Cold Relations

by Gerald Hammond

  ‘That’s right, Inspector,’ said PC Webber.

  Having made her point, Honey’s voice slipped back into conversational tone. ‘Tell me, does your father really like dogs?’

  Daniel smiled sadly. ‘That’s the one point on which not one of us resembles him. I think he rejoices in the knowledge that a dog won’t argue with him but agrees with him, right or wrong. Our dislike of dogs goes back to when we were very young and Dad kept an Airedale terrier that would give you a nip as soon as look at you. I think, looking back, that the dog was jealous and we didn’t know better than to demand attention from Dad all the time. We were all terrified of Basker – that was its name – but Dad couldn’t see past the brute. To this day we all dislike and fear dogs whereas he can’t pass a dog without a pat and an ear-pull.’ He sighed. ‘It’s sad, really. I’d like to like dogs. Most of them have nice natures. I just can’t bring myself to trust them whereas Dad can make any dog into his friend in a few seconds.’ He focused on Honey and frowned. ‘But you can’t possibly imagine that he’d fall for a couple of spaniels and disappear with them. There’s no way to make sense of it.’

  ‘At this stage, I’m only trying to gather what facts I can find. I’ll try to make sense of them later. Most of them will turn out to be irrelevant.’ Honey tried not to sound peevish but this was the tedious part of her life story. By the very nature of investigation, the public were often asked questions that would prove to be quite irrelevant – in hindsight. ‘If there’s neither sight nor sound of him by this evening, you should report his absence. If he is then deemed to be a missing person, the machinery will go to work. I’ll put in a report so that whoever’s given the case doesn’t have to start all over again. Leave your family’s names, addresses, phone numbers, fax and email addresses with me and then I think you might go and try the hotels, like you said. You’ll probably find that he’s holed up with some lady.’

  ‘I understand. But I doubt it. He isn’t the sort to pick up a companion.’

  Honey was about to ask whether suddenly meeting a lady out of his past might not have led to a romantic interlude, but Jackie had never switched off the computer. ‘You have email,’ it announced in a bland, female voice. Jackie jerked to life. She keyed up two messages. ‘Just acknowledgements,’ she said drearily.

  ‘I’ll run along and try the hotels,’ Daniel said. ‘Thank you. You’ve been very helpful. I hope circumstances don’t force us to meet again.’

  That evening, Honey wrote to Poppy . . . and as you can imagine the two young lovers are absolutely devastated. I’ve helped them all I can, but at the moment we have no real starting point. We may get a lucky break, of course, or the messages that I had them circulate may bear fruit – if I’m not mixing my metaphors unduly – but otherwise it seems pretty hopeless. Two spaniels have vanished, with only their microchips to identify them. Unless they come to the attention of somebody with a microchip reader, that could be the end of the story. The availability of a bolt-cutter suggests that this was no kind of teenage mischief.

  Your ex has invested a lot of emotional capital in those dogs. (Was it Kipling who wrote about giving your heart to a dog to tear?) Fortunately the girl, though she was understandably knocked sideways at first, is emotionally sturdy and the two have almost total mutual absorption, so she may carry him through, for a while at least. But I suspect that this has taken first pressure on that hair-trigger of his. I have warned him not to go off half-cocked. I could imagine some well-meaning stranger arriving at the door, meaning to return two wandering spaniels, and being thoroughly duffed up.

  So. We must just hope for the best but fear the worst. If you were thinking of sending a message of hope and sympathy, address it to both of them. Regards, Honeypot.

  Chapter Seven

  DI ‘Honey’ Laird arrived at work on the Monday morning determined to find some excuse to turn her attention to the missing dogs. She went early to the dog unit in order to clear that particular desk first, but she found a message awaiting her – a message that was duplicated in her share of the office in the main building. Detective Superintendent Blackhouse required her presence as soon as possible.

  It was soon made clear, and not for the first time, that his interpretation of the words as soon as possible differed radically from hers. She was subjected to what seemed like an endless wait in the uninspiring corridor-cum-waiting room outside his office while other officers were allowed into the presence to report on current cases or to be assigned new ones. To pass the time, she was given a file to read, but this, in addition to her own two reports on the dogs and Henry Colebrook, emailed from home the previous evening, contained only a brief note to the effect that Mr Colebrook was now officially a missing person.

  When admitted at last, she found Mr Blackhouse transmogrifying from his usual state of angry contempt into the image that she liked even less – the benevolent patron. Sometimes she thought that he was trying to grab the credit for having invented her. He did not go quite to the length of rising to greet a female subordinate but he made a token shift of his considerable weight as if for two pins, if these were well placed, he might have done so. When on first acquaintance he had vented his contempt on her, she had accepted this as part and parcel with his slumped posture, excessive weight, off-the-peg suits and general reputation. When she had wrong-footed him by her success with two cases that he had pronounced insoluble, he might well have been confirmed in one of his famous spites; but she had made no complaint when he took all and rather more than the due credit for the successful outcomes and with a breathtaking change of attitude he had decided that she was both brilliant and beautiful (in which he may not have been so very wide of the mark) and also in need of his protection and patronage, which assumption missed the mark by a mile. At least his benevolence had not yet extended to sexual approach and because Mrs Blackhouse was known to be a tigerish and possessive lady it seemed unlikely that it ever would.

  When his heavily jowled face with its pocked and flattened nose was contorted into what he presumably believed to be an amiable expression, he said, ‘You seem to have had a busy weekend. I have your two reports here. You think the two events are connected?’

  ‘It’s rather early for drawing conclusions, sir,’ she said. ‘He’s said to have a soft spot for dogs, but one can hardly see him falling unexpectedly for a particular couple of spaniels, setting out to steal them the same night and disappearing with them. And yet, that’s the only way that one could imagine a link.’

  In the early days of their relationship he would have pounced on what they both considered to be a piece of sloppy thinking, but he chose to approve. ‘Well reasoned,’ he said. ‘But the two cases are also connected geographically. You were in both places and you’re our only senior dog expert. I want you to take them both on. Hand the dog unit over temporarily to the sergeant.’ (She heaved a silent sigh. The sergeant was a newly promoted handler. She would be lucky to resume control of the dog unit and find that the paperwork was fit for anything but lighting fires.) ‘Come to me for resources, but to start with you’d better take Sergeant Bryant. He can pick out a constable. Let me know who and what you need as you build your team. That’s to say, if man and dogs don’t turn up soon. Keep me posted.’

  *

  Detective Sergeant Bryant looked every inch a married man – clean and tidy, unimaginatively dressed, with very shiny shoes, tending towards overweight. He had a thin moustache. Honey had seen him around and thought him one of the better-looking men apart from the moustache. Unfortunately, he was of the same opinion but without any prejudice against thin moustaches. His looks were ruined for the moment by a swollen and brilliantly red tip to his nose. The effect was comical. She had to struggle to keep a straight face and the effort showed.

  His thin lips showed signs of pursing. ‘I had an insect bite,’ he explained. ‘I’ve been given an antibiotic but it may take a day or two to kick in. There’s no way I can keep a dressing on it and still breathe.’ He was making
an overt plea for sympathy.

  She decided to be helpful in the hope of starting off with a good relationship. In theory, there was no rule that they like each other, only that they work well in harness without actually fighting, but the best teams were usually harmonious. ‘When we get down to my car, I may be able to help you. We’ll need a constable, probably a whole lot more if this drags on, but one constable to start with.’ She tried not to look at him, but even in the corner of her eye the ruby red of his nose still seemed to glare with the inevitability of a traffic signal. She was afraid to ask his first name in case it turned out to be Rudolph. ‘Two of my dog handlers are down to one dog apiece, pending new arrivals, and I thought I might detach one of them. That way we get an intelligent helper and a general purpose German shepherd.’

  Bryant turned to look out of the window, sparing them both embarrassment. ‘I thought your dog – Pippa, is it? – was supposed to be a good tracker. That’s what they say.’

  She felt a momentary flush of pleasure, that her amateur dog was being accorded professional status. ‘Pippa can be very good on her day but only at tracking. She’s not fully trained and, being young still, she’s easily distracted. For what it’s worth, you can read this file while I use the phone.’

  She asked Control to find out where Constable Picton was. The answer came back that he was training his dog at the Royal Observatory. She sent a message that he was to meet her at Thack an Raip.

  She carried the file with her. At her car, she looked in the glove-box and found a small stick of ‘concealer’ – flesh-coloured foundation makeup. She left him to make use of it while she let Pippa out for a comfort break. It was always in her mind that she would have hated to be confined with a bursting bladder. When she returned, he looked almost normal. The swelling would go down in its own time, but with the colour hidden he was no worse than slightly odd-looking.

  With the concealment of the hideous red tip to his nose, he seemed to recover an overconfidence that had been in abeyance. ‘Shall I drive?’ he enquired.

  It is not unusual for a sergeant to chauffeur his superior, but he made the offer in a tone that managed to suggest that she should hand over to him, the male, for reasons of safety and time. She rarely allowed any but her most trusted acquaintances to drive her precious Range Rover, but she managed to ignore that piece of male impertinence. Instead, she demonstrated her own ability by slicing through the traffic without resorting to klaxon or flashing light. She could sense his feet pressing imaginary brakes and could almost feel his toes curling. She knew that she was only confirming him in his worst prejudices but she felt obliged to press on.

  Picton, in one of the small dog-unit vans, had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the smaller roads around Edinburgh. He also had a shorter distance to cover from the open ground at Blackford and was already waiting at Thack an Raip. He was a tubby, grey-haired man in brown overalls – unflattering but well suited to not showing dog hairs. She gave him the file to read while she spoke to DS Bryant. He could hardly do much damage in a mile or two, she thought. ‘Take my car,’ she said. ‘Drive – carefully – over the hill and find Moonside House. See the housekeeper, Margaret McLaghan. Get what you can from her and beg something of Mr Colebrook’s to give the dogs a scent. Picton and I will join you shortly. Pippa will be all right with you.’

  She cringed as DS Bryant set off. The car had an automatic gearbox, which limited his scope for wheelspin, but he set off fast, keeping his foot hard down and hammering over the potholes. She let him see in the mirror that she was watching him, but without persuading him to slow down. Perhaps she should not have shown off the car’s paces.

  Jackie was waiting in the doorway. They exchanged negative signals as she came to meet them. Her usually cheerful face was becoming haggard. She said, ‘For God’s sake try to keep it upbeat. He’s very down. He’s imagining them being sold to a Chinese restaurant or something awful like that.’

  ‘We’ll do our best,’ Honey said. ‘This is Ewan Picton. He’s from the dog unit, so I thought that he’d be the best person to tell us if we’ve covered all the options.’

  ‘Come inside,’ Jackie said. ‘I’ll show you. We’ve had no real replies yet, only acknowledgements.’

  ‘Give it time.’

  Andrew was sitting, staring at a blank TV screen. He was hardly recognisable as the quiet but contented man that Honey had become used to. His face too was haggard – even in distress, he and Jackie seemed to react identically to emotions – and he seemed to have shrunk. The scar from his head wound, which was not usually noticeable except as a shadow at his temple, now shone pink. Honey sat beside him and attempted cheering words. Jackie stood behind him and massaged his neck.

  Jackie had kept methodical notes of all emails and phone-calls. Picton looked through the list. ‘That seems complete,’ he said, ‘except that we might inform the dog units of other forces. Folk walk dogs and dog handlers get to know them. I’ll fix it as soon as I get back to the office.’

  ‘One of us will come back later,’ Honey told Jackie. ‘If anything turns up, you have my mobile number. We’ll come straight away if you call.’

  *

  They fitted themselves into the van, property of the dog unit. Picton’s German shepherd, Dancer, was lean and dark but he had all the handsomeness for which Alsatians are noteworthy. He regarded Honey curiously through the mesh screen.

  Picton drove up the farm track, which was in better shape than some. The potholes were scarce so that it was easy for a careful driver to avoid them. At the crest of the low hill they arrived at the farm buildings belonging to Jackie’s father, all bright with paint. The substantial farmhouse was set behind the barns. Mud was remarkable for its scarcity and even the smell of dung was barely noticeable. Honey noticed that the field gates were in good order, provided with proper latches and with rope or wire not in evidence. This, she had always felt, was the test of a good farmer. The track continued between fields, but its condition worsened and the van bounced over ruts and potholes. Honey began to long for the comfort of her Range Rover. The track twisted through a narrow plantation. There was another secondary road ahead and another substantial house, almost the twin of the first. The name Moonside was displayed in raised, white lettering on an oak board at the gate. Honey’s Range Rover, apparently undamaged, was parked beside a nearly new Mini. Beyond the road, the cluster of farm buildings seemed to have been extended and in some way modernised.

  DS Bryant came out to meet them, brandishing a sock. Honey made sure of taking her car keys off him and said, ‘Give it to Picton. Ewan, you and Dancer go round the place with particular attention to where a car may have been parked. We want to know whether Mr Colebrook, the wearer of the sock, has been here within the last twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’ This was said with a covert glance at the Detective Sergeant. In the privacy of the dog unit he would not have been so formal.

  ‘You may as well take Pippa with you. You’ve worked with her in training.’

  She opened the back of the Range Rover, called Pippa out and told her to sit. But Pippa was distracted by the presence of her old friend Dancer and slow to obey. Honey repeated the command.

  ‘Sit,’ Bryant said sternly.

  Honey ignored him but, having finished exchanging courtesies with Dancer, Pippa sat anyway. DS Bryant exuded satisfaction. Honey fumed. Every dog lover resents that common irritant – the stranger who gives their dog an order, apparently under the impression that their own authority is greater than the owner’s. But there was no time for revenge just then.

  Bryant led her into the house. Margaret McLaghan (‘Maggie’, she insisted) was waiting in a bright kitchen. At least two dogs could be heard, scrabbling curiously at the door from a back passage. There was already fresh tea on the table in a fine china pot with matching cups and saucers set out. Ms McLaghan was a well-rounded lady of between forty and fifty-five. Honey would not have cared to make a closer guess as the housekeeper’s hai
r had been dyed an improbable red, perhaps in an attempt to colour-coordinate with her employer, and she had applied her makeup from a strong palette and with a heavy hand. Her figure, however, appeared to be nearly all her own and was plump verging on good. Her accent, stemming from one of the genteel or lace curtain parts of Edinburgh, was too refayned to be credible. Her bow, when she was introduced to Detective Inspector Laird, could have been considered either polite or condescending.

  There was the inevitable delay while tea was poured and biscuits dispensed. Honey knew only too well that any attempt at serious discussion during that process would be subject to recurrent interruptions. The sergeant had produced his notebook and was obviously eager to open the proceedings, but Honey said, ‘Let Ms McLaghan tell it in her own words. Then you can fill in any gaps.’

  ‘It’s Mrs McLaghan. Or Maggie, whichever you like,’ the housekeeper said.

  ‘Maggie, then. Let’s have the story. When did you last see Mr Colebrook?’ She had asked variations on that question a hundred times before but she still had an urge to refer to ‘your father’.

  Maggie needed only a fraction of a second for thought. Her memory had been refreshed by answering the sergeant’s questions. ‘Frayday nayte. Ay gave him his dinner at six, just as he layked. He preferred to go to bed on an empty stomach. He told me that he had an early start in the morning, so not to get up for him but to leave out the makings for his breakfast. He never takes more than cereal and a slayce of wholegrain bread with real butter of a morning.’

  ‘And you went to bed, what time?’

  ‘Ay was late. Well, if Ay was going to have a long lay in the morn there was no hurry. After Ay washed up, Ay walked his dogs and then watched the telly in may room until late, not far off midnayt. Then Ay went to may bed and slept until nearly nayne. Ay expected him back on Saturday nayt, but when there was no sign of him and no phone-call about dinner Ay took it that he was going to be late again. Ay was concerned, Ay don’t mind telling you, because whenever he decaydes to dayne out he’s very relayable about letting me know. Ay had a pair of lamb chops ready for him, but Ay ate them mayself. Yesterday morning, Ay found that his bed had not been slept in.’