“Doubt if he’s anywhere near that. Didn’t come across old Graveney yourself, I suppose? Much.” He left the last word hang in the air. Adding: “He was a pure ETT man, of course. Through and through.”
“Dog-wise, yes,” was that lady’s reply. “But he had his fingers in a few other doggie world pies all the same. Fingers that were joined to what people like to call a safe pair of hands. A contributor to Dogs Talk for a start.”
That surprised Wiseton.
“Didn’t know that? Must say. Don’t often see the mag.”
“If you had, you mightn’t have spotted what he wrote. Used a nom de plume and made sure that the editor respected it. Wrote under a series of aliases; some were unkind enough to say that he did so to shield himself from violent backlash. His pointed pieces cut sharp more than once.”
Wiseton clicked.
“Oh! That column. Heard about it more than once. One reason the mag didn’t attract me as a regular. Seen his name mentioned, though.”
“Might well have,” was the lady’s reply. “Treasurer of our main Charity, south region, as well as a sort of travelling inspector of kennels for them for some time. Not for a year or two since, but I know that he was punctilious. When new people wanted to join in, the Charity or one of our clubs, if he was in any way involved, he had a good look round first before making any membership recommendations.”
“Would have made a few enemies one way or the other then, I wouldn’t wonder. From all I know of him, he wouldn’t pull his punches if he thought someone was breaking the rules. Soon say so. He was that sort of chap.”
“We should tell the Inspector this when he comes back.”
“He’ll have guessed some of it by now, I’m sure. Even so, if Ambrose was murdered right here, then the killer must be right here too. Don’t like to think of that.”
“Superintendent Grant would. Like to strike while the iron’s hot, I bet. Best way, if it can be done. Get his own winner’s certificate if he could bring that off. Unlikely though. Yet, as you say, the killer must be here. Or was here. Could be anyone upset, or worse, by something Ambrose wrote. Fat chance the police can find out which one by our off-time of four o’clock. Too many to choose from!”
“If we get away by four. In the films, inspecting officers are always telling people, usually important ones, that they have to stay where they are.” This bothered Janice.
“Oh dear! I hadn’t thought of that. But he couldn’t. Could he? I mean we all have plans. I’ve got to get to my next camp. I told them I hoped to make it by six. Site wardens can be unhelpful at times. ‘Office closes at six’ they told me. ‘You can use the visitors’ car park if you arrive after that’ they said. Not usually convenient. Often cramped, and awkward for the dogs. Especially first thing in the morning. I do hope there is no talk of delaying our leaving. It might suit Anna, I suppose. She has to keep her Dogs of the Shows thing going until the public are booted out. I don’t want still to be here then.”
Wiseton could only agree. He looked up at the balcony, and could see that the two policemen were talking together, sitting at a table up against the balustrade. He wondered what they were saying. He wondered what, if anything, he could tell them of Janice’s suggestion. He wondered, also, on what excuse he could break in on their conversation, to speed things up. For all he knew they would sit up there until the full CID team came. That could be a while yet if the goings on so far were any guide. That arrival, and the need to start all over again, would put the kibosh on Janice’s exit plans. Not to mention his. Still, now dogless, he was enjoying his involvement too much to wish it a speedy end. As the Inspector’s right hand man, he would have to remain.
When Yale joined his boss, he was looking, moodily, at two pint plastic beer glasses. He would have preferred a handled tankard, but such were not provided in places like this. Simon was happier. They were welcomingly full.
“Cheer up, sir. And cheers!” Grant nodded a response.
“Cheers! May as well salute what we can. Welcome to the incident room.”
Yale smiled at that.
“I did suggest to Trott earlier that there might be a need for one. Didn’t rush to provide anywhere. Didn’t suggest here, either.”
“Better off here?” was the sober reply. “At least we can have a beer.”
“True. Cheers again.”
“I was wistfully imagining,” Grant continued, “all those murder scenes that they serve up on the telly. Do you know, I don’t think I’ve seen one other than where the investigating officer arrives to find a cordoned-off scene, people in white suits and gloves probing all over the place, cameras recording every detail, a pathologist on his or her knees by the body ready to give a first assessment, nearly always within spitting distance of spot on, and at least one weeping witness ready to tell all.”
“In real life, too, sir. Does happen. Not always like this,” said Yale, taking a refreshing further pull at his pint while struggling to open the plastic triangle that guarded the sandwiches Grant had also bought. “Yet, for sure, not today.” He went on to give his report as best he could between his sups and his bites, against a background of murmuring, moving crowds. He ended his tale.
“As you can tell, I’ve not got much in the way of hard facts for my morning’s refresher CID course.”
Grant acknowledged the barb. He had paid for the beers, however, so was in the driving seat, rank apart. He took another sup from his plastic mug. Though not his choice of drinking vessel, what was this sacrifice compared with that of his junior? His own day was beginning to take on an almost jolly appearance as the Inspector waded on through the details of his morn. He nodded encouragingly. Simon summed up.
“So. There you have it. Not much, as I say. So far as hard facts go, they are few enough. Everybody saw, in essence, nothing. They were all too preoccupied with what they were doing to bother about anyone else. Even the friends of Graveney scarce spared him a glance, either on the way in or in that first half hour or so.”
“Everyone except the murderer. I take it that you consider the killer to be among them. And still here?”
“Among them, unavoidably. Still here? Probably. Yes, probably. This is, as it were, an inside job. Lots of passions, rumours and pressures around the whole setup”, and he told the Chief the tales of hidden champagne and at-the-ready congratulations card. “Such stories of fixed results, of nobbled dogs, of bribed judges, of unfair fancies and fiddled adjudications abound.”
Grant went to the heart of the thing as he was beginning to see it.
“So, if an inside job, then why? To stop a whistle blower? To avoid an exposed scandal? To ensure a fixed outcome?”
“Looks like something along one of those lines. Not so sure I couldn’t have told you that before I even entered the Hall this morning. It wouldn’t surprise me if Mr Trott considers the killing as no more than a plot to embarrass him; an attack on his position of impregnable ability.”
“I’ll put that interesting theory aside for the nonce.”
Grant took a new approach.
“Not your line any more, you say, Simon. Very ex-CID. I can understand that. I had no idea when I rang you this morning what I was letting you in for. The fates took over. If it’s an inside job, then look at it from your new standpoint. What principles would Fraud apply looking into this case?”
“This case? An unlikely prospect.”
“Is it now?” Yale had to laugh.
“Very well. What principles would I apply if this was a Fraud Squad investigation? The first, always, is to look for allegations of dishonesty.”
“You’ve got those, you tell me.”
“Part of the scene. Dishonesty. To that I would add false representation.”
“You score on that, too.”
Simon pressed on.
“Next, you expect a failure to disclose information”, Grant breathed his agreement, “and an abuse of position”
“As in a bent judge.”
“True.
”
“So then, review this case as a fraud investigation. See where it gets you.”
Yale paused. “A poisoned file is something different to a poisoned body.”
“Why? In principle, I mean. Look upon the victim as a walking, talking filing cabinet. One that held knowledge others would kill to keep hidden. Review all your interview notes – and they are rather well presented aren’t they; I was pleased to meet the good lady and thank her myself – in the light of a fraud. Then see what they turn up.”
What did turn up was Brian Wiseton.
“May I join the O group sirs? I have something that might interest you.”
Chapter Twelve
Saturday, 1.32pm
Grant sighed. He consulted his mobile.
“These dammed efficient NCOs. He’s right though, Simon, we’ve had near enough a whole half an hour to ourselves. On with the case.”
“Not a half hour wasted, sir.”
“I trust not, but we’ve a killer to find. That’s what you’ve come to tell, is it Wiseton? Duty calls?”
887 slid on to the bench seat alongside Simon. His place was not in the rank opposite.
“Not quite. Not my place, I’m sure.” He near smirked. Sergeant Hunter would have agreed with the implicit lie. “Thought you’d like to know soonest something I’ve picked up. Some talk which could give a clue as to why poor old Ambrose was killed. A motive, if you will.”
He had the attention of the two policemen. They waited. The messenger did not need their encouragement to bring forth his news. Wiseton told them of his conversation with Janice Mulholland.
“So you see, from what I know of him myself, and from what I’ve been told, it fits in with his character. Could be pretty sharpish in his views. If he thought something wasn’t right. I never heard him talk like that, mind. Always quiet and correct whenever we chatted at shows. Then, I never crossed him. Janice, as I say, told me he didn’t write under his own name. Seems to me there’s a motive there somewhere, don’t you think? If Janice knew who he was then someone else could. Would, for sure, however much he tried to keep it under wraps. Someone who read what he said and didn’t like it. And knew he’d be here today. So took his chance. To get even.”
“Or to stop him exposing something else. Or somebody else. Today. At this Show,” put in Yale.
Grant looked morosely at his empty glass. They all knew they could not be refilled. They all knew that this was a shame. Brian would have happily joined them. Hadn’t he, more or less, solved the case? The Super sucked on an imaginary pipe. A biro would have done but that was for the office. The slow sucking noise satisfied his need. He looked hard across the table.
“Haven’t got one of these articles with you, I suppose?”
“No. Sorry. The mag’s on sale in the Hall, though. Could pop down and get one easy enough. Not much point, though, come to think of it. Whatever it was he wrote, it won’t be in the new edition. Ambrose hasn’t been writing for a while, Janice says. Like in his other activities, he was shedding the load. Slowing down.”
“If it was something he wrote that sparked off his murder”, mused Yale, “what Brian says is right. It’s a fair bet it was written some time ago. Long enough before this show for the killer to decide on action and plan it. Hardly be in the current edition.”
“Suppose not”, was Grant’s reply, “yet it hardly seems likely that this death could have been planned for over long.”
“Why not?” put in Brian. “He might have hinted – more than just hinted if he was in the mood – that something was afoot. Everybody here has the calendar of Shows. If someone reckoned that the thing, whatever it is, was going to happen here, well then, anybody wanting to silence him if he didn’t promise to keep quiet would have known that he would be here and could have waited until now. Is that a bit confused? See what I’m getting at?”
The coppers thought they could. This show was, as Simon well knew by now after his morning’s talking, critical to some looking for success. Maybe a ‘ticket’, that longed-for championship that opened the gates to Crufts for the rest of their dog’s showing life. If there was to be any skulduggery then time was running out. It could be, for some, now or never. He outlined this view to Grant.
The Super decided to show that he knew a thing or two about the dog world.
“What about all this business of bad breeding?” he began. “Lots of upset about that if I read aright. Can see the point. Too much speciality breeding endangers a dog’s natural health mechanisms. Flat noses they can’t breath through; brain too big for their cramped skulls for heaven’s sake! Things like that. Might be that Graveney, as writer, was exposing or campaigning along those lines. Yes? That would give some of these breeder johnnies to think, I’ve no doubt.”
The other two expressed, by admiring looks, their wonderment at this deep background knowledge of doggie affairs. Neither referred to TV broadcasts or newspaper exposures. No gain there. Nor that it was all a tad dated. Wiseton played the part of the loyal NCO.
“Good point, sir. I see that you keep up with the affairs of the world.”
“No more than a policeman should.”
“Of course,” the stolid Corporal continued, needing to explain reality to those in command, “Ambrose was a breeder, not a crackpot campaigner. My view, you understand. Also, if it was to do with the dog breeding shemozzle it would clear Janice and her lot. Ditto ETTs come to that. Neither of those breeds was in any way involved with all the hoo-ha and campaigning. Whoever Graveney wrote about, it was more likely to be getting at someone high up in the Kennel Club. Had it in for the paper pushers, as he called them. ‘Just in it for the money’ he often said to me. Not the proper breeders what upset him, but the KC allowing back-shed breeders to register. That was more his line.” His speech shuddered to a halt. Things were too complex. He thought again of his old Sergeant’s advice. Just get hold of someone and lock ‘em up. Saves a lot of time. Bound to make someone break cover. Of course, there were no human rights then. Not in the army of his day, any road. Wiseton added a coda with an apologetic laugh. “Don’t really suspect someone from the Kennel Club. But then again?”
“I’d better have a word with this Miss Mulholland”, said Grant. “Could be that she knows more than she realises. Good work, Wiseton. You’re right. There could be the grounds for a motive in this somewhere, and it is somewhere that we have to start.” He turned to Yale. “Is she free, do you know? Judging finished and all that? In all her classes?”
Wiseton whipped out his regained programme, the one paid for under duress. As he did so, a memory stirred, but was lost on the instant. He consulted, put it aside, and answered the query.
“Just about. Should be over by two at the latest unless there has been a hold-up. Sometimes is. Especially when it’s wet”, he added. As they were securely indoors, inside Manager Trott’s emporium of live arts, this seemed irrelevant.
“Delay or not”, put in Simon, “She should be clear by now. Bet she’s only now waiting because of the four o’clock rule.” He had told his boss about this.
“Also because you’ve told her, and the others, that they must stay, I hope.”
“Of course, sir. Until then. I’ve not hinted at any extension. Leave that decision to the investigation team.”
“Good. Well then, I’ll go down and see the lady. I suggest Simon that you quickly check with, Trott is it?, when this TV team is due. Can’t imagine they’ve already arrived or he would have the trumpets of sounding brass ringing by now. But never rely on the media! For anything. Might have sneaked in without telling him if they sniff a good story. Wouldn’t want the manager getting in the way with any official version. It’s a fair bet they’ve had all the pre-info they need from someone here by now. Quite enough to hang a story on. They won’t fuss about details with deadlines to meet. We need to get moving first. When they come, I’ll handle them as best I can.”
Driven by this cynical opinion, they set off on their separate ways, Wis
eton marching half a pace behind his general as they returned to the lines. As they neared the formerly-guarded benches, Simon noticed a girl, lady, twenty something, thirty maybe, with striking long black hair and a bright expression of keen enjoyment, talking to one of the ladies at the end of the Bichon row. He would have liked to listen in. The interviewer, for that was how the newcomer appeared, attracted him. Lively but, he guessed even in passing, able to get out of someone what she wanted to hear. He had seen such ability, on occasions, displayed by the best of his former colleagues in the CID. An ability to penetrate by conversation the defences of a subject. She was speaking to one of his troopers. With regret, he had to pass them by.
“You are, aren’t you?” said an awe-struck Miss Greatrex. “Don’t tell me you are not. I see you every Thursday on the regional news. You are, aren’t you. You know”, and here the dear soul had a senior moment, ‘how embarrassing it was’ she was to say to her friends, her increased circle of friends, after her appearance on screen, “You know. Alison – no – Althea. Althea Gibbons. You are, aren’t you”, she said again. “You must be. You always say your name so nicely when you announce yourself after the main news is over. I do like it. You are very good. Now you’re here! It’s the murder I suppose. Thrilling, in a way, isn’t it? We’ve all been roped in, you know, by that nice young Inspector.”
Althea Gibbons, for it was she, smiled in an experienced way. Adulation was not unknown to her; local fame no more than a daily burden. This OAP could be a useful starter for ten in her hunt.
“I was coming to report on the dogs when we got a report about it”, she carefully answered. The implication was that the one had now superseded the other, although not to the former’s exclusion. That, in this company, would get one nowhere fast. “You’ve been in the front line then?” She hoped that sounded flattering and encouraging. Until Frank and Michael, her camera and sound crew caught up with her, escorted no doubt by that dreadful man Trott – she had covered many an event in his hallowed portals – this little body would do as a sounding board. Even give her a second or two on film as a reward. Althea listened with her long-practised earnest look, one toned by long practice of hours of tedious retakes, while Miss Greatrex unfolded the saga of her day on sentry duty. Her rover’s eye was glancing around throughout. Her ears, fine tuned by years of double earpiece prompts, shifted their frequency focus as the comings and goings around her brought in snatches of chance comment. Thus it was that she noted the arrival of Grant and Wiseton, the latter peeling off to resume his duty at the shrine of Ambrose Graveney, temporarily covered in his conference absence – god bless him turning up like that! – by his friend of years ago, X3. Now was the chance to catch up on how he was thriving, and to retell tales out of long-ago school.
A Question of Pedigree Page 10
