“How come you recognised me?”
“Same as you did me, I guess. Not really all that long since the last reunion. Some things don’t change, not even after fifty years. You’re as ugly as ever. You should have kept in touch, like Kem. Especially after that first get together. Come over and seen us.”
The conversation continued in a roll call, the one to the other, of the years that were no more, until X3 made a break and with a ‘See you at Crufts’, walked up to the end of the row where Brian saw Kem Harriday standing, unlit half of a cigarette in his left hand.
Having reached the motorhome – for home it was, to Janice and her brood – Yale stood back, holding Freddie by his lead and hoping that would be the only task that would come his way dog-wise. Janice unlocked the door and was greeted by a cacophony of excited barking from the four other Bichons, stored with great care and comfort within. The first passionate reunions over, he was invited inside, sat down in the comfortable swing chair that normally served the front seat passenger, was joined by two of the Bichons, and was handed, by some deft efficiency, a gin and tonic. Complete with ice and lemon.
“Bags of tonic. Splash of gin. Helps the vocal chords. Shove them off if they’re a nuisance.”
Yale acknowledged his hostess’ assessment of the contents of his glass and power over her dogs. He didn’t have a car to worry about, though he was on duty. He fancied that by now, had the London job gone ahead, he would probably be on his third drink. ‘Need someone who can keep his head when being bribed alcoholically’ his boss had told him when he had first been transferred to Fraud. He thanked and sipped. Lovely balance. Not too small a shot. Just right for the occasion. He was tempted to settle back. To chat generally. Sadly, he had an on-going investigation, one for which time was running out. He waved his glass in Janice’s direction to acknowledge her robust ‘Cheers!’ and turned to the task set him by Grant.
“We’ve had a sort of report from Brian Wiseton,” he began. “Good chap. Keen to help. Maybe a touch too keen. Like to know if you can shed further light on what he was telling us a short time ago.”
He went on to tell her of Wiseton’s suggestion of a motive for the murder of Ambrose. Janice did not rush to a reply. She, instead, seemed to be considering a PhD thesis on the number of times a small slice of lemon can be carried from the bottom to the top of a glass before the bubbles got tired of the sport. Yale waited with her, watching her rather than his own effervescent tonic water. She spoke.
“He may have got it right. Then again, he might not have. I’m surprised he didn’t know of Ambrose’s journalistic sideline. Many did.”
“He told us that the editor was under orders to keep it secret.”
“No doubt. I know him well. His surname should be Leakey. He’s always ready to leak for effect, if it’s in his interests. Not a security minded fellow. Not venal. A gossip. Useful quality in his trade.”
Yale sensed she was preparing cover for whatever she might be about to say. No one, including herself, must be tarred by the brush of ‘possible suspect’ merely because they knew that Graveney had been the writer behind a series of attacks on matters that upset him. Things he called cheating, fiddling, malpractice, skulduggery in the fetid ranks of dog-owner fanatics.
“Yes,” she continued. “As I said to Brian myself today, Ambrose’s articles would have far from endeared him with those he targeted. Also, his work as an inspector. Did Brian mention that?” Simon professed ignorance.
“He operated in two ways. He was the gateway, as it were, for most of those who wanted to join any established ETT club or group. Then again, for years he was a Kennel Club inspector of breeders. For such an old stick-in-the-mud, as he tried to present himself, it has been rumoured he’s involved in the selection of breeders allowed to use the services of Breedadog.com. I’ve no proof of that, mind. Still. Gives you some idea of his scope. It could, believe me, be a scathing scope. Quiet and dignified may well have been his public persona, but underneath he was a determined cleanser of stables. I was surprised he was not attacked more in the correspondence columns. Probably because he was usually too near the mark. People he was on about wouldn’t want to stir up more publicity.”
Yale was lost with some of this, but got the drift. The man had been able to put backs up, if not damage breeders’ marketing and/or showing potential. A lot of them. There was the rub. Many. Had Graveney been on the verge of exposing something specific at this Show? Had he been killed to keep him quiet? If so, then the killer was here, one of that ‘many’. How to find out? His mind returned to the use Althea Gibbons’ TV interviews might be put to.
He pressed Janice for more detail, any knowledge of reactions, as he enjoyed his drink, but got little further. She thought that she had some past copies of the magazine at home, but Yale knew that he could get what he wanted from the publisher’s files. Either way, it would be too late to be of any use today. Janice had no recollection of anything specific to the Show now going on but then, as she kept stressing almost too much he felt, if it was to do with breeding then, as a Bichon owner, she was not concerned. Not affected. Yale could see that this might be so in the great ‘bad breeders’ row, but this was not the most likely topic. There were other ways things could be engineered for personal advantage in the show ring. Time marching on, he finished his glass and left after due thanks and reminder that she was not free to depart. Indeed, that he would want to see her, or rather, his Super and the any-moment-arriving CID team would need to, before she was able to speed on her innocent way.
Walking back to the exhibitors’ entrance, Yale wondered if the congested, refugee-like horde that had crowded its way along this route early that morning had been part of a master plan to provide cover, the smoke screen that the killer wanted. He wished Doc Meredith would hurry up with the final diagnosis of what it was had killed Ambrose. What drug, poison, whatever, and how long for it to take effect?
So musing, he re-entered the Show arena and went to report to Grant.
Chapter Fourteen
Saturday 2.21pm
Chief Superintendent Grant was hoping, trying, engineering, to get himself free of the persistent Ms Gibbons and her acolytes. He had repeated the one statement he was able to give. Things were at an early stage, a full investigation was underway, he was confident of the outcome. He did not use the word ‘positive’ in relation to that outcome. He was chary of giving hostages to fortune, less to the press. Unlike the Mounties, he did not always get his man, or woman. He always intended to. There was a difference. As had the whole of the day been. Different. How could he forecast anything? His mind wandered to the scenes of urban chaos, hospital treatments, and the search for the missing child, still going on outside the poorly serviced crime scene he was now in. Ms Gibbons, on to a scoop as she was sure, no other media members had yet to show, wanted to milk her chance. She also wanted to hang on to this man’s coat-tails until that dishy Inspector returned. She wished now she had stuck to him. Who knows what suspects he may have led her to. Not that the uncovering of suspects was her main interest. The uncovering of a top-slot item, suspect in the frame or not, for the national as well as her local station sufficed for her enjoyment of life.
Grant looked harder for a closure.
“As I say, I can tell you no more at this stage. There will be a press conference tomorrow at nine,” this was the standard local Force procedure. “Until then, I beg you, keep to the facts as I have given them to you. Leave any speculation or comment until we, and you, are better informed. Now. I must get on. Please excuse me and, again please, do not talk to dog owners in either the ETT or the Bichon bench lines. Not till our full team is here – unavoidably delayed as I have explained – and have opportunity to do so themselves. Press conference tomorrow. You know the form, I know. The other dogs and their breeders await your attention. Don’t let them or the public down. You’ve got the first story, such as it is. There is still an audience for the one you came to tell.” He hoped that sounded fi
nal. It seemed to be.
With reluctance, for Yale had not yet re-appeared, the three TV operatives moved off in the direction of the much hyped ‘Dogs from the Shows’. From there, Althea calculated, she could keep the area of the murder sufficiently in sight to pounce right back should there be any developments. Any activity. She did the Great Manager the courtesy, it suited her plan, of letting him lead the way and make the first introduction, to Anna Goldey. That over, and after she had filmed a short interview – not likely to be shown in view of other priorities, though something said caught her interest – fortune did her a good turn. Miss Greatrex was there. This allowed Althea to take up her earlier conversation. It further suited the newshoundess to allow the old soul to ramble on a little. Away from the Bichon lines so that, in her interpretation, Grant’s embargo didn’t apply. The lady was no more than a member of the public, Althea reasoned. That lady’s responses to her probing proved useful, adding to the passing comment of Mrs Goldey that had struck her.
“I did so like the Lassie dogs. I loved the films, didn’t you? Pity there isn’t space for Rin Tin Tin. Do you remember him? No, of course not. Not even repeated are they. Those old cowboy films. Not considered pukka anymore. Is that the word? I just can’t understand some people. Take that nasty writer, the one who wrote as though Anna was, well, it was not a word that I like, but it is one that, sadly, I have heard used about the venture, prostituting the animals. As if she would indeed! Such silly, spiteful things people do say. And then to write it! In a respectable magazine!”
“In a magazine?” Althea was all encouragement. She was not famed for her nose, or her ear, for nothing.
“Indeed yes. I find it hard to believe. I don’t read that particular one myself; never liked it, and they keep putting the price up. Mostly about big dogs, anyway. No use to me. Yes, yes. Very hard to believe. Janice told me, so it must be true. She was sure, she said, that the nasty remarks had been written by Ambrose Graveney. I was surprised. Quite taken aback. ‘Such nonsense!’ I told her. I was so upset.” She paused a moment. “Oh dear! Mustn’t speak ill of the dead must we? You won’t tell anyone I said that, will you? Such a lovely idea of Mrs Goldey’s I do think, this gathering of celebrity-breed dogs. I have a very soft spot for Lassie.”
As a reward for her ‘helpfulness’, Althea got the camera/sound team working, and gave the old dear the fifteen seconds, ones that would be broadcast, which were to so widen Miss Greatrex’s circle of admiring friends. First they had to be told what to look out for on the telly that night. Jean Greatrex knew how to alert her audience. Janice had a mobile phone and would be happy to set it up for her in order to spread that very news. Her interest in Lassie and the other doggie stars suddenly waning, Miss G headed back to the comfort and communications of her own lines.
With the departures, Grant felt alone. A little lost as the lady, along with her team and Trott, moved off. He was cheered to see Simon Yale striding towards him from the far end of the benches. Maybe he had unearthed something worthwhile. What the Inspector had to tell him did not add anything new. Had the Super known what Miss Greatrex had been saying, he might have given Yale’s report of his caravan conversation greater weight. None the less, there was, if nothing else, sufficient on which to base a motive for someone. Trouble was, who?
“One thing strikes me, Simon. Correct me if I’m wrong. Miss Mulholland tells you all this. Others, no doubt will back her up. We can easily get back numbers of Dogs Talk although, alas, not in time for the here and now. Yet the one who seems to have had no idea of the man’s literary – poisonous? – outpourings is this aide of yours, Wiseton. All he did was to tell us what he had learned from the Mulholland woman. Yet he’s the guy who says he knew Graveney well over a number of years. Strange, do you think? I must remind you,” silly phrase, but it was a way to underline his point, “he was in the best position to kill the chap. More opportunity than anyone. In the same ETT – I’m cottoning on – field of operations. A possible target for unfavourable aspersions by the dear departed, wouldn’t you think? You keep telling me of the rivalry among those in the dog showing business. So, why not? Or again,” Grant paused, “is it that he’s playing down what he knew of Graveney’s writings for some other reason? Can’t think of one off the top of my head. Surely he must have come across some of it?”
Yale thought a moment.
“Let’s ask him. Wiseton I mean. I take your point. Was what he gleaned from Janice Mulholland truly a surprise to him, or was he playing the ignorant for some reason? To make her feel more important perhaps? It could just be that. Didn’t want to claim credit for what may turn out to be vital news.”
“Maybe. Or no more than a ploy to divert attention from himself. Told us the Mulholland version to take the initiative. Put us off his scent. I want you to press Wiseton. Great shame we can’t ask Graveney. Not the right atmosphere to call up a medium with all this noise and bustle going on. Must say, I am amazed how many people come to these affairs. Is this the going rate do you reckon?”
“Mostly. Very popular. This show is important in their calendar. You try getting into Crufts though! There, you’ll really get an idea of the appeal of the dog-breeding world. And its size. Unless you’re up at the crack of dawn, you can spend well over twenty minutes just queuing to get into the car park. Then it’s a queue for the bus to the Exhibition Centre. This show is nothing like as big, but it’s all these well-attended local shows that pack the NEC out every March.” He didn’t hazard a view on possible future developments in the light of recent controversies. They both had enough on their palettes without worrying about others’ pictures.
“Indeed! You would know. Back to this magazine business. Presents us with the old needle in a haystack problem, doesn’t it. Isn’t there any way we could get a glimpse at, say, the last half dozen issues,” the Super had not readily gone metric, “of the doggie talk mag? None?”
“I did try, sir. Just now. When I left the Mulholland motorhome. She gave me its phone number from the copy she had with her. In the van. Nothing in that one that fits our bill. So she says, and she would spot any personal attack I’m sure. I rang. London number. Answerphone. I doubt if the Met would be overjoyed to be asked to dig out a key holder, find something relevant, and then getting it to us by four o’clock.”
Grant did not seem too thrilled at his junior’s initiative.
“Tell me again. This four o’clock thing. Show’s open to five thirty. It says at the main gate. Saw it when I came in. Surely we can hold them all until then? Need to, really, to give the team – and, for crying out loud there must be a team here in the next hour – time to do some sniffing around. Can this fellow Trott seal the exit doors to competitors?”
“More in our power than his, I fancy, sir. Don’t suppose he would worry too much, although it could interfere with his winding up and clearing up plans for the day. Still, surely, not by much. A ban, though, will need him to block the doors. To all competitors. Not easy. Who would know them? Any one could slip out with the general public if they wanted to. Might be difficult with their dogs, but Wiseton farmed his out to a friend. Not impossible. Easy enough to spin a sob yarn. Miss Mulholland has a good one ready. Got to get away on time or be late for her next camp site. Something on those lines. Not her especially. She wouldn’t abandon her pooches. But some suitable yarn. Needn’t arouse any suspicion, and over all these people are very willing to help each other. Rivalry in the ring apart.”
“Seal the place altogether, then.”
“There’s a thought! Not too serious, I take it. I don’t think it’s on to keep the whole of the paying audience in here until five thirty. No point anyway. Ambrose was dead long before the first punter entered the portals. If Trott’s people will guard the competitors’ entrance and, as important, their car park, we should manage to stop most of the ones we’re interested in getting away.”
“We need to stop them all. Certainly those in the dead man’s row of benches, and those in the ones eit
her side. Yet easier, morally, PR-wise, I accept, to have a blanket ban. On competitors only, I agree. Then we should have the killer still here when the CID lot join us.”
“Could still walk out with the departing public.”
“Have to chance that. Keep what eye we can on those in proximity to Graveney’s box, and trust to the honour of such law-abiding citizens as these dog owners.”
“One of them isn’t too keen on abiding by the law. Or the sixth commandment, on my church’s counting.”
Grant thought that all churches took ‘Thou shalt not kill’ as the sixth; for him, it was the first. Where was that blasted team? Had the ACC expired in the attempt to raise one? What commandment covered that? He continued:
“True. Yet, must be done. If it can be done. This departure embargo. No choice. Look, first thing up is to see if Trott can arrange to keep in the competitors. Must ensure that, and I’d want it in place by three. Three thirty at the latest. Heavens!” not bothering to refer to his mobile, “we’re well on the way to that already. Must fix it with him before we tell the happy throng of their extension of hours.” Yale drew breath. Then:
“Before you go off now and speak to the Manager, I see a snag.”
Grant, about to take his first step Trott-wise, did not want any snags.
A Question of Pedigree Page 12
