He explained his purpose. Again the joint, unspoken reply, was a ‘not now! what the hell!’ Yet politeness, duty and, they each admitted to themselves but not to each other, a wish to see the final after being deprived of the semis despite experiencing the warm-up, took over.
“That’s kind of you, Mr Trott.”
“Most considerate,” this from Simon. “Can we follow you across? I have one matter to clear with my Chief. Confidential. Then, I need hardly explain to a man of your position.”
Mr Trott, sensing nothing other that a proper realisation of his standing, and of the honour he was consequently able to bestow on the two plods, resumed his voyage, bearing on a course directly for the safe and secured haven at the main ring. The two officers, heads close together in earnest consultation as they followed at a discreet distance, made, for him, a suitable entourage, akin to a medieval king’s trainbearers.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Saturday, 4.53pm
Grant and Yale didn’t hurry, following their beneficent host, Yale mainly talking and Grant listening. As they did so, Trott added a spoonful of sugar to his invite. Not much, but enough to help. Aware of the flyball deadline, they were thrown a lifeline. As they strolled their way across the hall, the PA sprang once more into action, broadcasting the authoritative tones of The Manager.
“Thought he was at the ringside,” said Grant, “not in his eyrie headquarters.”
He was right. As part of an over-all command strategy, Manager Trott had a microphone link set up in his observational tract. ‘My wapentake’ as he would extol to any visiting academics, as when the socially rated Book Fair took place. Altogether a more seemly, quieter, use of the building.
“Ladies and Gentlemen. Your attention for a moment if you please. I wish to inform you that the flyball final will commence five minutes after the scheduled time. No longer a delay, I assure you, but one of the Harriers’ dogs has cut a pad on its paw. Nothing serious, but the team has asked for a few minutes longer to re-arrange their running order with one of the – and again I am assured equally able – reserve dogs. So,” and he paused to allow the hint of a confidential chuckle to warm the air, “they will not be running as underdogs.”
“Gives us a few minutes more, Simon. So, you see a pattern in today’s affairs?”
“Yes, sir. If I’m right, it all fits.”
They were standing in a now quiet alleyway, one leading to the main ring but near deserted as people settled in their places for the final.
“Keep going. I’m all ears. I won’t interrupt, though that doesn’t mean I’ll agree with everything you say. I have a few ideas of my own.”
Yale was sure he had, but grabbed his chance, taking the full extra five minutes. Grant was good as his word. He made no sound. As the Inspector spoke, he increasingly held the Super’s interest. His presentation ended neatly in step with the delayed flyball start. As they walked onto Trott’s terrain, Grant patted his junior on the back.
“Well done, my boy. You’re wasted in Fraud. You’re a pedigree CID man.”
Then all confidences had to end. Mr Trott omnipresent, the hullabaloo more so. Grant didn’t mind. It gave him time to digest his junior’s thesis. He could follow the razzmatazz of the racing, jumping, ball-carrying dogs while, at the same time, turning over in his mind what Yale had proposed. It did make sense. Things were, in the investigational sense, coming to a climax as were the teams before him.
The ill-fated Harriers went first and, fast though their dogs ran and leapt, they were not as smooth as the Ruffians.
“Ran their first-choice reserve dog in that team,” commented the sage Trott. “They’ll put another of them in for the second leg, I’ll be bound. Seen it before. No one likes a two-nil final. Better for all if it goes to the third leg. Come on you two,” Mr Trott became almost pally, “root for the Harriers this time. Support who you like in the decider.”
Simon made an effort to show due rapport with the Harriers. Grant remained in his brown study, reflecting on Yale’s concept and all that was going through his mind as a consequence. Hard to realise that at any moment proper procedure would re-assert itself. He would be as involved as ever, in default mode, come the next day. He felt sorry that Simon Yale would not be there at his side. Same with Brian, in a funny sort of way, he told himself.
The wisdom of Mr Trott prevailed. Whether it was a Different substitute dog or not, Simon couldn’t tell. They all looked much like each other. There were no Alsatians. Nothing but fanatical collies. Trott’s sage comment acted as a magic wand, bringing the Harriers deserved reward. The Ruffians slipped up, one dog going so far astray as to drop the ball, if only for a second. Long enough. One all. Everything to run for in the third and final leg. Tension was high.
The tension was interrupted. A minion approached his Manager. With disgruntlement showing, the great man leaned toward the messenger. His brow darkened yet further. Irritated, still keeping his eyes on the ring where the dogs’ breathing break was at any moment going to end, he reached over and pulled at Grant’s sleeve. The Super, drawn from his reverie, annoyed at this interruption as Trott had been, turned, to be given a quick, whispered, not-to-be-repeated message.
“There’s someone to see you. A policemen. An Inspector Bannister.”
Trott turned back to the ring. Grant’s eyes turned to the entrance to the small compound. There stood the slim, red-haired, sharp-featured, up-and-coming, all-things-professional man he knew to be Andrew Bannister.
“Go!” The Ref spoke; the dogs started.
Grant waved a hand to Bannister, hoping he would see that nothing could be done at that precise moment, and swung back to watch the desperate running and hear the ascending screeching that, if it didn’t frighten the animals, was sufficient to drown out all else. The only thing that mattered was, who would win? Harriers or Ruffians? He had no time to adopt either one of them. Like his murder case, it was down to the wire with only two teams involved. The first four dogs to run, his part-fevered brain now imagined, were named Harriday, Goldey, Wiseton and Charles. X3 would be a demeaning name for such feisty animals as these charging streaks before him, hunting down the yellow balls. For the other team, one could perm the Bichon pair, the ETT pair, Pugh and Stimson. The original four would do it, he fancied, yet the others remained in the frame. Which were the Harriers and which the Ruffians?
He had noted, as he and Yale had paraded behind Trott, that all those named were at the ringside. That pleased him. His instructions had been noted and acted on. None had tried to wriggle their vehicles out of the car park. Janice Mulholland, Simon had said, had been especially keen to get away. She had been on her mobile as they passed her on the way to the final. She had given a friendly wave, mouthing something to the effect that she was making new arrangements. Grant couldn’t grasp, above the din, what is was she wanted to say exactly, but didn’t give it much thought. What she did was her affair, so long as she obeyed the injunction about contact details. Kem and X3 he expected to see. They were keeping to their word and waiting to see him and Yale at the end. Miss Greatrex went, in his mind, with the Mulholland woman. Anna Goldey, as he already knew, was there somewhere. The two others to be interviewed, Pugh and Stimson, were in conversation with Brian Wiseton. ‘A true gathering’ he told himself. Why not? Here was all the fun of the fair, and after their enforced delayed departure there was nothing lost in staying to the very end and enjoying it. If nothing else, they were all fans of dogs and, in their own ways, lovers of dogs. Since his arrival, he had been told more than once that there were people who understood dogs and there were doggie people. Kem, he concluded, was in the former category and others, like Janice, in the second. Which was the best for dogs was beyond his ability to decide.
Inspector Bannister saw, heard, the need to be patient. He had been ushered so near to Trott’s forward command post, as 887 would have termed it, that he had as good a view as those inside. Latecomers often do best. If he had realised this, his spirits may
have been higher. As it was, they were low. He had left his two companions – detective sergeant and a DC; the ACC had been most insistent that he was given one of each as there would be much ground to make up – on the far side of the ring where they, at some physical inconvenience, managed to stay in his view. They had not appreciated their joyride around the roadworks to look at plants in pots and flowers in fancy arrays. Nor did they know what to expect amidst this seething mass of excited humanity. What they had grasped, quickly, was that the scene around them was anything but as a crime scene should be. Not a ribbon, not a barrier, not a chance of any clue surviving being trampled underfoot. The ACC had hinted to their governor at a form of anarchy prevailing. They were learning, rapidly, why that warning was given. Their wonder was not at the efficiency, the brilliance of the dogs. It was a feeling approaching contempt for those who had been entrusted with this case. What on earth was going on?
What was going on was the third leg. Fast. Head to head. Leg stride matching leg stride. As every human eye strained to see, there was nothing in it as the third ball carriers made it back to the line and the final runners set off. No disaster. An electronic beam camera would have been useful. The Ref’s decision was final. The smooth Ruffians had inched – the non metric Grant might have conceded millimetres in this case – ahead. Trott was beside himself. Perfect! He prepared to make his ‘have a safe journey home; the Hall closes in half an hour’ speech full of the joys of successful organisation. The murder, happily well apart, the day’s events had done no more than hone yet further the quality, the pedigree, of his control. Grant faced a Different audience. Shaking Trott by the hand, with thanks from himself and Simon for the privileged viewpoint, the Super moved quickly to where Bannister was waiting. Sure that no one person would pick up more than one or two of his words, so fast was the movement of happy dog lovers pouring past him, his greeting took the Inspector by surprise.
“Andrew. It is Andrew, isn’t it?
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now, move quickly. Very quickly. Where is your sergeant. Or is it a DC?”
“Both, sir.”
“Heavens! The ACC really did get going. Well then. All the better. Do you see that office? The one with the banner of the local Agricultural Society responsible for staging this Show above the door?” He pointed across the ring. Bannister was quick to register.
“Seen.”
“Get your two officers there now. Shouldn’t be a problem, but use a bit of tact if there’s any official still inside.” He told Bannister of his ruling on booking out and leaving contacts. “Record phone numbers, addresses and so on. Let anyone who wants to go, go, except those on this list, until I give the say so.” He gave him Simon’s sheet, scribbled at the café table. “Be firm. I think they’ll take it OK, but no argument. On my full authority. Once they’re safely installed, join me here. I’ll give you a briefing before you take over.”
Bannister, though puzzled, knew when he heard the voice of seniority. He set forth with good speed upon his directed task. Clear of the Inspector, Grant signed Simon over. He looked around Trott’s demesne, from whence the Manager had departed. Seeing three stacked chairs, reserved he took it for ladies of distinction, he freed two and waved Yale to sit.
“Phew! Glad to get the weight off my feet for a few moments. Hard flooring this,” he remarked with a Jenkinsesque sincerity. Yale sat with equal relief. They had been as on the beat for most of the day.
“Got any paper left?”
“Yes. The tea man gave me a couple of sheets.”
“Right. Get scribbling once more. I want to dictate my ten commandments.” Yale gave a quizzical look.
“Maybe not commandments exactly, but guidelines from as on high as I can be. What I want Bannister to do. The lines he must follow. Thanks to you, most of ‘em, added to and polished, if I may dare claim so, by my humble self. Nothing like racing dogs, I’m learning, to free up the old cranium juices.”
Simon, pen and paper at the ready, awkwardly but manageable on his knee, prepared to inscribe as on tablets of stone what was about to come. Then an idea struck him.
“Will you, please, give me a few minutes or so? While we wait for Bannister. Won’t take long. Want to give out a commandment of my own, if you will allow. Pass it on before they all disappear. Might have to dash as far as the car park if some have cleared themselves already. Might find them all still at the office with luck. Should only take a few moments.”
“I’m happy enough to sit here for the nonce. Want you here when Bannister returns. To act as my scribe while I give him the low-down. So, OK, sure, but get a move on.”
“Will do.”
Simon strode off toward the office. He bumped into, physically, as they stepped awkwardly from the raked seats, Messrs Pugh and Stimson. Apologies both ways, in the best English tradition, when each party knows the other to have been careless.
“Seen Brian?”
“Just this minute left us. Gone back to the benches, picking up Jenny and Mike from Susan. You should catch him.”
“Right. Thanks.”
He walked on, more briskly still. He was surprised to find that the benches were already being dismantled. By contractors, noisily, fed up with finding that they couldn’t start soon after four. Trott’s boys were not part of that task. Fortunately, the work had started at the far end from the Bichon and ETT lines, where the gun dogs had been. 887 was indeed regaining possession of his dogs. From Susan. Madge Donnelly was with them.
“We’re off to say goodbye at the office,” said Madge. “Janice and a few others have already gone. Just caught us. Can’t wait to get away. Didn’t win, either.”
“Shame that,” said good friend Susan. “Did you see the way…” Simon broke in.
“Want to give you an invite. My place. Eight o’clock if you can. Drinks and bits and pieces. Like to end the day on a cheerful note.” He gave each of them one of his personal cards. He was proud of these. Self-designed. On the one side the usual address, telephone number and e-mail details; on the other a neat sketch of how to find his flat and where to park. These he did not give to his criminal associates.
Hardly waiting for the murmured ‘thank yous’ and uncertain acceptances, he reinforced the invite as he raced off once more. Towards the car park. Those ladies had been smartly off the mark! The Show clerk must have dealt with them. Briefed by Trott, that master tactician? Hardly time for Bannister to have got weaving unless, of course, he really was a fast-track wizard. Simon had not wanted to take this route again. If he hurried, he wouldn’t keep Grant making small talk to Bannister for too long. As he neared the park he widened his stride, was able to catch the ones he sought, passing on the invite and the cards. That done, he made full steam ahead back to the sitting Super. He arrived sufficiently soon after Bannister to avoid a disapproving frown.
“Sorry, sir.” Another standard English apology.
“Caught us in time, Simon. Haven’t lost your note-taking equipment in your hurry I trust?”
“No fear of that. Do you want full notes of the briefing?
“No. Just my summary points. First I’ll fill in the background. Grab that spare seat, Andrew, and prepare for a description of exactly what you should never do in this business.”
“Or, unavoidably, get caught up in,” said Simon.” That did earn a senior look.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Saturday, B-hour
Inspector Andrew Bannister had the drive, the vigour, the go-go-ness attributed to redheads. Immediate action, such as taking over the office, suited his temperament. He was keen to get on with things. To learn from the Super what was what, and to take over the investigation. He was unsure of Simon Yale’s role. Grant explained.
“I’ve asked Simon to record my ten commandments”, he began, teasingly. “They will act as your guidelines, your start points for the case you are taking over. I wish you well. Today’s goings on are not ones you are likely to have come across. I never have. It has b
een, professionally, a weird experience. Nothing has gone as it should have gone. All the more necessary to fill you in on the background.”
Grant explained the heavy drain on manpower for the big demo in London that had, indirectly, set off the chain of events.
“Cut too near the bone. I said so when the plans were announced. Was ignored. The decision depended on there being nothing whatsoever out of the routine here for a whole Saturday. It also hinged on certain promotion hopes and plans. No more to be said on that.”
The pared-down force had then met with a series of incidents, each needing immediate attention. Accidents, road problems, compounded by the disappearance of a young girl. Missing overnight. Meant all remaining hands to the pump on that one. Had to call on other forces, also committed to the London thing and having to cope with whatever happened on their own patches.
Grant told of the call from the Hall when he was alone and scraping below the bottom of his manpower barrels, of the fortunate freeing of Yale, something unexpected by that officer who had been on his way to London on a fraud case. He told Bannister of the Doc’s confirmation of death, the quick finding of the method of killing, the belated discovery of the cause of death. To Bannister’s growing concern, the Chief Superintendent went on to describe the obliterated site surrounding where Graveney had been found and the even more trampled-over approach to the exhibitors’ entrance where they now knew the attack had taken place. He told of Yale’s arrival, and of his consequent marshalling of a rag-bag amateur army to take on the task of conducting an investigation – thought at first to be no more than a short holding operation.
“Hard for you to imagine such a set-up,” he went on. “Same for me, and I’ve been here half the day. It has, I can say no more, been far from textbook. Far from ideal.” The set-up was then compounded by the second car crash, involving the Assistant Chief Commissioner. With a slight concession to his own amour propre, Grant described how he was sent into the breach to aid and succour the hard-pressed Yale.
A Question of Pedigree Page 21
