with all good intentions, but once they see who the judge is, decide that the game isn’t worth the candle. You’d get a better opinion from Brian Wiseton than me, but even I know that there is some controversy about Agnes Thorpe. Ask him. He’d know. I’ve come across her before myself. Not an easy person. Knows her dogs, mind.”
“I didn’t know you were into ETTs.”
“Oh no! Too small for me. You’d be surprised how nasty some little dogs can be. No. I’m into the big boys. The ones you can trust. Gentle giants, the Mastiffs. Not happy with terriers, however small. Snappy things. I love them, of course. All dogs. But there are dogs and there are dogs. Come along to my stand after this and I’ll show you what I mean.”
Yale had picked up a few vibes already of edginess surrounding the relationship of the ETT owners and Agnes Thorpe. Most of this he put down to human nature. If you won, the judge was all wisdom; if not, biased or part-blind. It happened in football; it needed hawk eye in tennis. Even so, someone was missing! How to confirm Anna’s theory? He couldn’t spare her as a messenger. He was saved. Brian re-appeared.
“I’ve not deserted my post, sir,” he was quick to explain. Yale wondered if he expected some sort of court martial had he done so. “All going steadily along. A bit slow, but in hand. No one is going to leave that ring before the judging’s complete, and I made clear to them all, and to the judge, that once that happened, they all had to come back here. Direct.”
Simon looked a little concerned. His Corporal went on.
“Picked up something that may be of interest. Thought it best to let you know as soon as I could. May be nothing, but you can never tell. That’s what my old Sergeant used to teach us. ‘Pick up the gossip, lads. Dig the dirt. Let them as what’s in charge sort out what is from what isn’t. We’re not Special Branch’, he used to add, ‘we’re just the sweaty foot soldiers. Dig the dirt and slap ‘em in the jug.’ A simple man Sergeant Hunter, but it worked.”
‘In those days, maybe’ mused Yale silently, not wanting to discourage his acolyte. He looked at Wiseton with a quizzical but, he hoped, encouraging expression.
“So?”
“So, sir, I hear that there may be some trouble. More than an everyday upset, if you know what I mean. Brewing in the ETTs today. I have picked up vibes”. He echoed Yale’s own line of just a few moments earlier. “Something more than just the usual jealousies.”
“Yes?” Brian had dried up as though afraid of being overheard. Jogged, he continued in a conspiratorial manner.
“There’s a bottle of champagne tucked away in a bench, I’m told. Hidden. I’ve not seen it. I bet it’s true, though. A bottle. See what I mean?” Yale didn’t. He renewed his look.
“Someone’s ready to celebrate.”
Yale paused. Then: “Why not? One can plan for the best can’t one?”
“Not that blatantly. Not in my experience.”
“Nor in mine,” Anna chimed in. “Bit of a cheek.”
“More of a risk if disappointed, surely, from all I know about the uncertainties of judging”, said Yale, “but, again, why not? It can be used to drown sorrows. Or, maybe, it’s someone’s birthday. I don’t see what’s so surprising. “Wiseton and Anna Goldey exchanged looks.
“Is there a card as well?” she asked.
Brian grinned. “All ready for the right gang to sign. At the ringside. From what I gather.”
Both turned to Simon with a ‘there-you-are-then’ face. The copper was not sure how to proceed. As on previous incidents in his CID days, he played for time.
“Yes. Well. Noted. Any particular name? Or names? Who is it I should speak to next?”
“Not Agnes Thorpe,” was Brian’s reply. “Have a word with the Bichon judge, Alan Jenkins. That’s what I reckon. He’s the one who gave me the wink. Known Alan a long time.”
To move on from what, he fancied, was no more than the sort of gossip that Brian’s erstwhile sergeant would have insisted was the root of all evidence, Yale asked Brian about the missing name from the seven the programme showed entered for the puppy bitch. The ex-Corporal asked for his programme, studied it, and then gave a searching look up the run of benches.
“Oh, that’s Jim Treasure. Not here. No surprise. Not with the dreaded Thorpe as judge. He ran into her when she was judging his spaniel at Blackpool. Wide range, Jim. There were words. No more than that. Anyway, if he was here the only one he would want to kill would be Agnes. No mystery. Only six, now, in that class.”
“Right. I must get on and finish this last interview so they’re free to go to the ring. Still leaves the completed classes along with the Bichon benches backing these. Will I still have time to catch Jenkins?”
Before there was time for an answer, a head appeared, as it had so helpfully earlier, over the barricade. The triumphant Janice.
“Inspector! May I have a word?”
If there was one phrase that Simon Yale dreaded hearing it was that one. ‘May I have a word?’ It was never, ever, good news. Always a grumble or a downright bollocking. One or the other. As he didn’t see any cause for the second,
he braced himself for the former. He was not far wrong. Janice Mulholland strode around the corner, past the seated marshal. Yale had noted earlier that Manager Trott, well clued up after many a man-management course, had delivered seats for his nobly-provided guards. Was Janice about to demand equal rights for her girls? Had she heard Brian being told, when Trott had brought them along: ‘It’s a good thing for them to be able to take the weight off their legs. Must think of the employees you know. First rule of good management. Also, by sitting astride the end of the line of benches, they more effectively block the entrance’. When told of this, Yale had expressed agreement and admiration. She may have heard. He wondered if, as a result, the dominant lady now advancing towards him was about to berate him for not making a similar provision for her volunteer ladies. Yale hoped not. He didn’t want to go back up to Trott’s office begging a couple of canvas backed chairs. If he didn’t, would he be told that there was a stall, complete with its number, selling just such things. Would such a purchase be allowed against necessary expenses? Anyway, didn’t they have their own?
Janice arrived.
“Just a word, Inspector. A sort of problem.”
Simon looked concerned. As he was. For his own peace of mind.
“If I can help,” he murmured.
“It’s the time, you see. Passing. Most of us have been here since seven o’clock or thereabouts. It’s getting a bit oppressive, stuck in our benches. Also, more importantly, some of us are not as young as we used to be. The demand for loos is becoming pressing. Are you going to be much longer getting around to us?”
At his present rate of progress, Yale thought whatever time he took would be too long. He could see no way of containing his ladies, any more than some of them, if he was not careful, would be able to contain themselves. He quickly cogitated. They had been chatting among themselves all morning as it was. Little to be lost if they now ventured abroad. And yet? He made a decision.
“Of course. Please apologise on my behalf for any unintended difficulty I may have caused. They are as free to move to the toilets as they are to the ring. Can you, however, please, ask them to keep to their own company and not mix freely with others until I have taken their statements. I shall be as quick as I can. Stress how much, how very much, I appreciate and value their support.”
Mollified, Janice marched back with the news of the relief of Ladyloo. With an inward sigh at the impossibility of it all, Simon returned to his immediate task of completing the interview with the remaining puppy owner. He had taken long enough already and, so far, had produced nothing worthwhile. Some had seen Graveney arrive, others had not. None had spoken to him. Few had seen him apparently snoozing. Those who had seen him dozing had been surprised enough to remember. No one slumped or sagged at that early hour. All was go. In practice, no one would have had eyes for him or anyone else. Such surveillance would come later. Simon was preparing to try again when the tall figure of the poorly shaven, woolly-hat-wearing figure he had seen at the ETT ringside came up.
“Must have a fag,” it announced. “Fiat lux and all that. Been in here since seven” – who hadn’t! – “and need a shot before the great moment. Need to go outside for a gasper. Any objections? I can fill in your form or whatever it is you want of us when I come back refreshed. I’ll be able to do it all the better, too, believe me.”
Simon was as unimpressed as he had been with his first sighting of the man. He used a phrase that he did like. It always sounded so good, so confident, so in-charge when uttered by modern, with-it coppers on the small screen.
“And you are?”
Chapter Ten
Saturday, High Noon
Outside for a fag! Whether dressed up with dog Latin or not, the man’s request was preposterous. Preposterous! That was what Yale wanted to say. He bit it back. Wouldn’t do. Wouldn’t do at all. ‘Get a grip, now’ he counselled himself. In its way the request was reasonable. This was the man he had seen studying form at Agnes Thorpe’s ring. A man Yale had yet to interview. Would very soon be doing so. To be fair, as the man had no puppy bitch, there was no reason why he shouldn’t be allowed this concession. The strain was common. Competitors, the ETT ones especially, would be feeling it personally. Simon paused, in that instant before he did reply, to tell himself that these ETT people made a small group. All acquaintances, many friends, of a man now dead. Someone they had arrived with that morning and expected to go home with that afternoon. There must be shock. Time for self-control! Keep hold of one’s tether.
“Fine. In the dog exercise yard only, please.” Yale knew that the yard door was supervised and all using it had to show their exhibitor ticket in and out. “Then, back here if you will. I’ll need your statement.”
“Fine. Will be all the clearer in the head for a smoke. Terrible addict. Don’t tell the doctor.” The fuzzy-chinned one went off, searching in his pocket for his packet and his lighter.
Strain was telling elsewhere.
The Assistant Chief Constable was near apoplexy. His mobile calls had done nothing to soothe him. The monitors he was wired to were, Grant feared, about to register off the scale. This worried the Chief Super. A passing nurse, noting such readings would be ringing alarm bells or pressing some of the bank of chrome buttons that bedecked the columns of majestic equipment, to change the course of events. As it was, the nurses were busy at their station, looking hard at files, on their computers that is. Paper files were outdated as being unhygienic. Also exchanging important medical information the one with the other. Arriving visitors wanting information had to await the outcome of these deliberations. Two tie-less, non-stethoscope-wearing doctors, freed of the germ-laden white coats of the old days, sloped up in their short-sleeved shirts. Radiating relaxed confidence, they took up positions at the counter. Seeing them, one visitor dared a query as to where her beloved might be. It was made clear, by looks alone, that direction giving was not part of their portfolio. A nurse would be free soon. They were those, a graceful phrase explained, deserving of awe-filled respect.
Viewing the scene, Grant deduced that doctors were better at asking than answering. Not unlike the police. Yet ask he now had to. He stepped up, and imposed himself upon the still life group around the main desk.
“I fear my colleague is unwell,” was his way of putting it. He was relieved that one of the nurses, sensing his concern, left file, screen, chat and doctor for the adjacent side room.
“You were right to call me,” she said as Grant followed her in. “What has happened? Have you given him bad news?”
Grant waved towards the bedside table.
“Not me. He made some phone calls. This is the result.” The result of the two of them entering was to bring the ACC to a sitting position.
“My clothes!” he demanded, “Damn it all, my clothes! Ludicrous! Absolutely bloody ludicrous! Just wait till I get there, I’ll show them.” His explosion was firmly interrupted by the efficient and strong arms of the nurse. Also her strong and efficient voice.
“We,” she declared, “are going nowhere. Back. Lie back. You are sicker than you realise. That was not a glancing blow you received. We are going to X-ray your head very very soon. Until then, you lie back. You are going nowhere”, she repeated. “We will be taking you for examination the moment a trolley arrives.”
Grant saw his senior, verbally stunned, fall back onto his pillow. The fiery image of a moment ago subsided. The despair in his face at the sheer incompetence of the whole world around him showing in the deepening creases that formed on his brow. The nurse was alarmed.
“Phone calls you say?”
Grant did not want to tell her of the explosions of frustration that had hit the patient following ‘police enquiries.’ It was not his task to explain, nor her business, to know, how a top man can be affected when his requirements, his demands, his orders run into a blank wall. The haggard face re-opened, the straining eyes fixed upon Grant’s face. It began to speak. It was too much. The mouth couldn’t pronounce anything
.
“Lie back! No talking. You are weaker than you realise.”
The face stared again straight into the eyes of the Chief Superintendent. It spoke. More quietly than might have been expected but audible. A very, very clear and simple message.
“Get yourself down there. Fix it. No other bugger’s going to.” Energy exhausted, the figure sank back onto the pillow.
Hurried out of the ward by the now engaged nurse, who called for another to join her, Grant threw a last look at his beleaguered chief, could do no more than wish him well, silently, and then do as he was told. Luckily, Lawrence was still at HQ. Nursing his broken leg – a charity parachute jump accident, not the result of some brave frustrating of a criminal endeavour. He could cope with the nothingness that was likely to be going on there for some time. If the ACC could get no response to his cries, what hope he? To the Show he would go. He hoped that Simon Yale would be pleased to see him. What a procession of mini-disasters! Nothing worse could happen surely? Certainly not down there at the dog-face. Having something constructive, as he was sure it would be, to do, put the policeman into a paradoxically near-cheerful mood. ‘Action this day’ was one of his treasured memories of another War’s reading. Good thing, action. This was something he was trained for. He, in person, would provide the promised CID flying squad.
Grant stepped out into the corridor with a near messianic resolve. Here was something positive. The lift door was open. It was empty. He went in – he had walked up, as the ACC would have expected – and pressed the button marked with a purple G. All others were colour coded green. He wondered about the significance, as of habit. It was that habit, along with the others of a long-time CID man, that he now needed to rely on. The lift, smoothly, sighed to a stop. He exited with difficulty, almost pushed back in by a rush of people entering, seemingly oblivious of his majestic frame. He mumbled the usual silly apology – as if it as his fault! – turned left, and strode off with constabulary purpose toward where he had parked his car. Paying for the privilege. Not as in Wales, or was it Scotland, where hospital parking was now free? He would put in a claim form. He wondered again at the splendour of the concourse that was part of this mammoth new hospital. A little surprised not to see the main newsagent he had observed on his way in (were his powers of observation beginning to let him down?) he did smile at the adverts across the front of a confectioner. Chocolate? Was that altogether wise, in a hospital? For the visitors he supposed. One way of ensuring future trade perhaps. Flowers, yes, but chocolates? So musing he walked out into the car park.
A Question of Pedigree Page 8
