Cold Relations (Honey Laird Book 1)

by Gerald Hammond

  Well, I know what it is to have the courage of your prejudices so I ground my teeth but didn’t argue. We were about to slink away when Mr Little mentioned a spaniel breeder only a few miles away who he said that he could strongly recommend. I could see that Mr Little was very well organised and he had admired Pippa, so his recommendation should count for something. He mentioned that the spaniel kennel-name was Throaks, which you see quite often figuring in the results of field trials, so we went along there.

  We found Three Oaks Kennels (although the third oak is little more than a sapling, its predecessor having come down in a gale, but the other two are enormous). It is another well-run business, well kept and with lots of contented-looking spaniels of different ages. John Cunningham, who I took to be the senior partner, turned out to be another ex-officer invalided out and as soon as this fact emerged the two were off bandying reminiscences and I was left to prowl the kennels on my own. I didn’t mind too much. There was a cutting wind and the first flakes of snow, but dogs are warm to handle. I always enjoy socialising with good dogs and I brought away one or two useful ideas for the dog unit. The two men were still re-fighting the Falklands and it took some strong hinting from me to reintroduce the subject of dogs.

  Being a Labrador-fancier myself my mind had been running on Labs, but it turns out that springers are not quite as expensive. A trained or half-trained dog would have met the case and been within budget. But no. Nothing would do for your ex but to start with a pup, and I must say that I sympathised. You can’t beat starting as pack leader from around eight weeks – provided that you do it right.

  John Cunningham’s attitude was now as if Andrew was asking for his daughter’s hand in marriage. Evidently he had doubts about Andrew’s ability to bring a pup on from scratch – doubts that I secretly shared. But when it emerged that I am the boss of the dog unit, that was different. (He seemed to be assuming that we were a couple and to deny it would have been to upset the applecart.) What he produced was the last of his available stock because, as I feared, quite responsible people do give each other spaniel pups for Christmas. He had, in fact, been sold out but a pair of bitch pups had been booked by a man who had suddenly been offered a job in the Far East. A deposit had been forfeited, so that he could offer a good discount.

  As soon as Andrew realised that the pair came within the combined contributions of us sponsors, he wanted them both. (The fact that those had been ‘up to’ figures quite passed him by.) Mr Cunningham, either because he didn’t want to break up the pair or possibly scenting a larger cheque, encouraged him. I pointed out to Andrew that two pups would double the costs of inoculation, spaying, medication, feed, microchipping, insurance and so forth and that training two pups simultaneously is impossible and that two separately take twice as long, but all to no avail. Cunningham’s business partner, Mrs Kitts (a name I associate with some very successful trial results), was available. She is a vet, but I had promised to see that Andrew had a square deal. She did not seem at all worried as I checked for umbilical hernia, counted toes and examined their mouths. The blink reflex was satisfactory and I made sure that each pup responded to noises without being prompted by the other. We also met both parents and they were sound and attractive spaniels with minor awards to their credit and a Field Trial Champion only one generation back.

  Before I knew it, I was writing a cheque for a very substantial sum, to cover not only the two pups but a range of food, toys and baskets that would certainly have been beyond the capacity of Andrew’s car. Receipts, KC registrations and pedigrees were handed over. The two pups quickly settled down with Pippa mothering them and we set off. Andrew, who on the outward journey had shown all the signs of being smitten with me although, to do him justice, he did keep his hands to himself, now had a new outlet for his passion. The occasional snowflakes had turned into the beginning of a blizzard but as far as he was concerned the sun was blazing down. I will say that in one respect he is all there. I had mentioned the maximum budget figure at some point and he soon figured it out that there was something left in the kitty. He had my cheque for that exact amount in a trice, as a first step towards trading up his car for something more suitable for carrying his dogs around.

  On the way back, I loaded him down with pearls of wisdom about how to train spaniels and his only comment was to say that he had decided to name them Honey and Spot, which I think was intended as a compliment. (The pups are both liver-and-white, but on one of them it includes the form of a perfectly round spot on the top of her head.) I don’t know how much he took in, but I called at my house on the way through Edinburgh and gathered up all the dog training books that I have been collecting over the years and never consult any more. It only remains to keep all our fingers (and preferably toes as well) crossed, hoping that he profits from all this stockpiled wisdom. I left him at his door, surrounded by a whole world of doggery, grinning all over his face. I reminded him about inoculations and left him to it.

  So there you are. We have provided your ex-hubby with an outlet for his energy and affections and a readymade vehicle for introductions to similarly oriented people. That should keep him occupied and out of trouble. I’ll try to look in on him from time to time – along with Sandy, if I can persuade him.

  All the best, Honey

  Chapter Three

  For some months, Honey almost lost sight of Andrew Gray and such new friends as he might have acquired with the aid of the dogs, but on behalf of her old school-friend she kept her ears open. The Social Services Department advised her that Andrew was making great progress and living an orderly life. The handlers in the dog unit sometimes reported meeting him while exercising their charges in open country. They might be preoccupied with training their dogs to follow a scent, to sniff out drugs or explosives, to disarm a gunman or to catch a fleeing criminal, but none of them would have arrived in the dog unit unless they had a genuine enthusiasm for all aspects of dog training. The word was that Andrew was proceeding strictly in accordance with the manuals, teaching by reward and affection rather than by punishment and fear, and that the two young spaniels could now be sent out to hunt in absolute confidence that they would return when whistled for and each was retrieving dummies smartly and reliably, ignoring all distractions. Occasionally Andrew would play the part of the fleeing criminal in exchange for the throwing of distraction dummies.

  Eventually there came a dip in the criminal activities of the citizens of Lothian and Borders. There were no murders and few serious assaults. Crimes against property were down. Even petty crime had reduced to an almost acceptable figure. The Powers That Were, of course, claimed this as a victory in their war against crime. Privately, Honey suspected that all the serious criminals had gone abroad to spend their profits and that the credit for preventing the charges of assault from becoming murder belonged rather to the skilled work of the hospitals, underfunded though they were. Whatever the real facts, she had managed almost to clear her desk.

  On a fine day in June, she decided that she owed her old friend a report on Andrew’s progress. In arriving at this decision, she may been influenced by mention that on the last few occasions when he had been seen by dog-handlers he had not been unaccompanied. She was on the way home after attending the investigation of an allegation of rape which had turned out, both parties agreed, to have been no more than a case of impulsive affection. It was only a small detour from her route that brought her to Andrew’s house.

  She had, of course, visited the house before, but that had been in midwinter and on a day of the colourless light that often precedes snow, when she was both trying to find the place and fighting a blustery wind. Even so, it had not had the forlorn and cheerless aspect of many small houses in midwinter countryside. Now the trees were in leaf, there were flowers in the gardens and wildflowers in every verge. The situation, she was surprised to note, was idyllic and she included in her next email to Poppy that:

  . . . His house is small but it’s in a more perfect situation than I reme
mbered and much better than I expected to find within ten minutes’ drive of the perimeter of Edinburgh (say an hour and a half from the city centre without using the klaxon and blue flasher, the way traffic management is going these days).

  At first, I was a little concerned because where I turned off the main road a sour-looking old man came out of a cottage and looked as if for two pins he’d shake his fist at me for daring to pass by. I only hope that he doesn’t push Andrew over the edge. On the other hand, he looked like the sort of neighbour who would send any intruder away with a flea in his ear.

  I found Andrew’s house up a hundred yards of not-too-bad farm road. You can see the tops of the farm buildings just peeping over the crest of the hill. What pasture there is held sheep rather than cattle, which makes for a peaceful and less smelly existence. Most of the land has been given over to cereal crops. Andrew has a bit of orchard mostly apples and doing rather well. There are fields on either side and the property is backed by a mature wood. I noticed that both house and garden, despite the depredation that a couple of puppies inevitably bring, were much smarter than when I saw them last. Somebody has been painting and planting – and doing both jobs with skill as well as enthusiasm. There are flowers galore and there were birds singing. The whole atmosphere seemed happy.

  The reason for the spruceness and jollity was almost immediately apparent. There’s nothing like walking one or more attractive dogs for meeting people and in this instance the acquaintance had been Jackie, who is small, female, attractively chubby, genuinely blonde, definitely pretty and about ten years younger than Andrew. She had been walking her father’s golden retrievers, I was told, when they met and they had clicked immediately.

  It is still not clear to me whether she has moved in with him yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Her manner towards him was a mixture of adoring slave and fond mother. Typical, but just what he needed. She seems to have brought with her a touch of the gaiety that he seemed to be lacking – I can imagine them playing Chase Me Charlie in and out of the house and orchard. Her widowed father farms quite a lot of the land thereabouts and after graduating from the Do-school (College of Domestic Science if you’re talking pan loaf) she stayed at home to keep house for him.

  When Andrew greeted me as ‘Honeypot’, Jackie made the connection with Honey and Spot immediately and her attitude was cool at first until she gathered that I had a husband and a career and was only visiting on behalf of his well-meaning ex-wife. (I probably made you sound like a fusspot, but you won’t mind that. You wouldn’t want a jealous new wife putting in the poison or trying to drive wedges between you and your former love.)

  The signs and portents are auspicious. The two obviously adore each other and there can be no doubt that a certain amount of heavy breathing goes on . . . and on. When I made my sudden appearance, the two were sprawled on a rug on a patch of lawn, playing with two of the prettiest young spaniels that I ever saw. You don’t sprawl in a short skirt without showing everything you’ve got, so one may suppose that any inhibitions the relationship suffered at first are long gone.

  The small house is very orderly and organised in an unmasculine manner and the kitchen has that scrubbed smell. That, I suppose, will be the Do-school background coming to the fore. The dogs have a kennel and a fenced-in run in the garden but spend most of the day in the house. Andrew has changed his car for an old Land Rover, which lends itself to renovation, a task well suited to his skills although rather hard on the hands that you used to love having run over you, as I recall. I mentioned the old man at the road-end but they both laughed and said, ‘That’s Mr Gloag.’ Jackie added, ‘He’s all right when you get to know him.’

  They hastened to assure me that the pups had had all their inoculations and were spayed and microchipped. They took me into the orchard, all four bubbling with enthusiasm, to demonstrate that basic obedience training had been successfully imprinted. Jackie already had some experience in dog training, so she had been able to steer him clear of the many pitfalls. She has the use of her father’s dummy-launcher and I must admit that I was impressed. The pups sat to the sound of the shot, went straight out when called by name, responded to hand signals at a distance . . . What’s more, the pups were obviously enjoying it too, which is the fundamental sign of a good relationship. (The master’s attention is a reward in itself, so it’s vital to praise for good behaviour and not to scold for naughtiness.) I was almost converted to springers on the spot. And the final big advantage is that she has her own certificate and a shotgun which the law will allow him to share on her father’s land and in her presence, or on approved clay pigeon grounds. Training can go forward without interruption and your ex- should be contentedly occupied from here on in. They are already doing a little rabbiting and some decoying for woodpigeon. I would have said that it was much too early to introduce pups to real quarry. And so it would be for one person on his own. But with one person to shoot and a second person to control and handle the dogs, they seem to be managing well without any tendency to run-in. They hope to introduce the dogs to picking-up during the coming season. I promised to make enquiries on their behalf.

  (I have been able to help in one side-issue. The firearms officer wanted to withdraw Jackie’s shotgun certificate on the grounds that she was resident with an unsuitable partner. Jackie phoned me in a panic, because her shotgun is essential to their ambitions in the matter of the dogs. The firearms officer quoted a precedent in which a certificate had been withdrawn because the holder had married a spouse with a criminal record, but I was able to point out that the case had been English, the spouse’s record had been serious and that the decision had been overturned on appeal.)

  I just hope that I can manage my own family as brilliantly as they seem to be managing their canine one. Because – here it comes! – I am with child at last. At a very early stage, of course. I haven’t even told Sandy yet, for fear of being wrapped in cotton wool. I shall leave it until I want to be wrapped in cotton wool and then I’ll play that game for all it’s worth. Sandy will probably want me to retire and become full-time wife and mother, but as long as we have June to be nanny as well as domestic factotum I shall continue in my determination to end up as Chief Constable (Chief Police Officer, they call most of them now). There are one or two female CPOs in England but the breakthrough hasn’t been made up here yet.

  Until that happy day I remain, yours, Honeypot.

  Chapter Four

  DI Honey Laird was lucky in her pregnancy. Morning sickness was never more than an occasional annoyance and any desires for unusual foodstuffs were easily explained away. It was therefore some time before she found it necessary to admit publicly to her condition. Her employers offered her leave, but time spent kicking her heels around the Edinburgh house while Sandy worked his cases would have been unendurable. June refused to go on holiday while her mistress was in a delicate condition and Honey refused to visit her parental home until Sandy was free to come with her. It was stalemate. She worked on.

  Exactly as she had feared, her husband’s immediate impulse on hearing the news, even before wetting the foetus’s head, was to wrap her in cotton wool and confine her to her bed, or at least to an easy chair, until she was safely delivered. She had had the forethought to consult a gynaecologist who was famous for an attitude of exercise is good, wrap the baby in a shawl and get back to work, and she had obtained a letter advising her to live life as normal until the last minute unless any one of a set of unlikely symptoms should appear.

  This forethought stood her in good stead when she took a phone-call one evening at the very beginning of October. She and Sandy were unwinding with a drink – in her case a very nearly soft drink – tangled together at one end of the big settee, while June prepared their evening meal. Pippa, the Labrador, was snoring between their feet. Honey reached impatiently for the phone, expecting a sudden call back to work or one of those maddening calls from a salesperson determined to earn a commission by selling something that nobody could
possibly want. Months earlier, the Lairds had tackled the service that purports to filter out such calls, but without apparent reduction in their numbers. But the mildly American voice that came on the line was that of her friend Hazel Carpenter.

  After the briefest of enquiries into health and happiness, Hazel said, ‘Are you both free on Saturday?’

  Barring calamities, the Laird diaries were for once both clear on Saturday, but enquiries of that nature may be the precursors to a request to entertain someone unspeakably awful or to participate in some intolerably boring non-event. Hazel was not usually guilty in this respect but you never knew. ‘Possibly,’ Honey said.

  ‘We’re shooting that day and we wondered if you’d like to be guests. It’ll be a driven day. The grouse are beginning to recover after a long neglect. They’d only sustain one drive but we’ve released some ex-laying hen pheasants among the whins. It may be a short day but it could be fun.’

  Sandy had his ear close to hers. Honey felt him stiffen. His first impulse was to forbid any such outing, but in the face of the gynaecologist’s advice and Honey’s well-known determination, he could only nod. She knew of old the questions to ask. ‘Do we bring sandwiches?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Pippa?’

  ‘Yes. We’re rather short of dogs.’

  ‘Will ankle-boots do or do we need Wellingtons?’