A Question of Pedigree

by Frank Edwards

  Bannister took all this in as well as he could. He didn’t grasp all the detail, but got the drift. He quickly decided to distance himself from the story. He sat still in his Trott-owned seat devising ways of making a clean break with it all once he was in charge.

  “So there we are. Simon’s home guard kept some control over later movement and his sturdy ex-Corporal acted as a local interpreter. From those small beginnings an investigation took shape. You have a great opportunity here,” he raised his hand as if in benediction; Simon awaited for a second time the next words ‘my son’, but as before they came not. “A few more interviews to do. Follow ups. Your task now. I’d like to sit in on the first of them, if it won’t cramp your style, as we arranged it. Two chaps waiting to see us now. Probably in the office. Hope so. That done, and if they confirm what we’ve already been told, then the case is as good as solved. Of that I’m confident. All you have to do is prove it.”

  Andrew Bannister avoided the impulse the choke at this. To sneer. To deride. To dismiss. To, more dangerously for his own career prospects, accept it as fact. This was a Super speaking. He knew that. One who felt the need to justify his secondment to the trenches by the ACC. That Bannister had registered. What he was not going to allow, by any sign of his, was that the matter was to all intents and purposes settled. He couldn’t stop Grant ‘sitting in’ – he hoped that would be all – on the interview with these two blokes, but from then on he would start in his own way and go on the end in his own manner. He indicated an acceptance of the Super’s presence at the next stage, and prepared to receive the ten commandments that were to guide him through the future land.

  “Now to detail. Get your pen poised, Simon. I’ll tell you when and what to write. Excuse the scruffy piece of paper. It goes well with today’s scenario.” Bannister managed a smile. No need to show disgruntlement. Time enough for that when he was back with his own team.

  “The story starts with a magazine article. That is the source of the motive. We have been handicapped. We have yet to see it.”

  “Or, sir, to be honest, know if it exists.”

  “Of course it does, Simon. Just that such a thing is hard to drum up on a Saturday afternoon. I know you keep on about fax machines and e-mails and the like. Faxes I’ve used. The other things are no more that paper clip symbols on screen to me. No matter which. Clever chaps can use them easily enough, no doubt. Trouble is, clever chaps are good at not being there when you want them. Not all is negative,” he re-addressed Bannister. “We do, whatever Simon says, have some idea of its content. No idea, though, how it was phrased and why it should have engendered such a violent reaction. Not every magazine contributor gets bumped off by a sensitive reader. Ambrose Graveney, the author, managed to hit a very dangerous target particularly effectively. That’s my view. Our view. So, the first of my, I’ll stop the conceit of commandments, the first of the ten directions to you is this. Get writing, Simon.”

  Grant took a deep breath.

  “Number One. Get hold of recent editions of the magazine Dogs Talk. I would suggest the last six issues to start with. Get hold, next, of someone in the doggie world to translate any article by Varro, Graveney’s pen name. See if you can find any reference to one of the names on that list I gave you. From what we have seen of him, I think you can trust a chap called Royston Haig. Got a son Trevor, with a fine collie. Wonderful performer.” ‘Has the old man gone doolally, or is it a form of going native?’ Bannister wondered. He said nothing. Grant pressed on, having given his scribe time to finish the entry.

  “Number Two. Check Doc Meredith’s autopsy. He says death was caused by poison, injected by a small syringe. Have you got that, Simon?” Yale nodded. “Good. Don’t fuss over finding the syringe. That needle will long have left this haystack. If it was brought into the Hall, of which we can’t be sure, it will long since have been disposed of. Confirm, also, Doc’s view of the time the poison needed to take effect. On what we know, it confirms that the stabbing took place outside the exhibitors’ entrance, as they were funnelling their way in to register. Check Doc’s diagnosis.”

  Despite his wish to remain as aloof as possible until in charge, Andrew Bannister was drawn into the rapidly unfolding sequence. He pulled his chair nearer to Yale, the better to read over his shoulder what was being scribbled. He would need to absorb as much as possible before launching his own investigation, not to mention the task of passing the gen to his sergeant, who would have to be brought up to speed.

  “Number Three.” Grant was remorseless. He wanted to get a well-briefed Bannister under way as soon as he could. “Nicotine is the poison. We must work on that. I can’t see Meredith changing his mind about it. So? Source? We’ve only noticed one person smoking around here, one of the two we’re off to see in a few minutes. One who has experience as a chemist, like his father before him. Of itself, that’s not decisive, but what if he has the equipment to make the stuff? We can assume the know-how. Also, just as necessary, find out any keen gardeners among those on the list. Insecticide, the Doc says, is a known source. Not easy to trace, but could give a lead. If, that is, any of them have time for their gardens as they traipse around all summer from show to show.”

  Yale wrote as Bannister pondered how to set about this. Where did this man, this lone chemist smoker, live? Could he get a search warrant before the fellow had time to get home and remove any equipment or other evidence? As for tracing garden freaks, and searching their sheds!

  “Number Four. This smoking chemist. He is, as I say, waiting to be interviewed, along with his American side-kick, a chap called Charles. We want to find out more about them. Two points especially for Harriday – he’s the smoker, English. In addition to anything he can tell us about what went on this morning, I’d like to know how was he able to take early retirement? Which he did. On what? Went into breeding dogs. Profitable or not? A cover for something else? More. Did the ability to retire young have anything to do with Mr Charles?” Grant avoided the confusion of X3. “Is there some sort of tie-up between them?”

  “Maybe a business one,” added Simon. “They both breed Toy Manchesters. Professionally. The Atlantic separates them but, as one of them said, the World Wide Web spans that with ease. Oh, and by the way, Andrew, better you have these to go with that list. Summary of the interviews I did this morning, including a first one with Harriday. I didn’t speak to Charles. He isn’t showing today.” He gave the Goldey-prepared notes to Bannister. “Pretty legible. Recorded by Mrs Goldey, one of those on the list, but so far as I can judge, not doctored in any way.”

  On went the catechism.

  “Five. Is Agnes Thorpe, the ETT judge today, to be chosen to judge Best in Show at this year’s Crufts? If so, check on her work this morning. What did anyone on that list see of her in action. Was there anything unusual? Excessive speed, say, or signs of favouritism. Did she behave in any way unusually? Flustered? Worried? Uncertain? You know the line. Was she, in short, kosher?” This puzzled the newly-arrived Inspector.

  “Ask not,” supplemented Simon. “Just find out.”

  “I hope you’re writing all this down clearly,” sighed Bannister, bombarded as he was by unknown names with barely understood terms.

  “Finest hand in Fraud,” was the unconsoling reply.

  “Number Six. A key question. Who provided the champagne? Again, seemingly linked with Harriday. You must ask, as not absolutely certain. Number Seven. Who produced the congratulations card and who signed it? These two are connected to the success, we understand, of Harriday’s dog. Had a good day in Ms Thorpe’s ring.”

  “Need more info on those, sir.”

  “I’ll get Brian Wiseton to fill you in if we catch him in time. You should speak to him. Want to make best use of Simon for this last minute or two before we get on. I find you can’t take things in if you have to write them down at the same time. You watch my lips, and let my words soak into your inner being. Number Eight. When did Harriday and Charles book in to the Royal Soverei
gn Hotel, and for how long? That’s where they’re staying now. To rest, he told us, before Crufts. He seems to have been exceptionally confident of success today, hence, in part, my interest in Ms Thorpe. Same thing with Charles’ hired car – Number Nine. When did he hire it? What model is it?” – Yale kept quiet – “When? For how long? So on.”

  “I’m glad Moses didn’t have to transcribe more than ten! I’m grateful, though, Simon. Go on, sir. What’s number ten?”

  “Number Ten, Andrew, is this. Find out if the wardens and/or the staff on the competitors’ entrance did, at any time today, see anyone entering or leaving or, more likely, both with an empty trolley. Can they describe any such? If I’m right, they will be able to do so pretty well.”

  “Well done, sir! Quite a lot to go on from a disaster of a day as you describe it. More than I expected.” Grant gave an evil little smile.

  “On further reflection – it is amazing, as I’ve said to Simon, what an invigorating effect competing dogs can have – I’ll go for the Twelve Days of Christmas.” Once more Simon’s musical mind swung into a silent performance. “Two more. Won’t exhaust you, any more than they would have Moses. Two very much on the sidelines. If you get stuck, however, one of them may get you going again. Here they are. Numbers Eleven and Twelve. Why didn’t Jim Treasure turn up with his ETT? Was it, as we are told, because he didn’t like the judge, or was it to create a convenient gap in the running order? Does it tie in with any part of Ms T’s performance today? And what did Mr Jenkins, the Bichon judge, operating in the next ring, see or hear that caused him concern? He can give an expert opinion on Thorpe. There you are. Done.”

  Instead of dashing off, eager for the chase, Bannister asked for a few minutes to read through the interview notes Simon had given him.

  “Sure. Makes sense. Get what you can from them.”

  With a ‘thanks’, Bannister set to his literature. Yale moved Grant a few steps away.

  “Something may have been overlooked, sir, if you’ll allow me.”

  “Of course. Fire away.”

  “No mention of Anna Goldey or her story. She’s on the list, but that’s all. Bannister knows nothing of her part in the events on the way in. Or, come to that, what the two Bichon ladies told you, any more than Susan and Madge said to me. Neither of us have notes of those last interviews. Shouldn’t he be briefed?”

  “I take your point, Simon. I fancy I’ve given him quite enough to get started on. He’ll want to interview them all himself, as I say, so leave it at that. He can get what he wants out of them in his own way. I’m not dismissing your suggestion of a three-way plot including Wiseton either. Andrew will need to go into all of that, as he would have done had he been here first thing today. All I wanted to do was to point him off, to get him going in some positive direction.” Simon was not entirely Satisfied, but had no option.

  “Fair enough, sir. In any case, I’m out of it now.”

  “Bannister may want to interview you as well. You can’t escape that. You are the most key witness there is! He’ll be after giving me the third degree as well.” With a part-dismissive laugh, Simon raised one further matter.

  “All that accepted, one other idea strikes me. What about the photos?”

  “Those you gave Doc Meredith, taken with that one-off camera thingy?”

  “No. Not those. He took those with him. They’ll be in the record for what they are worth. Not much if the jabbing took place outside. No, I mean of the dogs. When a dog wins in the ring, certainly when best of breed, a photograph is taken. Of the winner and owner, usually cuddling up with the judge. I suggest that Andrew get hold of the photograph of Harriday’s winning dog…”

  “… and Janice’s?”

  “May as well if there was one. She only won her class. But certainly Harriday’s. Champagne and cards and all that. An expert should be able to tell if it was his. Check with his entry form. Do they agree. See what I’m getting at?”

  “Not really. A fiddle implicating Ms Thorpe?”

  “I don’t know, but Ambrose was on to something. You gave that as your first commandment – chase the article. I asked the question in all my interviews this morning: ‘What’s the most likely bit of crookery?’ Had a heap of suggestions, but all homed in on the ring. Either a got-at judge or a ringer, one dog named on the form, Different one in the flesh.”

  “That lets Janice and Kem out, then. Both won, so no need to swap dogs.”

  “If the dog in the ring was the one on the entry form.”

  “Still doesn’t help us. We don’t know much about Janice’s, but every one says Kem’s, Triggo isn’t it?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “His Triggo is a near cert to win. Why on earth should anyone enter a dog other than their winner?”

  “To ensure, so far as possible, a win in Best of Breed? I guess. Janice won her class, Kem’s went on to be best dog and then in Breed. There must be a temptation to slip in a better dog still if you are after the top prizes.”

  “Where does such a dog come from? If it’s that good, why not enter it in the first place?”

  “Because it’s not yours? I can only speculate. Swop Triggo for X3’s American champion? Could be.”

  “A big risk, surely, for both parties. Kind as Kem seems to have been in introducing someone his father taught, hardly a close relationship, to the UK scene, if X3 wanted experience in the ring he could have entered in his own right. He can certainly afford it.”

  “Yes, I know. Needs more thinking about. Not impossible that something on these lines was planned by the school trio, only Brian got side-tracked.”

  “He volunteered his services. Chose to miss out on showing. No need to do that if, with Ambrose dead, they were clear to go ahead with whatever.”

  “Just think it’s worth looking at more closely. What I am saying, I suppose, is that Andrew should pursue the possibility. Once we find the article all should become clearer.”

  “OK. I’ll buy that. Poor old Andrew! You really are heaping it up on his plate now, aren’t you?”

  “Now or never. I’m out of it. Remember?”

  Grant paused then, turning back to Bannister, said:

  “I’ll make it a baker’s dozen. Simon’s had an idea.” He passed on Yale’s thoughts to the Inspector.

  Whether to avoid more directions from on high or because of his wish to get stuck in, the red-headed policeman folded the notes he had been studying and made clear he was ready to get going. With Grant, he set off towards the site office where Harriday and X3 awaited. After they left, Simon slowly stacked the three chairs, placing them as neatly as their putative owner would have wished. It was something to do. All around was emptying. There was much noise and bustle as planks were dragged, seating dismantled, great banners lowered, and trade stands packed away ready for their journey to their next show. Yet few people. The small teams knew what to do and how to do it. What had looked like walls gave way to disclose parking yards, with lorries of many shapes and sizes backed up ready for the loading and the off. All day he had been on the go, talking, looking, searching for ways through the labyrinth of moving, engaged, active, noisy persons. Persons and their dogs. Announcements and competitions. These had gone on largely oblivious of what had been, for him, the central point of the day. The only reason for his existence that Saturday. Now he was sidelined. He had no more part to play; no role to fulfil. True, Bannister would want him to recall the happenings that had so taken him over, but at that moment there was an emptiness. He felt the urge to go and join one of the gangs of workfolk, busy-busy about their folding and collecting, pushing and storing. He did not, knowing such a gesture would be unwelcome and impractical.

  There was no one to say farewell to. All those who had filled his day were either gone or in other hands, shuffling out of his mortal coil as fast as they could, once more about their own affairs. He was glad he had issued those invites. Could say adieu to those who made it. Thinking of the two being talked to at that mo
ment by Grant and Bannister gave him a jolt. So conditioned had he become to the atmosphere of that day, he found himself worrying in case Harriday’s dog, or whoever’s!, had been abandoned. Left unattended somewhere. The new team would not be aware, and Grant might have overlooked the possibility, unknowingly unsympathetic. Surely, the two would have said if they were concerned? Under pressure, even an experienced a man as Harriday might have forgotten how quickly the benches were dismantled. Simon felt a new compulsion, to walk through what was now left of them to see if there was a need to rescue a forlorn canine waif. Something to do. Something to do. Reluctant to leave without one more duty performed.

  He did so walk. No dogs. No crates. No trolleys. The last planks of wood and metal sheeting being removed before his eyes. The car park! He strode once more, for what was to be the last time, along the Via Dolorosa of the trailing trolleys. No one impeded him. No one accompanied him. From the car park itself occasional revving vehicles reverberated. Sounding hollow compared with what would have been the full roar of half an hour earlier as the main body of competitors departed. He looked around. One of his two mates of earlier gave him a wave. The other was checking a departee’s ticket. Not many vehicles remained. A large motor caravan still. A number of saloons. Few estate cars. One, a sad-looking elderly Cortina, awaiting forensic. The second, a Mercedes. He hurried across to it. The trolley was still there. Folded. No dog. X3 was otherwise engaged. He was consoled.

  Knowing that his working day was now done – he put aside the idea of a fond farewell to Manager Trott still, beyond doubt, hard at it, happily in charge of all the activity within – he turned his back on the Hall and, like his Super hours before, set out find his own car. He had less success than Grant. Not that the chums in the office wouldn’t have helped him scour the neighbourhood for it should he ask for help. After a few fruitless moments wandering and gazing vacantly about him, and before he could get on his mobile to make shame-faced 999 call, it struck him. He hadn’t come by car. His car was off the road that day. The mobile would be needed to ring for a taxi.