Saturday, High Noon
Outside for a fag! Whether dressed up with dog Latin or not, the man’s request was preposterous. Preposterous! That was what Yale wanted to say. He bit it back. Wouldn’t do. Wouldn’t do at all. ‘Get a grip, now’ he counselled himself. In its way the request was reasonable. This was the man he had seen studying form at Agnes Thorpe’s ring. A man Yale had yet to interview. Would very soon be doing so. To be fair, as the man had no puppy bitch, there was no reason why he shouldn’t be allowed this concession. The strain was common. Competitors, the ETT ones especially, would be feeling it personally. Simon paused, in that instant before he did reply, to tell himself that these ETT people made a small group. All acquaintances, many friends, of a man now dead. Someone they had arrived with that morning and expected to go home with that afternoon. There must be shock. Time for self-control! Keep hold of one’s tether.
“Fine. In the dog exercise yard only, please.” Yale knew that the yard door was supervised and all using it had to show their exhibitor ticket in and out. “Then, back here if you will. I’ll need your statement.”
“Fine. Will be all the clearer in the head for a smoke. Terrible addict. Don’t tell the doctor.” The fuzzy-chinned one went off, searching in his pocket for his packet and his lighter.
Strain was telling elsewhere.
The Assistant Chief Constable was near apoplexy. His mobile calls had done nothing to soothe him. The monitors he was wired to were, Grant feared, about to register off the scale. This worried the Chief Super. A passing nurse, noting such readings would be ringing alarm bells or pressing some of the bank of chrome buttons that bedecked the columns of majestic equipment, to change the course of events. As it was, the nurses were busy at their station, looking hard at files, on their computers that is. Paper files were outdated as being unhygienic. Also exchanging important medical information the one with the other. Arriving visitors wanting information had to await the outcome of these deliberations. Two tie-less, non-stethoscope-wearing doctors, freed of the germ-laden white coats of the old days, sloped up in their short-sleeved shirts. Radiating relaxed confidence, they took up positions at the counter. Seeing them, one visitor dared a query as to where her beloved might be. It was made clear, by looks alone, that direction giving was not part of their portfolio. A nurse would be free soon. They were those, a graceful phrase explained, deserving of awe-filled respect.
Viewing the scene, Grant deduced that doctors were better at asking than answering. Not unlike the police. Yet ask he now had to. He stepped up, and imposed himself upon the still life group around the main desk.
“I fear my colleague is unwell,” was his way of putting it. He was relieved that one of the nurses, sensing his concern, left file, screen, chat and doctor for the adjacent side room.
“You were right to call me,” she said as Grant followed her in. “What has happened? Have you given him bad news?”
Grant waved towards the bedside table.
“Not me. He made some phone calls. This is the result.” The result of the two of them entering was to bring the ACC to a sitting position.
“My clothes!” he demanded, “Damn it all, my clothes! Ludicrous! Absolutely bloody ludicrous! Just wait till I get there, I’ll show them.” His explosion was firmly interrupted by the efficient and strong arms of the nurse. Also her strong and efficient voice.
“We,” she declared, “are going nowhere. Back. Lie back. You are sicker than you realise. That was not a glancing blow you received. We are going to X-ray your head very very soon. Until then, you lie back. You are going nowhere”, she repeated. “We will be taking you for examination the moment a trolley arrives.”
Grant saw his senior, verbally stunned, fall back onto his pillow. The fiery image of a moment ago subsided. The despair in his face at the sheer incompetence of the whole world around him showing in the deepening creases that formed on his brow. The nurse was alarmed.
“Phone calls you say?”
Grant did not want to tell her of the explosions of frustration that had hit the patient following ‘police enquiries.’ It was not his task to explain, nor her business, to know, how a top man can be affected when his requirements, his demands, his orders run into a blank wall. The haggard face re-opened, the straining eyes fixed upon Grant’s face. It began to speak. It was too much. The mouth couldn’t pronounce anything.
“Lie back! No talking. You are weaker than you realise.”
The face stared again straight into the eyes of the Chief Superintendent. It spoke. More quietly than might have been expected but audible. A very, very clear and simple message.
“Get yourself down there. Fix it. No other bugger’s going to.” Energy exhausted, the figure sank back onto the pillow.
Hurried out of the ward by the now engaged nurse, who called for another to join her, Grant threw a last look at his beleaguered chief, could do no more than wish him well, silently, and then do as he was told. Luckily, Lawrence was still at HQ. Nursing his broken leg – a charity parachute jump accident, not the result of some brave frustrating of a criminal endeavour. He could cope with the nothingness that was likely to be going on there for some time. If the ACC could get no response to his cries, what hope he? To the Show he would go. He hoped that Simon Yale would be pleased to see him. What a procession of mini-disasters! Nothing worse could happen surely? Certainly not down there at the dog-face. Having something constructive, as he was sure it would be, to do, put the policeman into a paradoxically near-cheerful mood. ‘Action this day’ was one of his treasured memories of another War’s reading. Good thing, action. This was something he was trained for. He, in person, would provide the promised CID flying squad.
Grant stepped out into the corridor with a near messianic resolve. Here was something positive. The lift door was open. It was empty. He went in – he had walked up, as the ACC would have expected – and pressed the button marked with a purple G. All others were colour coded green. He wondered about the significance, as of habit. It was that habit, along with the others of a long-time CID man, that he now needed to rely on. The lift, smoothly, sighed to a stop. He exited with difficulty, almost pushed back in by a rush of people entering, seemingly oblivious of his majestic frame. He mumbled the usual silly apology – as if it as his fault! – turned left, and strode off with constabulary purpose toward where he had parked his car. Paying for the privilege. Not as in Wales, or was it Scotland, where hospital parking was now free? He would put in a claim form. He wondered again at the splendour of the concourse that was part of this mammoth new hospital. A little surprised not to see the main newsagent he had observed on his way in (were his powers of observation beginning to let him down?) he did smile at the adverts across the front of a confectioner. Chocolate? Was that altogether wise, in a hospital? For the visitors he supposed. One way of ensuring future trade perhaps. Flowers, yes, but chocolates? So musing he walked out into the car park.
His car was not there. Trained to look, he knew where to look. He had noted his slot before getting a ticket from the machine at the entrance. Like so many of these places, from inside the car finding an empty bay was a puzzle. Public space planners delighted in twee little hedgerows grown just above sight level. He saw no value in such bushery carpark-wise. Took up space where a few more vehicles could be left. Could act as a screen for a ne’er-do-well. No doubt the defence was that such green rows were saving the planet. Turning CO2 into oxygen or whatever. That aside, he was on his feet at full stretch, yet where was his car? He, as the last CID man standing, was now left standing. His dismay turned to irritation when it dawned on him that if someone had stolen his car, they would have stolen his car park as well. So much for his powers of observation! Wrong car park! Turned the wrong way out of the lift! Unsighted by the unseemly! Annoyed, he turned back into the gleaming portals, past the chocolate emporium, and up to the information desk. He knew there were at least four car parks. Possibly five. Maybe six. He was short of time. He swallowed his pride but hid his identity. He asked. The young man with a wispy beard looked at him with kindly eyes.
“Often happens,” he said. “Got your ticket?”
This, Chief Inspector Grant of the CID, promptly produced. The bearded one took it with reverence and slotted it under a scanner attached to his state-of-the-art computer.
“Ah,” said the knowledgeable one, “Wrong car park.”
Grant had deduced that. He waited.
“You need three. Straight on down to your right, past the stationer and the florist, and out through door F. Turn left, left mind you, and pay into the cash machine on the wall. There are two of them. Either will do. You’ll need,” he glanced at his screen, “two pounds forty. No change. Can I help further?”
“No change?” Grant felt forced to challenge.
“Alas not today. Not at gate three. Technical problems. They are on their way. You can of course,” and here he burst into a smile of sheer joy, “go to gate two, or five where you’ve just come from, and pay there. Still valid. Those machines give change OK.”
“Do these machines take notes?”
“Oh yes. Certainly. Have a nice day.”
Grant had not so far. He had no time to improve it by going to either gate two or gate five. He took a five pound note out of his wallet, stormed, more or less, out the way he was directed, fed the machine, no change, and got into his car determined all the more to fill in that claims form. Fully.
The car was there, where it had been all along. A slightly flustered senior officer set off to relieve and assist the hard-pressed Inspector from the Fraud Squad. Before driving off he dared one more call to his office. To Lawrence. First to tell him the good news of his elevation to position of action man and thus, dramatically as he could, to explain his own movements over what promised to be a missed lunch break. Also, to ask if Doc Meredith had produced anything further. The promise of that autopsy, fitting in so conveniently with the seminar or study group being run that day, had been the one bright note. The one thing that was performing not just to pattern but better than. Once he had got it, he would be able to get things moving more positively at the scene of the crime.
Back at the Show, the member of the Fraud squad was increasingly thinking himself to be the victim of a fraud. A fraud perpetrated by his former boss in the CID. He was in the Hall under false pretences. He fancied that the same could be said of the murderer, for a murder there had been in the happy boundaries of this well-rated dog show. He had finally worked his way through all the ETT owners, with the one exception of the cigarette puffer he had let loose. If he didn’t return, would he be the killer now sought? No such luck. As promised, within the time requested, the fellow made his reappearance and stood before his interrogator suitably grateful.
“Thanks. That was Christian.”
“I hope you can help me in return. You’ll have gathered by now what this is all about.”
‘Kem’ Harriday nodded.
“Sure. Poor old Ambrose. Didn’t deserve that. Not my favourite man. Anyone here will tell you that. One of those over-fussy, paper-bound rules guys, if you know what I mean. But dead? I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy,” and he laughed at his own sally. Yale gave a weak smile. The comment rang true, an honest one, something he could do with.
“What do you know of Ambrose Graveney’s movements today? Did you see him on the way in? Or arriving at his box perhaps?” Harriday gave this question thought.
“Saw him, only in passing, in the car park. We drove in about the same time. He went ahead of me. Didn’t catch up with him. Hung around for a last fag before coming into this new-model centre of healthy air”, and he gave his laugh again. Yale pressed.
“Behind him, you say. So was he in place when you came into the Hall?”
Again Harriday paused before replying.
“Yes. At least I think so. Must have been, mustn’t he. Being in front of me in the wagon trail. Can’t swear to it, but he must have been. Didn’t really look. Had no need to. Went on to my slot in the next row. He was probably hidden away behind his stuff, like all the rest.”
This man’s reply matched most of the others. Yale went on with his attempt to get some distinctive observation. Some helpful recollection. Had Graveney spoken to anyone, possibly a stranger? Stood out in the crowd on the way in by any action of his? By anything he said? Had he called out? Exclaimed? As this was the last of the ETT set, Simon went though the whole of his repertoire. Anna Goldey did not exude enthusiasm as the catechism continued its standard course.
“The man himself. Graveney. You say you weren’t exactly a mate of his.” Harriday grimaced an acknowledgement. “What sort of man was he? Apart from being a bit of a stickler for protocol, as more than one has told me. Something of a secret lady’s man, by chance? A secret Lothario?” This brought much more than a grimace in reply. More a guffaw.
“Ladies’ man? Ambrose? Bit of an old queen, more like. Not to speak ill of the dead mind. I wouldn’t know for sure. Still, you’d be hard pressed, I would say, to find any lady here – and they’re not exactly a cross-section of glamour mag beauties I think you’ll agree (glad to get anything some of them I wouldn’t wonder) to be a signed-up member of his fan club. Apart from being a poof,” Harriday saw Simon’s reaction, and hastily added, “well, why not say it? He was. Old tart. I think so, anyway. Apart from that, he won too often. Beat the others again and again. He knew how to win all right. Which judges to win with”, and ‘Kem’ gave a wink of the ‘nudge-nudge know what I mean’ variety. “That didn’t help his popularity.”
“Jealousy, then? As a motive?”
“As a motive for murder, Inspector? Could fit the bill. Suit the Bill, wouldn’t it?” Once more his laugh. A most relaxed guy.
“If what you say about the man is true, how would you rate his chances with a woman judge?” At this the interviewee showed his true campaigner colours.
“Not always the disadvantage you might think. But win! He had no chance today, no matter who had been the judge. Not against me. Agnes Thorpe doesn’t come into it. When he hasn’t fixed his success,” a bitter if relaxed man thought Yale, “he only comes along to spread the acid and spy on the others. He liked to make bitchy comments after each judging. If you want your killer, Inspector, don’t cherchez la femme as they say in Chinese. Look for a guy. A guy who had it in for him. A loser. Someone Ambrose got up the nose of.”
With that elegant remark, Yale let the man go. Nothing more to be gained than he hadn’t already gained from his morning’s trawl. Most dispiriting.
Equally dispirited, although only for the shortest of intervals for he was of robust character well able to cope with the slings and arrows, was Mr Trott. Dispirited because he had known for more than an hour now that it must happen. The TV people had rung to say that they would be coming early. Around one of the clock in the afternoon. As any good manager might, and any excellent manager would, Mr Trott responded with a positive move.
‘Very well’, he told himself, ‘it has happened. So. Get on with it. Get on top of it.’
He very well knew why they were coming early. Someone had told somebody something about something. What had or had not, or was rumoured to have, taken place in the Hall that day. The Hall under his command. It was bound to happen. He always knew it would. His mind, therefore, had not been idle. Turning away at the back of that well-organised mental organ had been a range of imagined scenarios each being provided with the right response. In this way, although experienced enough to know that no one of them would fit exactly whatever it was the shape of the things to come took, Manager Trott was confident that he would not be caught off balance. Not him. He now pondered how far to spread the news of the new timing. Delegation, like keeping the staff informed, was all very well. Such input could be of use. Also, ‘forewarned is forearmed’ and all that. But TV? The cameras had attractions to the untrained, undisciplined mind. People always wanted to get in on the act. Those reporters loved to speak to ‘ordinary folk’. Trouble was, such folk were at best, and that usually was the worst, only partly aware of what had occurred and, even more, what the implications were. Why wouldn’t reporters listen to the authoritative voice, and that voice alone? In this case, his. Mr Trott was, further, aware that he wasn’t fully in the picture himself. Try as he might to stress the doggie stories of the day, he knew only too well that he’d never put a reporter off a crime.
So then? He had, to date, limited his assistance to the police to what seemed appropriate. And unavoidable. That done, by his manners, actions and demeanour, his purpose had been to smother dissemination. Now, he sensed, the bright light of publicity was about to shine upon him and his Hall. Public exposure could be so unfair! Was there a plot aimed at him? Was it too much of a conspiracy theory to fancy that one of his enemies – and what great man didn’t have enemies? – had arranged this, this, episode, this unwelcome business, to bring him down? Oh, he had rivals. Rivals who, he had been known to expostulate, would do anything to destroy his position. Well, he was far from down. Indeed, the whole affair could be, would be with proper management, turned to his advantage. To his greater purpose. This could be just the break, the publicity he needed, on which to build his push for the very top job. Why not? Get it right and…. His speculation stopped. He was still short of ammunition. Short of the full facts. Might be caught out in detail. How to fill in that gap? The Inspector? Not, he fancied, a likely source of information. He needed something more. A minor miracle perhaps?
His internal phone rang. It was from the main entrance.
“There’s a Chief Superintendent Grant to see you. Shall I bring him up?”