Grant looked over the boxes and the heads for Janice Mulholland. Thus, he didn’t take in at first the fact-finding pair that had attracted Simon. It was Janice he wanted, and he hoped that she would give him something more solid than Wiseton had been able to. He hoped that she had read some of the deceased’s dastardly writings. Althea, however, sensed the development. She cut off Jean Greatrex with polished expertise, not rudely but firmly, ensuring her loyalty with that hint of camera time to come when her saga would be transmitted to the four corners of the globe, and fell in, with firm stride, in the place vacated by 887. Grant stopped once more to try and pick out his target. He became one.
“Inspector?” Althea saw at once that this was not correct. “Excuse me. Of course not.” She had no idea who he was, yet sensed the obvious seniority. She sought a clue. “I thought for the moment you were the Inspector. The ladies,” white lie, “here have been telling me how well he has handled this affair. You’re his senior officer, of course. I may have seen you when I did that piece on police ethnic recruitment which the Chief Constable seemed so pleased with. You were there, I think. Yes?”
Grant knew full well he was being interrogated. His first reaction was one of annoyance at being sussed so soon. He certainly recognised Ms Gibbons. Who couldn’t, especially in his PR-conscious profession. There was no hiding, he swiftly decided. It never did to play silly buggers with these people. Play it straight, and get back onto ground where you held the cards. That was the news-release way.
“Ms Gibbons.”
“There! You have the advantage over me.”
“It doesn’t take a senior policeman to recognise you. I dwell in more humble areas. Grant. Detective Chief Superintendent. Can I help?” This last was a silly thing to say. Not that it made any difference to what he would disclose – or what she would invent, come to that – but it sounded a fraction too chummy this early in affairs. First no CID and now he felt the lack of PR back-up. Ah well! Cope somehow! How much easier it must be to be laid up in hospital with a bandage around the head and a beautiful and attentive nurse at your beck and call. Some people have all the luck. He said no more and waited on the TV star reporter’s next move.
Simon Yale re-entered the office of the orderly telephones. There were three men present. Trott’s eyebrows indicated that he didn’t want a fourth. Most certainly not this fourth. “Ah! Um!” He didn’t want to introduce a policeman. In the same way that Grant hadn’t needed professional skill to recognise Althea Gibbons, Simon could see who the other two were, laden as the sherpas of a TV presenter, straddled about with cameras, microphones and various wires coming from a variety of back-packs. To Frank and Michael, their light, well-fitted loads were the cutting edge in mobile electronic technology. With the flick of a wrist they could send their mouthpiece’s words anywhere on earth. Into space, come to that, should such be required. Top class. Both of them. Yale moved in.
“Mr Trott! My question is answered without asking. My Super was wondering when the third estate was arriving. I see they have.”
Before the two had time to respond to the smearing of that ‘third’ Yale continued, in what he hoped was a confident and co-operative manner.
“Yale. Simon Yale. Inspector. In charge of the case.” That sounded right. No point in confusing the issue. It was true enough. “I expect you know something of what’s happened here. Bound to be of interest to you. Early days, though, and I hope it won’t stop you doing a good job with the dogs. Many here will be mighty disappointed if it did. That’s the only story running. The other is still, as it were, in the starting blocks.”
“You’ll need to tell Althea all that.” This from Frank. The more burly of the two.
“Nothing to do with us”, added the leaner Michael. “All to do with her. She’s the reporter. Get a sniff of a good story and she’s off like a bloodhound.”
“Or pointer”, added Frank.
“You’re clearly the right chaps to cover this Show”, semi-quipped Simon.
F and M knew very well that they were the right chaps to cover any event. They had done their leader’s bidding, had told Trott, whom they both knew of old as did she, of their presence, and now wanted no more than to get back to her side, and then off duty as smartish as could be fixed.
“These gentlemen,” smoothed the Manager, “were just about to look round the Show. Myself as their guide and commentator to the viewers. Come then. Shall we find” he paused a respectful moment “Althea?” He dropped the name with a comradely ease born of many hours of insincere practice.
“Where will she be?” asked Michael. “Place looks a bit crowded. Can’t see anything from up here.”
“Your Ms Gibbons?” asked Yale. “Oh, I know exactly where she is. Follow me.”
He, not the rightful mentor, led the way across the crowded Hall floor, past enquiring and excited eyes of the populace, criss-crossing their crushed ways as attendance reached its peak, to the pleasure of the stallholders. Simon weaved towards where he had seen the sharp-eyed one rehearsing her craft. He was pleased to learn who she was. He did not regularly watch the regional TV broadcasts. Simon’s viewing was more Sky Sports. As they wended their buzz-causing way, his mind turned to how this unavoidable involvement in the case by the TV crew could be put to his and Grant’s advantage. Could the murderer be caught out by an unguarded on-air admission? His view, very fast forming and not, had he known it, in line with that of his Super, was that the more they could entice Althea Gibbons to get people chatting the better. Everybody wanted to be famous for fifteen minutes, or some such. He knew from his experience that criminals are often egoists. Having done something headline-worthy and, in their eyes, clever, they wanted the world to know. They would hide their involvement, but accidental slips were not unknown. In his new world of Fraud this opinion was being reinforced. Hackers, virus creators, electronic criminals of all sorts, sitting gloating in their garrets at their stupendous successes wanted only one thing. To let everybody know just how damned clever they were, convinced, as they were, that they were too damned clever to be caught.
Chapter Thirteen
Saturday 1.53pm
There was a gathering of the clans, as Grant’s Scottish grandmother, his only quarter not of Yorkshire, would have declared. The Super did not feel it an occasion for celebration. The words ‘many’ and ‘muckle’ added to a ‘Now then!’ came more readily to mind as the cavalcade of the important approached where he had been caught up with by Althea Gibbons, but had also caught up with Janice Mulholland. The formidable breeder of the Bichons Frisés, sensing his hunt, had headed towards him, ever willing to co-operate. There was time to fill before four o’clock. The three, each trying to hold a conversation with one but not both of the others, made a mini summit, now added to by Yale, Frank and Michael. A little behind, at a distance sufficient to indicate an independent approach, came the renowned Manager himself. The enhanced party was so cramped in between the rows of Bichon benches that Grant felt a twinge of fear. The fear of the vulnerable. ‘Silly, of course’ he strictured himself, ‘but if one little needle can be pressed into an unsuspecting and, from what flimsy evidence they so far had, unfeeling neck, maybe another attempt would be made. In such a crush, such accidents could happen. Not that, for one moment, he took the death of Ambrose Graveney to have been an accident. At that early hour of the morning, and from all he had gathered from Simon Yale and from his interview notes taken by the so-efficient Anna Goldey, there had been no accident. That was a point though. Might Ambrose, in the last moments of his life, have known his killer? Greeted him, even? Quite possible. The more he considered this point the more certain it seemed. In the small world of dog shows, most saw most regularly. They would know, as Wiseton had explained, who intended to be where at what show. Because of this, Ambrose could have made clear to aficionados reading his article, taking it that was the spark, when and maybe who he was writing about. That said, reasoned on Grant, there could have been a mistake. What if the chap who h
adn’t turned up because he couldn’t stand the judge Agnes Thorpe had been the target? Had there been any re-allocation of benches? He would check the details with Yale. Right now he had to turn all his attention to the group forming around him, and the need to ensure there was no publicity crisis.
“This is the back-up team for Ms Gibbons, sir. I see you’ve met her.”
” Grant’s expression made clear to Simon that the Super wished he had not met the famous lady. F and M’s faces registered an objection to ‘back-up,’ to add to ‘third estate’. They were not becoming fans of the good-looking young policeman as was Ms Gibbons. They wanted him out of the way. Althea did not. This was the chap she wanted to speak to. Grant for the official line, unavoidably, but, from what she had gathered from the ladies of the dog world, this was the one who was running things.
Yale pressed on before anyone had time to speak
“They are here to report on the Show,” he continued, rather superfluously in view of F and M’s equipment. “Mr Trott will be supervising all of that. No problem for us.” This brought the Great Man back into his camp. He had been tending towards the technicians’ view that this copper was not destined for high diplomatic office. Now, he saw glimmerings of social understanding. Of who was in charge of the Hall, and all within it. Unfortunately for Mr Trott, he was not in charge of The one thing that wasn’t any longer within, the departed corpse. ‘Nil desperandum’, he said to himself, ‘there you go’. Althea wanted to go elsewhere with her enquiries.
“Inspector Yale. Pleased to meet you. You’ve been very busy here this morning the ladies tell me.”
Yale kept quiet. This part was for Grant. The claustrophobically pressed Super decided to make a move to broader acres. Taking Althea by the arm, in a most gentle and unthreatening way and in front of an array of impeccable witnesses, he asked her to follow him to a quieter spot where he would be pleased to bring her up to date with what had happened that day, and police progress. That was, in so far as he was able. Things were as yet at an early stage. He had every confidence that the actions taken to date would lead to an arrest. For murder? Yes. That was beyond doubt. If she would only come this way. With F and M in action-posed attendance, she did so. Yale got an eyebrowed message to stay where he was, and to take up the questioning of Janice. Mr Trott was left in limbo. This was not right. He saw that power and publicity were moving away from him. He acted. He strode after Grant and the TV team. This was his Hall. Let them dare try and push him away from them.
Yale looked at Janice.
“You’ve finished showing for the day?”
“Yes. Freddie’s all done. I’ve got to get back to the others in the motorvan, though. Are we allowed to leave yet?”
Simon was feeling, if not confined, stifled by the atmosphere that, with the rings still in use and the stands steaming up, was becoming hotter and drier.
“I’d like to see the other dogs of yours. Let me come with you. There are one or two things you might be able to help me with, and it would be good to get a breath of air. That way we’ll both feel a little easier. I can’t say yet when you’ll be cleared to go. We are still waiting for the full investigating team to come. I’m just holding the fort, as it were. Could do with a change of scenery.”
Together they walked out of the competitors’ entrance, retracing the path taken that morning by the doggie teams, passing the very spot where Wiseton’s shins had been so barked as to draw blood, towards the car park.
Wiseton was still nursing those shins, but for the moment the still-stinging, Afghan-engendered marks were forgotten as he meandered down a different path, memory lane, with his school friend X3. John Xavier Charles III had been called ‘Yank’ at school. His erudite chums knew that only Americans used such nomenclature. They didn’t know X3’s father. John Xavier Charles was the son of a John Xavier Charles, a man of much limited imagination in the eyes of his unloving boy. Not capable of the simple task of thinking of a fresh name for his offspring. The second JXC was determined to show a more inspired approach when his turn came to become a dad. This he did, by adding that distinctive III to the third in line of the hallowed names. Thus X3 was the son not of X2 as the dull-minded could have supposed. All this seemed to have seeped into X3’s soul. As soon as he could, he took his chance and emigrated to the USA where, quickly, he had felt at home, been assimilated, and became a true Yank. He had even voted Republican on two occasions. ‘In honour of Lincoln’ as he had learned to say to suitable laughter. The two had met twice since, at School reunions. Brian had, on those occasions, been surprised at X3’s flying over for such an event, impressed not only by his interest but by the time and money he was willing to afford them. The streets of Manhattan or wherever must have been paved with enough gold for this particular ex-pat.
“So why here?” was Brian’s first question when they had settled on the bench of Ambrose, thus, if it was possible, rubbing out any last traces of what a fully-equipped CID team might have hoped to find. “You weren’t into dogs in school?”
“That was a long time ago. A very long time ago. No more were you.”
“True enough. Got involved in the army. You skivved out of that.”
“Got caught for National Guard in the US of A. That was enough. Took up dogs after trying a few other things. Got into the swing of it. Good business. Made it so. Professionally.”
“Quite a coincidence, though, that you ended up with ETTs. Like me.”
“Toy Manchesters if you don’t mind.”
“Thought you might say that. There’s some not a million miles from where we are sitting now who would say that they shouldn’t be here. Too long in the leg. Not ETTs. Wouldn’t let you in if they could find a way to stop you.”
“Sure. But Crufts will. That’s what matters. That’s why I’m here. Qualified in the States, at the Philadelphia. They can’t refuse that. Especially as mine’s not just any old champ. Directly descended from Kricket of Kent. In the record books of the AKC. Mine’s on top form, so now’s the chance to make it at Crufts. That’s why I’m here. So there! As good as anything your breeders can show, leave alone those from Norway and Sweden. Or Finland. Can’t keep us out. Impeccable, all the way.”
Brian had grasped the American Kennel Club initials, and was willing to be impressed by the link to a, no doubt famous, former champion. He waffled slightly. The American accent was infectious.
“That sounds great. It’s OK by me. Just go ahead. I take it you’ve walked it today. Conquered the ring?”
X3 smiled a quiet smile of superior certainty, muttered a ‘no need’.
“Not showing today. Just looking and learning. What a good pro does.” He began to look up and down the line of benches. To restart the conversation, Brian reverted to the chance of their meeting in this way, quality of their dogs apart.
“I can’t get over seeing you like this. Fantastic! I thought it was you, heading ringside – is that what you Americans call it? – with Kem earlier. Knew it was you. After all these years. Couldn’t believe it. Would have come across, but got myself caught up in helping the police.”
“Kem’s told me. Sad business. Thanks to Kem I’m here. Came with him. Buddied up at that first reunion, remember? Sure. Course you do. Kept in touch ever since.”
“Maybe it was you they were after!” Brian couldn’t abandon his theme for the day. “What with being an American you must be stinking rich, and then to bring those overlong legged dogs into the ETT ring!”
X3 did not see the funny side of this banter.
“Nothing wrong with my Toy Manchesters, so shut it! There’s an old pal. No problem anyway. Mine’s already into Crufts as I’ve told you. More than well qualified. As I keep saying, I’m a pro. Most of us in the States are. Not like you lot, all amateurs and hobbyists. Jeez, Brian, Kem apart, who does his best to rise above the herd, your lot are sloppy part timers. Call this organisation?” He looked around as with amazement at such penny-pinching scruffiness.
“Sure. You
did say. Didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just that, well, I say again, coincidence. You and Kem. Both here and both into mini Ms.”
“Yeah. Well. So it goes. Kept in touch, I told you. Always wanted to play Crufts. This year’s my break, I reckon. Kem’s given me the chance to get the hang of your regs and paper work. Not the same as ours, no sirree. Would have come over last year if it hadn’t been for that rabies scare, and then some damned nonsense about a micro-chip that went walk about.”
“I can see that, but this is hardly Crufts.” X3 paused, and then giving a conspiratorial touch to his pronouncement, replied:
“Sure sure old buddy, but the jargon’s the same. KC rules in common, I guess. Then, look who the judge is!”
“Agnes Thorpe?”
“The same.”
“I don’t get it. She won’t be allowed to judge the ETTs at Crufts after this.”
“Maybe not, Brian boy, maybe not, but,” and he did a stage tapping of his nose to add to his look of cunning knowledge, “who’s in the running for the Supreme Champion Judge, the Best In Show, this year? Eh? Eh? Tell me that?”
Brian felt, as he had when Janice had told him about the magazine articles written by Ambrose Graveney. That, for all his years on the circuit and in the dog world, he was surprisingly ignorant. X3 was right, nothing but a part-time amateur, like the rest this side of the pond. He hadn’t known about that authorship, and now a Yank, a foreigner, someone who had never shown in the UK before so far as he knew, was telling him where the money was going on who was to be chosen for that greatest honour a judge can attain in the canine Kennel Club world. Agnes? Whow! No hope for him then. Not that, loyal though he was to his Jenny and his Mike, he saw either reaching that ultimate Sunday evening moment in the ring. Agnes Thorpe or no. He changed the subject.
A Question of Pedigree Page 11
