“Is that why you suggested looking at the winners’ photographs?”
“Yes. Take an expert eye to spot anything, granted, but such a check might put the wind up a guilty party.”
There was no more said as Grant completed the journey, arriving in time for Simon to whip down to the corner convenience store for some emergency shopping. As he got out, with thanks, Grant added as a postscript:
“Good story. I like it. I’ll try all the more to get along later. If there’s a chance, and depending on who shows, I’d like to try it out on some of your troop. I hope they turn up. If they think it holds water, have to tread carefully I know, but if they do, then I’ll push Bannister in that direction. See you later!” Yale stepped out of the car. Grant, seized by another whim, lowered the passenger window with his master button and half-shouted after the Inspector.
“One moment! Good story, as I say. We’ll probably never know how Ambrose found out about the scam, but we do accept he wrote a warning. That article. How could he ensure that the intended person read it?”
“Regular reader? Been got at by Ambrose before and had responded, showing he was one?”
“Quite a few of those. Ambrose had to catch the attention of one in particular. I’m a subscriber to some magazines, but don’t read every item every issue.”
“He planted a signal. Something his target was sure to spot, and then read on. Best I can do.”
“Something no other reader would notice?”
“Wouldn’t matter if they did. Not a trigger for them. Must have worked, whatever, if my tale is to stand up.”
“Fair enough.” Grant drove off about his business.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Saturday, The Which-ing hour
At eight o’clock precisely – eight pip emma to the ex-Corporal – Brian Wiseton rang the bell at the modern block of flats. Simon Yale lived on the first floor. He had considered the ground floor but, once the move in was completed, there being no lift, he had no regrets. A view of the river one way, the main road into town the other. He checked his visitor and pressed the release button. Brian opened the door and made his way up. Yale could see that 887 was pleased with himself.
“Never late on parade, sir.”
“Glad to see it. Drink?”
“Beer. If you’ve got one. Walked here. Got to keep fit.”
Hardly waiting to thank his host as he took his first sup, Brain jumped in with his good news.
“I think I’ve got it. The one you want. The bit in Dogs Talk we’ve been wondering about.”
“Well done. From your friend Royston?”
“No. Not him. He’s on his way back to the smoke long since. No, another friend of mine. Lives locally. Bit of a hoarder. I thought, ‘well,’ I thought, ‘if anyone’s got a back copy or three it’ll be old Fred.’ And, sure enough, he did. Feel sure this is the one. He had the last six or more editions did Fred, but this one, three ago, fits the bill nicely. By Ambrose. Varro, now I know. It ties in with what Royyo said about ETTs.”
“Excellent. Your old sergeant would have been proud of you.”
“I wonder!”
The downstairs bell rang again and, after the check and invite, entered the Bichon two.
“We’re not too early? Oh, good. Not first I see. Glad of that. Might look rude, I think, to be first. Oh! Sorry, Brian. Didn’t mean it like that. Doesn’t apply to gentlemen in any case.”
Janice was less effusive than her friend. Both accepted hospitality. Simon wanted to press on with Brian’s discovered article. He was glad the ladies had been able to come. He hoped the others would also, but not at that moment. He was impatient for what might be revealed. He told the two newcomers of the magazine. Brian had an enthralled audience.
“Sure this is the one,” he said again. “Didn’t bother bringing the others. Fits what we were talking about.”
“You’d better explain it, Brian. Give a translation. Bound to be too technical for me.”
“I doubt it, after what you’ve learned today, dog-wise that is. Mainly one of old Ambrose’s usual rants, Fred says. He’s a regular reader. On about the disgrace of the Kennel Club allowing Toy Manchesters into the same ring as ETTs. ‘Might as well let in min pins’ he wrote.” Yale had heard that one. “Not that I don’t agree with him mind, but he does go a bit over the top. What matters is, it isn’t just a general rant. He bags on about it, but refers to today’s show in particular. Now why? Wouldn’t have thought today’s was so special.”
“Not unless you’re on to some fiddle or other”, said Janice.
“Yes. Thought of that. Have to read it again. Only had time for a quick glance before coming on here. He makes some reference to ‘wrong looking dogs’ – but then he would, wouldn’t he – before letting this Varro thing go to his head. Chunks of Latin! Well, I exaggerate, but some. Don’t know any myself. You a classical scholar, sir?” Simon laughed.
“Did two years compulsory at school and then dropped it as fast as I could. No use asking me. Either of you ladies get the right education?” Neither offered much help. “Might as well have a shufti, then. Let’s see what the master mind wrote.” Brian gave Simon the magazine, and pointed at the offending lines. Yale gave a thought then a smile of recognition.
“Now that is what I call a breakthrough,” he said. “Hardly believe it. Here it is. About the only bit of Latin I’m sure of because it is pinned over the desk of the guy who shares the office with me at Fraud. His motto, he says. Had to ask him what it meant. He took great pride in telling me, and telling me to follow the same text myself if I wanted to be as sure of a great and successful career.” Taking a moment to savour his erudite glory, Simon Yale read out, whether to Cambridge or Oxford standards he knew not, the line in the article that had troubled Wiseton. “Corruptio optima pessima. My colleague says the dictionary translation is ‘the corruption of the best is the worst of all.’ I’ve not checked. Taken his word for it. How does that apply to our story today?”
The bell rang again. Another two ladies joined them, Susan and Madge. His invites had been a success. The ladies, Janice in particular, must have made considerable readjustments to their plans. Simon saw to their needs and, helped by Brian, carried through his hurriedly prepared plates of what he had managed to find on the local shelves. As he did so, like Brian earlier over the matter of the trolley-less Kem, something began to worry at the back of his mind. Something he’d heard that day. Now, what was it? He let it jiggle away as he turned to hostly duties.
“Help yourselves. Please. I’m delighted you were able to come.”
“Any others expected?”
“At least one, Janice – I may call you Janice? I feel that we should all be on first name terms after today. That’s the main reason I asked you. To say how grateful I am for all the help you’ve given. All being well Chief Superintendent Grant will find time to pop in and add his thanks. For the moment, however, our day’s work isn’t finished. Thanks to Brian. I hope between us we can make sense of this article, and not just the Latin bits. I’ve managed one, by a fluke. There’s another. Ambrose obviously wrote for an educated public.”
“I wouldn’t have said so,” said Susan. “Wanted to make sure he got his views across to as many as possible. That’s what I reckon. If there is another bit of the great tongue I may be able to help. Did A level Latin to impress university admission tutors. More effort than it was worth, I now think. It would be wonderful if those hours of construing could be put to some practical use.”
“I’ve got a photocopier in the back room,” said Simon. “It’s only a one-page article. I’ll run off a few copies and ask you all to read through it and see if anything strikes you. Something that may decide who did, or planned to do, what it was that so upset Graveney.” He went off to do that, leaving his visitors to chat merrily, as though at some long-planned reunion. The bell rang once more. Brian shouted out:
“OK if I get it?”
“So long as it’s not a burglar.�
�
“Right boss.”
It was Althea Gibbons. If no one else had come, Simon’s cup of joy would be full. Having missed her at the Hall, he had had to leave a message on her office answerphone. He counted himself clever at tracing that. The CID pedigree still shone through. By the time he came back into the room, Brian had poured her a drink and was in deep conversation. Initial niceties exchanged, background explained, sheets distributed and plates passed round, all turned their diagnostic skills to the script.
As Brian had said, it began with a tirade at a lowering of qualification standards mainly, in the view of the writer, due to greed. Wanting to bring in as many overseas competitors as possible. For the greater good of the Kennel Club and nothing else, was the repeated theme. It was surprising, in quite a short piece, how Varro managed to get on what Yale guessed, and Susan confirmed, were his regular hobby horses. They were looking for something more specific. The bit about ‘wrong sort of dog’ was repeated, unnecessarily, Simon felt, if the jibe was merely one about Toy Manchesters. Janice Mulholland, ahead of him in reading and more able to grasp the background, cried out:
“Eureka! Sorry, I don’t know the Latin equivalent. Only know that as one does. It must be this bit. Varro, Ambrose, is not just banging on about allowing overseas dogs in with varying specifications, but he uses it to warn – somewhat esoteric if you ask me, but there it is – that it makes the passing off of one dog for another easier.”
“That’s one thing that would set him off,” said Brian.
“Sure, but what else is there? Cherchez la pooch or some such, seeing we’re all bilingual tonight,” retorted Janice. “Not much. Look! He says it again in a sort of summary. The only argument he does repeat. Must have intended to drive it home. To someone.”
“Who? Which reader or readers was he getting at? Were there any Italians in the field today?” Madge was fascinated by the Latin. She didn’t speak Italian.
“If he was after someone, then it had to be someone with a grasp of Latin. Why else put it in?” This was Miss Greatrex’s contribution. The two classical quotes had caught her eye. She was not going to be left out of things.
“You’ll be putting me and the Super out of a job if you go on like this,” was Simon’s admiring reply. “That makes Susan the chief suspect, then.” The resultant laughter had a slightly forced edge to it. Susan? She bred ETTs, approved of by Ambrose, so could not be. Brian, anxious to divert attention next falling on his friend X3 broke in:
“Could be that, say, Kem knows Latin. A chemist, and all that. Don’t chemists have to know Latin?”
Janice took up the point. Simon’s mental jiggle reactivated.
“German, maybe. Even then, I doubt it these days. His father’s generation of chemists may have needed German to read research in the original, but nowadays everything is in English, surely. Certainly not Latin. Did they have doctors in those days?”
There was a pause. Simon, Grant’s departing comment in mind, was grappling with the same point. How could Ambrose have ensured that this particular article, mainly about things he has written about before, would be spotted and understood by one particular person? Or three? The one whose response was to kill him? Was the Latin the clue? The code, as it were? Nothing brilliant about it. The tags, he was sure, would be found in any decent dictionary. The message would have been simpler in English. Yet Latin was surely the marker, a ‘come and read me’ signal. ‘The corruption of the best is the worst of all.’ Harriday had been the best, in his breed. Had it been his dog? He told the later comers of his translation of the one. He turned to Susan.
“Made anything of the other bit of old-world lingo?” He read out loud, in the same style as earlier, “Sint ut sunt aut non sint.” All turned expectantly to the cultured one. Susan took a moment, then declared:
“Yes. Got it. More or less, I’m sure. Something on the lines of,” and she paused to organise the word order, “something along the lines that things should be as they are – as they truly are I think that is – or they shouldn’t be at all.” Simon felt like leading a round of applause. He took a chance and told them, briefly, his idea of a ringer, being sneaked into the ring.
“Which dog was which? I wonder what the Latin is for that?”
There was the objection he expected, but he stuck to his guns. It could have happened. How could anyone be positive – and here he risked indiscretion under the guise of a ‘for example’ – any one Toy Terrier really was the dog on the tin? After a round of observations and some contradictions, the premise got a grudging acceptance. No one there wanted to think it could work. Simon argued it could, if engineered by people unbalanced enough to kill. Brian was still concerned about his school chum X3.
“All right, then. What if, and I can say this in the open even if you can’t, what if X3 slipped his dog in to ensure a victory for Kem,” there was an intake of breath at the audacity of this suggestion. Brian bulldozed on. “What’s in it for X3?” Simon was ready for that one. Brian had struck the chord he wanted.
“To get his dog judged by the one he expects to be judging Best in Show. That’s what. Able to see how she handled the dog; how she responded to it. Is she a judge who looks for faults and deducts points, or one who adds up credit for good features?”
“Does she study all pads carefully!”
“What’s her take on eyes. On pigment!”
Simon was pleased at the knowledgeable outburts from his fellow sleuths.
“X3 said he was here to get a feel for the setup in England. What better way of doing it than to stand near the judge you hope will be deciding on yours at the highest level, and see and listen in as much as possible to what she says and how she goes about things.”
“But”, Madge couldn’t contain herself. “Pretty far-fetched if you ask me. Given that he got the dog in under the entry papers of another’s, and a second-rate one at that, so what? Might make for a breeding con, but no more. For the American champion to win Best in Breed at Crufts is far from certain, even under a judge known to him. First, there’s the class. Nothing’s ever certain. Then there’s the Group to win, Different judge again, before any final chance under Agnes Thorpe. Far too long a shot.”
“Not for fanatics. Ones who have spent years dreaming of, building up to a shot at the top of Crufts. Who, for all we know, saw this year as their one chance. Right dog, right conditions. Why not right judge? If she cannot be bribed, then get as much inside information as you can. They were gamblers you said, Brian?”
Wiseton nodded. “You saw them at the ringside.”
Yale had. He continued. “Gamblers can reach a point of frenzy however dyed-in-the-wool. I’m seeing something of them in my new police life. When nearing a climax to their bet, if they fear a fall at the last fence, that their scheme, in this case, would unravel because of one article in a limited circulation magazine written by someone they classified as over the hill, yesterday’s man, well then! They can be ruthless in their drive for success.”
There was an uneasy atmosphere. No one liked the way the conversation had gone. Simon went on. “Speculation, much of it. I can’t deny. Up to Inspector Bannister to prove whatever it was happened. We, the Super and I, think all the strands are there.” On cue, the bell rang again, and allowed Grant to come up the stairs to join them.
“What we all now need is what my dear old father used to tell us children when we couldn’t do our homework. ‘Genesis One, Three’ he would say. We had to look it up at first.” Jean Greatrex gave a challenging smile. A firm, Yorkshire Methodist-bred voice answered her as he was let into the room by Simon. “Let there be light.” There was a cheer.
“Got it!” exclaimed the host. “Fiat lux. That’s it! That’s the final clue. Fag anyone?”
Simon explained his memory of the cigarette-seeking Harriday. “That’s it!” He told Grant how things had gone. The Super was not Satisfied. He went back to a point he had made to Yale.
“Good work. A really fine team you put toge
ther, Simon. Still bothers me, though, that Kem should be so accommodating to someone who, at best, had only a tenuous relationship with him. I can take all that about helping him understand the inner workings of the British system, but to go so far as to take the risk, one to his whole career, of running X3’s dog as Triggo? Don’t get it.”
“Me neither,” said Brian. “Not that kind-hearted, old Kem.”
“He still got Best in Breed on the day”, said Madge.
“True”, the Super was not Satisfied. “But Triggo could have done that, all seem agreed.”
There was a pause, then the classical brain slipped once more into gear.
“What if it wasn’t Triggo who was entered?” asked Susan. “I mean, it would suit Kem’s future sales fine if one of his other dogs, represented by X3’s, carried the day. What a sales bonanza that could get.”
The gathered coterie considered and, one by one, the picture formed, and was accepted. If a dog could be substituted, albeit with some risk but not impossible, then go for the double whammy. The double ringer. The dog on the entry form was not even Triggo. It was another of Kem’s dogs. A Best in Breed! Whow!”
This Damascene moment, acknowledged by Grant as a new guidance for Bannister, allowed the biblical scholar to make his way around the room with his thanks for and appreciation of their contributions to what had turned out to be, if sad, a successful day. After a while, the Chief Super spoke up for all to hear.
“Now, I must leave you. I’ve a few matters yet to see to before, at last, I can put my feet up. So, thank you all, and you Simon for …,” he was interrupted as his trusty timepiece rang. “Sorry about this. I’ll go into the corridor. Don’t let me stop anything. You won’t disturb me out there. I’ll put my head round the door before I go. Lovely idea, this party. Just the thing.” He stepped outside.
A Question of Pedigree Page 24
