Despite the pressures, Grant gave a grin. “He would. Well then, many thanks. You’ve joined us at a good time. Inspector Yale was just about to tell me something. “
Yale was surprised at this sudden confidence in Wiseton. Could he, after what he had said to his father, pass on that description of qualifications and entry procedures when it might have seemed much easier to have asked 887 in the first place? Grant helped.
“Mr Yale has been explaining to me how entries are controlled. It’s rather important as we are sure that the killer came in that way.”
This wasn’t new to Brian. He waited. Yale took up the theme.
“Yes. If you can confirm how I think it works,” and he recounted what he had been told from the Dales. Brian nodded in appreciation.
“Yup. That’s about it. All shows follow the KC rules. Pretty thorough. Benching, preparation of exhibits and grooming areas. Handling of dogs and how and when they can leave. That sort of thing. Then a few local rules; in the handbook. About smoking; clearing up after dogs and not leaving them in vehicles. Use of cameras. Where the office is. And the vet. But the inspector’s got it in one. With the right entry forms, checked when a dog and its owner can come in, no problem. Otherwise, no way! They’re very tight on letting in any non-competing dogs.”
Grant gave thought to this.
“Very good,” he began, “yet the staff on the door here are not Kennel Club members are they? Couldn’t they be fooled? Couldn’t someone flash some false papers in front of them and do a con trick to gain access? I’ve even heard rumours of police warrants being waved about, too far away to be seen.”
Wiseton was firm.
“Unlikely, sir. Most unlikely. The people on the door will be Hall staff, sure, but they won’t be alone. Not when competitors are booking in. Backed by organising members then. Might be Hall staff only during the day, I grant you. But not when it counts. At rush hour. At other times, it’s only a matter of supervising the occasional ins and outs, and local rules are pretty clear on that too.” Yale thought of Harriday’s fag and Janice’s gin and blushed a little at his ignorance, or was it an example of staff slackness? Brian concluded, “but when it really matters, like first thing, local club officials will be there with them. There’s a very tight surveillance. I can assure you. Went through it myself only this morning.”
Yale had a quizzical look. “Nobody can con their way in? How much detail does an entry form give? DNA, photograph, paw print?”
Brian sighed. “No micro-chip either. KC reg number, breeder and owner’s details, age, sex. That stuff. Pretty comprehensive, but as a sort of ex-bobby myself, I’ll give you there’s no stopping someone really out to get in, if you see my drift. With all that being checked though, taking a hell of a risk of being sussed. Could be done. Just. But, nah! Not on, really. Not at that time of day. More than the organisers’ worth.”
With that the two had to be Satisfied. Grant returned to his newly-coined positivism.
“Now then”, he began, with more than a touch of his boyhood accent, “I want to go through Inspector Yale’s notes. No need to disturb Mrs Goldey who is busy enough with her film stars. If there’s something I don’t get, Wiseton, then you’re just the man to explain.”
Brian looked well pleased. If he had been wearing a tie he would have straightened it. Since giving up all thoughts of showing that day, and under the, by now increasingly tiring, demands of his new role, he had removed the garment. ‘Always wear one in the ring’, he was used to saying. ‘Whatever they think, judges prefer it. Especially the ladies.’ Kem Harriday would have held no truck with the argument had he heard it; self-styled top professional X3, on the other hand, believed that suave-ness was all. Sufficient of itself to tip the balance. Grant began reading Anna’s record of Simon’s interviews. The other two sat in silence. There was little else they could do. Bannister might be back at the road works by now. If the old man hoped to get to the killer before CID arrived, he could well find the clue in what he was now studying with an academic’s classical furrowed brow.
Brian helped erase some of the furrows. He explained one or two technical terms Anna Goldey had used, otherwise there was a silence that helped calm Grant’s inner turmoil at the day’s catastrophic, in professional terms, events. Finally the student spoke.
“So,” he promisingly began, “there we have it.” The silence opposite him continued.
“Be positive! That’s my motto. Faint heart never won, well, nothing much. Can we crack this in the time left, Simon my lad?” Simon didn’t ask for an estimate of how long that time might be. What was the point? Grant went on.
“To solve this in time, we must narrow the field. I reckon, having read this, and feel free to tell me I’m wrong like most else of today has gone wrong, that the killer is directly linked either to the Bichon Frisé or the English Toy Terrier competitions. Is among them. In this Show, on this day, in this place, at this time.” Grant could be eloquent when under pressure. Yale chanced a first negative.
“If we accept that the fatal jab took place outside the hall, it could have nothing to do with either of those sets of benches. Could have been anyone.”
“Certainly. Could have been, as you say, but why? Why ‘could have been’? The only motive we have, in the time now left to us, is something the deceased wrote about someone. He, Graveney, intended to be showing in the ring himself. That would make it natural for him to be at or around the ringside whenever he wanted. You’ve told me, Simon, that from the ETT ring you can see the Bichon ring, and also anyone standing around it. Pressurising a judge or editing a record or whatever. I’m sure he was homing in on something in that line. Graveney was not only writing about some scam, some deception, some major fiddle or other; he was going to expose the culprit. Whoever the killer was knew this. Or feared it. Either would do, hence the killing. Not impossible it was a judge he was after. We should speak, or Bannister must, to Ms Thorpe and Mr Jenkins.”
Yale had to interpose. “The murder was premeditated. The killer didn’t wait for anyone, judge, Ambrose, whoever to get to the ring. Consider. The poison, unusual; the syringe, easy to hide; the scrum at the door more than accidentally convenient. All must have been foreseen by the murderer. Was,” he turned to Brian, “was Ambrose Graveney in the habit of gossiping? Letting drop what he knew? Or, maybe” as another thought struck him, “might he have confided in that editor of his who we are told enjoyed a little free chin wagging.”
Grant gave the ex-Corporal no time to reply.
“What you say, Simon, is good sense. All the more urgent that we cut through all this verbiage. Get to the chase, and all that. Those two competitions. I’m sure of it. In them lies the answer.” His tone became that of the decisive senior officer. “From these notes, and from all that we have all gathered, let us, in the best and finest manner of traditional policing, make a list. Who noticed Graveney near or at the door? How many, who, saw him in the last approach to the entrance where, as I can see, people were funnelled together making a perfect cover for a stabbing? Who, in short, saw Graveney in that scrum? Let’s put them on a list, give that list the once, fast look-over, and see if a name doesn’t jump out at us.”
“To be confirmed, how?”
“Confirmed, Simon, when we finally get our hands on that magazine article. Let’s narrow down, pin down, tie down, home in on the killer of Mr Graveney.”
Such was the contagious enthusiasm in Grant’s voice, that Yale gave up all thoughts of waiting for Bannister.
Chapter Nineteen
Saturday, 4pm – all but
To write a list required something to write on. Simon had something to write with. Two pens. The Super had something, prepared as he was. His note book. That book, however, was designed for neat, minuscule notes. It was already host to Doc Meredith’s and Arthur Yale’s advices. No room left for lists. Not lists that could be scribbled in, written over or around, and capable of being easily read by others. Neither had a big enough piece of pap
er.
“Paper!” Detective Chief Superintendent Grant was back on the ‘modern technicalities’ hobby-horse he had ridden when he had first contacted Simon Yale on his way to the station. If this man from Fraud had no paper to hand, twenty first century man that he was, he would have some electronic device. Grant, knowing full well that he didn’t, couldn’t resist.
“We can use your laptop, or notebook, or blackcurrant, or whatever you young fellahs call these jiggermaroos. Can’t we?”
Simon did not rise to the bait. Just pleased the old man was back on jocular form.
“Couldn’t have risked such a valuable item in this hall of thieves, sir. I’ll get some from the tea bar. Saw mine host filling in returns when I came up. Thought then he was off, and about to close.” Looking around he added, “he’ll be happy enough to help us. Our moratorium has given him a nice bit of extra business.” The Inspector went over to the vendor. His assessment was correct. The café owner was helpful. A couple of large sheets of acceptable quality were produced. Yale returned to the table waving them in a manner worthy of one of Mr Trott’s banners. He did not cry ‘Excelsior’, but his manner was triumphant.
“A ruler?” Simon’s smile went.
“Ah. Yes. Oh well! Make do. I can manage well enough.”
He began to scribble some names and notes from memory. Job done, so far as he could, he passed the page over to Grant who, checking with the Goldey notes, pushed it back and directed Yale to make some additions.
“Clearer, all in one hand,” he said, “even yours.”
Simon thought his free-hand go at it was good enough. What was not good enough was the lack of any name shouting out at them ‘I’m a killer. Arrest me!’ This reaction was commonly shared. Grant pressed Brian, the first name on the record.
“Go over your bit again, there’s a good chap. You were bumped from behind as things came to a halt. You were, therefore, standing still when you turned round and saw your friend Mr” he checked the notes, “Stimson. And others. Go over it again. Who others?” This not most grammatical of questions was sufficient to spark 887 off.
“I’ve been racking my brains all day. Ever since this thing happened. There was something. Something that struck me as strange. But hanged if I can dredge it up. Still, I’ll have another go. Now then. Let me see.”
In view of the clock ticking and Bannister en route, the two coppers sat with an admirable show of interest and patience.
“I saw Matthew, of course, but at first I did look around him, so to speak. To see who it was that had seized the system up again.”
“Again?” was Simon’s question.
“Behind you?” was Grant’s. Asked together.
“Now you’re going to confuse me! No, not behind to see who’d stopped. To see if anyone was going to cannon into the backs of my legs to balance the scars on the front of them. My poor old shins. Drew blood it did. That first collision. With the Afghans. I didn’t want any more of it. Point is, I looked beyond Matthew and, yes, yes! It’s coming. Saw Harriday.”
“The smoking Ken?” asked Grant.
“Not Ken. Kem. Sounds much the same, I know, but there is a difference. I think his name is Norman, but no one ever uses it. His father was Grenville. We all loved that! In school.” When flowing, Wiseton was not always coherent. Elucidation was required.
“Kem’s father was our Chemistry teacher. In school. Of course, he was young then. Only came in when we were in the fourth form I think it was. Boy was born much later. When X3 and me met up at a reunion years later, Mr Harriday was there, and his son. It just happened that X3 called him ‘Kem’. I think because he’d taken up chemistry like his father. Bred in him, you might say. Whatever, I met up with him, Kem that is, again on the dog-show circuit. May be I sparked him off. Told me he’d retired early and was looking for a new line.”
“Didn’t stay in chemistry then,” said Simon.
“Retired on something substantial. Chemistry must have paid well. Better than teaching. Didn’t follow his dad into that game. Industry, I think. Planned to make money from the dogs, mind. Determined to make breeding pay. That’s all I know. Never got close to him, the more so as he’s gone in for Toy Manchesters. The really funny thing is X3 turning up today. ‘Studying the form’ he told me. Not showing. He’s into Toy Manchesters as well. In a big way in the States. Coincidence or what?”
Grant chose to bring his witness’s mind back to the evidence, be it the whole truth or not.
“So you saw Harriday. Why should that surprise you?”
“Shouldn’t have really, I suppose. Saw him having his last fag in the car park, as he always did. Didn’t see him doing his Lewis Hamilton impression, though. Usually get a glimpse as he steams past on the outside. Yet there he was at the entrance. Same time as me.”
“Probably passed you when you were soothing your battered limbs,” put in Yale.
“Possible. But, and here’s the thing, where was his trolley? That was it! That’s what was surprising. No trolley with him. Had one. I saw him unload it.”
“Parked it somewhere until the crush eased? Helping someone else?” suggested Grant. Brian dragged out a doubtful ‘Yes’, then went on:
“Anna Goldey was there. I saw her. She and Kem know each other like most of us do. She had Buster, a big thing as you’ll see if you go over to her sideshow. Also had her main stand all folded up in another trolley. Yes, could be Kem was helping her.”
“Leaving his dogs at the wayside?” asked Simon.
“Safe enough at that hour. Everyone’s too busy with their own affairs to worry about anybody else’s. Even if they noticed an unattended trolley.”
“I see. Well, Simon, let me have another look at this masterpiece of yours. Is there anything it can tell us?” From his face, re-furrowed, it seemed not.
“Have to have another word with these others on the list. Before you-know-who gets here. Still certain that’s our way in. The answer lies with them somewhere. I’ll go further, it’s as fair a bet as we can go with that the syringe-jabber is on that list. Nothing to be lost. We’ll go for these. Come on! Let’s get started.”
“My old sergeant would whole-heartedly agree, sir.” Yale got the message.
“It’ll be a bit like ‘fix bayonets and follow me, chaps.’ You know: ‘it’s going to be tough’ sort of stuff.”
Grant needed no translation of that parody of infantry warfare. This next stage of duty meant, unavoidably, meeting his detainees face to face. That promised to be Tough enough. They wouldn’t be an over-happy gang, penned in as they were. They would be less so when required to expand their statements.
“We’ll speak to all on this list of yours, Simon. If nothing else, such activity can create a smoke screen…..”
“…. the better to attack under, sir”, said the knowledgeable corporal.
“No doubt. No doubt. On the other hand”, Grant pursued his theme, “it may confuse the culprit and, with any luck, smoke him out.”
“Taking it that he, or she, is on it, sir.”
“He – or she – is. Trust my instinct. We’ll beat Bannister to the barricades yet.”
Yale didn’t quite get the barricades bit, but grasped the meaning well enough.
“Very well. I’ll go along with that. In view of the time, do we split up? Share the list? Won’t seem as harassing as if we both descend on each of them.”
“I’d rather we both spoke to all. Double observation. That sort of thing. Yet, I accept, you have a point. Just aware that, on my own and not speaking the doggie lingo, I might be led astray too easily. Put off the scent as it were.”
“Take Brian here with you, sir. He can translate.”
“Fine, but,” this with a hard look at Wiseton, “he’s on the list, too, don’t forget.”
“Sure. We’ve already done him, together. A practice run, if you like. We need to agree on a common approach. What questions to ask.”
“Am I part of your smokescreen, or is your tactic to sm
other me?” asked 887.
“You’re a mite too shrewd, corporal. But the Inspector’s right. We’ve had a dummy run – no, not dummy; let’s say dress rehearsal – with you. Now then. Let’s get this clear. We want to find out who was in a position to jab Graveney in the neck with a small, we can take it a large size one was not needed, syringe at or about the entrance to this hall. Who was where in that crowd of competitors making their ways in. Brian’s helped us some already. We must work on the scenario, if only for time reasons, that the killer knew the system well, knew Graveney well, was able to follow, shadow, him along the route from the car park – Graveney did come via the car park I take it? Not by train or some other way? Can we clear that before I go on?”
Wiseton was up to the question. Anything but a dummy.
“You can, sir, you can. Saw him myself. Got a Cortina estate. Bit old-fashioned and out-of-date but it suited him. He had the boot fitted to carry dogs. Not just his own. Had a larger cage as well for when he was visiting kennels and the like as he told me himself. ‘Best car ever made for dog owners’ he used to say. More than once, when we met at shows. Saw it this morning. He arrived, parked near me, at about the same time. Then again, so did most of those on Mr Yale’s list.”
“Great. Thanks. Yes, you mentioned you saw him in the car park. As I was saying, our killer must have known him well and, from common knowledge, knew his car well. Regular feature at shows. No difficulty, then, in spotting him, parking, and then following behind or near him.”
“He had to gamble on getting right next to him near the doorway,” said Yale. “I wouldn’t have thought that could be planned with certainty. Possibly OK to trail him, but once the final coming together at the doorway began, the killer could easily have found it impossible to get near enough to his target. Certainly not near enough to jab in a syringe. And all without raising comment.”
Grant was not to be side-tracked.
A Question of Pedigree Page 17
