Saturday 1.53pm
There was a gathering of the clans, as Grant’s Scottish grandmother, his only quarter not of Yorkshire, would have declared. The Super did not feel it an occasion for celebration. The words ‘many’ and ‘muckle’ added to a ‘Now then!’ came more readily to mind as the cavalcade of the important approached where he had been caught up with by Althea Gibbons, but had also caught up with Janice Mulholland. The formidable breeder of the Bichons Frisés, sensing his hunt, had headed towards him, ever willing to co-operate. There was time to fill before four o’clock. The three, each trying to hold a conversation with one but not both of the others, made a mini summit, now added to by Yale, Frank and Michael. A little behind, at a distance sufficient to indicate an independent approach, came the renowned Manager himself. The enhanced party was so cramped in between the rows of Bichon benches that Grant felt a twinge of fear. The fear of the vulnerable. ‘Silly, of course’ he strictured himself, ‘but if one little needle can be pressed into an unsuspecting and, from what flimsy evidence they so far had, unfeeling neck, maybe another attempt would be made. In such a crush, such accidents could happen. Not that, for one moment, he took the death of Ambrose Graveney to have been an accident. At that early hour of the morning, and from all he had gathered from Simon Yale and from his interview notes taken by the so-efficient Anna Goldey, there had been no accident. That was a point though. Might Ambrose, in the last moments of his life, have known his killer? Greeted him, even? Quite possible. The more he considered this point the more certain it seemed. In the small world of dog shows, most saw most regularly. They would know, as Wiseton had explained, who intended to be where at what show. Because of this, Ambrose could have made clear to aficionados reading his article, taking it that was the spark, when and maybe who he was writing about. That said, reasoned on Grant, there could have been a mistake. What if the chap who hadn’t turned up because he couldn’t stand the judge Agnes Thorpe had been the target? Had there been any re-allocation of benches? He would check the details with Yale. Right now he had to turn all his attention to the group forming around him, and the need to ensure there was no publicity crisis.
“This is the back-up team for Ms Gibbons, sir. I see you’ve met her.”
” Grant’s expression made clear to Simon that the Super wished he had not met the famous lady. F and M’s faces registered an objection to ‘back-up,’ to add to ‘third estate’. They were not becoming fans of the good-looking young policeman as was Ms Gibbons. They wanted him out of the way. Althea did not. This was the chap she wanted to speak to. Grant for the official line, unavoidably, but, from what she had gathered from the ladies of the dog world, this was the one who was running things.
Yale pressed on before anyone had time to speak
“They are here to report on the Show,” he continued, rather superfluously in view of F and M’s equipment. “Mr Trott will be supervising all of that. No problem for us.” This brought the Great Man back into his camp. He had been tending towards the technicians’ view that this copper was not destined for high diplomatic office. Now, he saw glimmerings of social understanding. Of who was in charge of the Hall, and all within it. Unfortunately for Mr Trott, he was not in charge of The one thing that wasn’t any longer within, the departed corpse. ‘Nil desperandum’, he said to himself, ‘there you go’. Althea wanted to go elsewhere with her enquiries.
“Inspector Yale. Pleased to meet you. You’ve been very busy here this morning the ladies tell me.”
Yale kept quiet. This part was for Grant. The claustrophobically pressed Super decided to make a move to broader acres. Taking Althea by the arm, in a most gentle and unthreatening way and in front of an array of impeccable witnesses, he asked her to follow him to a quieter spot where he would be pleased to bring her up to date with what had happened that day, and police progress. That was, in so far as he was able. Things were as yet at an early stage. He had every confidence that the actions taken to date would lead to an arrest. For murder? Yes. That was beyond doubt. If she would only come this way. With F and M in action-posed attendance, she did so. Yale got an eyebrowed message to stay where he was, and to take up the questioning of Janice. Mr Trott was left in limbo. This was not right. He saw that power and publicity were moving away from him. He acted. He strode after Grant and the TV team. This was his Hall. Let them dare try and push him away from them.
Yale looked at Janice.
“You’ve finished showing for the day?”
“Yes. Freddie’s all done. I’ve got to get back to the others in the motorvan, though. Are we allowed to leave yet?”
Simon was feeling, if not confined, stifled by the atmosphere that, with the rings still in use and the stands steaming up, was becoming hotter and drier.
“I’d like to see the other dogs of yours. Let me come with you. There are one or two things you might be able to help me with, and it would be good to get a breath of air. That way we’ll both feel a little easier. I can’t say yet when you’ll be cleared to go. We are still waiting for the full investigating team to come. I’m just holding the fort, as it were. Could do with a change of scenery.”
Together they walked out of the competitors’ entrance, retracing the path taken that morning by the doggie teams, passing the very spot where Wiseton’s shins had been so barked as to draw blood, towards the car park.
Wiseton was still nursing those shins, but for the moment the still-stinging, Afghan-engendered marks were forgotten as he meandered down a different path, memory lane, with his school friend X3. John Xavier Charles III had been called ‘Yank’ at school. His erudite chums knew that only Americans used such nomenclature. They didn’t know X3’s father. John Xavier Charles was the son of a John Xavier Charles, a man of much limited imagination in the eyes of his unloving boy. Not capable of the simple task of thinking of a fresh name for his offspring. The second JXC was determined to show a more inspired approach when his turn came to become a dad. This he did, by adding that distinctive III to the third in line of the hallowed names. Thus X3 was the son not of X2 as the dull-minded could have supposed. All this seemed to have seeped into X3’s soul. As soon as he could, he took his chance and emigrated to the USA where, quickly, he had felt at home, been assimilated, and became a true Yank. He had even voted Republican on two occasions. ‘In honour of Lincoln’ as he had learned to say to suitable laughter. The two had met twice since, at School reunions. Brian had, on those occasions, been surprised at X3’s flying over for such an event, impressed not only by his interest but by the time and money he was willing to afford them. The streets of Manhattan or wherever must have been paved with enough gold for this particular ex-pat.
“So why here?” was Brian’s first question when they had settled on the bench of Ambrose, thus, if it was possible, rubbing out any last traces of what a fully-equipped CID team might have hoped to find. “You weren’t into dogs in school?”
“That was a long time ago. A very long time ago. No more were you.”
“True enough. Got involved in the army. You skivved out of that.”
“Got caught for National Guard in the US of A. That was enough. Took up dogs after trying a few other things. Got into the swing of it. Good business. Made it so. Professionally.”
“Quite a coincidence, though, that you ended up with ETTs. Like me.”
“Toy Manchesters if you don’t mind.”
“Thought you might say that. There’s some not a million miles from where we are sitting now who would say that they shouldn’t be here. Too long in the leg. Not ETTs. Wouldn’t let you in if they could find a way to stop you.”
“Sure. But Crufts will. That’s what matters. That’s why I’m here. Qualified in the States, at the Philadelphia. They can’t refuse that. Especially as mine’s not just any old champ. Directly descended from Kricket of Kent. In the record books of the AKC. Mine’s on top form, so now’s the chance to make it at Crufts. That’s why I’m here. So there! As good as anything your breeders can show, leave alone those from Norway and Sweden. Or Finland. Can’t keep us out. Impeccable, all the way.”
Brian had grasped the American Kennel Club initials, and was willing to be impressed by the link to a, no doubt famous, former champion. He waffled slightly. The American accent was infectious.
“That sounds great. It’s OK by me. Just go ahead. I take it you’ve walked it today. Conquered the ring?”
X3 smiled a quiet smile of superior certainty, muttered a ‘no need’.
“Not showing today. Just looking and learning. What a good pro does.” He began to look up and down the line of benches. To restart the conversation, Brian reverted to the chance of their meeting in this way, quality of their dogs apart.
“I can’t get over seeing you like this. Fantastic! I thought it was you, heading ringside – is that what you Americans call it? – with Kem earlier. Knew it was you. After all these years. Couldn’t believe it. Would have come across, but got myself caught up in helping the police.”
“Kem’s told me. Sad business. Thanks to Kem I’m here. Came with him. Buddied up at that first reunion, remember? Sure. Course you do. Kept in touch ever since.”
“Maybe it was you they were after!” Brian couldn’t abandon his theme for the day. “What with being an American you must be stinking rich, and then to bring those overlong legged dogs into the ETT ring!”
X3 did not see the funny side of this banter.
“Nothing wrong with my Toy Manchesters, so shut it! There’s an old pal. No problem anyway. Mine’s already into Crufts as I’ve told you. More than well qualified. As I keep saying, I’m a pro. Most of us in the States are. Not like you lot, all amateurs and hobbyists. Jeez, Brian, Kem apart, who does his best to rise above the herd, your lot are sloppy part timers. Call this organisation?” He looked around as with amazement at such penny-pinching scruffiness.
“Sure. You did say. Didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just that, well, I say again, coincidence. You and Kem. Both here and both into mini Ms.”
“Yeah. Well. So it goes. Kept in touch, I told you. Always wanted to play Crufts. This year’s my break, I reckon. Kem’s given me the chance to get the hang of your regs and paper work. Not the same as ours, no sirree. Would have come over last year if it hadn’t been for that rabies scare, and then some damned nonsense about a micro-chip that went walk about.”
“I can see that, but this is hardly Crufts.” X3 paused, and then giving a conspiratorial touch to his pronouncement, replied:
“Sure sure old buddy, but the jargon’s the same. KC rules in common, I guess. Then, look who the judge is!”
“Agnes Thorpe?”
“The same.”
“I don’t get it. She won’t be allowed to judge the ETTs at Crufts after this.”
“Maybe not, Brian boy, maybe not, but,” and he did a stage tapping of his nose to add to his look of cunning knowledge, “who’s in the running for the Supreme Champion Judge, the Best In Show, this year? Eh? Eh? Tell me that?”
Brian felt, as he had when Janice had told him about the magazine articles written by Ambrose Graveney. That, for all his years on the circuit and in the dog world, he was surprisingly ignorant. X3 was right, nothing but a part-time amateur, like the rest this side of the pond. He hadn’t known about that authorship, and now a Yank, a foreigner, someone who had never shown in the UK before so far as he knew, was telling him where the money was going on who was to be chosen for that greatest honour a judge can attain in the canine Kennel Club world. Agnes? Whow! No hope for him then. Not that, loyal though he was to his Jenny and his Mike, he saw either reaching that ultimate Sunday evening moment in the ring. Agnes Thorpe or no. He changed the subject.
“How come you recognised me?”
“Same as you did me, I guess. Not really all that long since the last reunion. Some things don’t change, not even after fifty years. You’re as ugly as ever. You should have kept in touch, like Kem. Especially after that first get together. Come over and seen us.”
The conversation continued in a roll call, the one to the other, of the years that were no more, until X3 made a break and with a ‘See you at Crufts’, walked up to the end of the row where Brian saw Kem Harriday standing, unlit half of a cigarette in his left hand.
Having reached the motorhome – for home it was, to Janice and her brood – Yale stood back, holding Freddie by his lead and hoping that would be the only task that would come his way dog-wise. Janice unlocked the door and was greeted by a cacophony of excited barking from the four other Bichons, stored with great care and comfort within. The first passionate reunions over, he was invited inside, sat down in the comfortable swing chair that normally served the front seat passenger, was joined by two of the Bichons, and was handed, by some deft efficiency, a gin and tonic. Complete with ice and lemon.
“Bags of tonic. Splash of gin. Helps the vocal chords. Shove them off if they’re a nuisance.”
Yale acknowledged his hostess’ assessment of the contents of his glass and power over her dogs. He didn’t have a car to worry about, though he was on duty. He fancied that by now, had the London job gone ahead, he would probably be on his third drink. ‘Need someone who can keep his head when being bribed alcoholically’ his boss had told him when he had first been transferred to Fraud. He thanked and sipped. Lovely balance. Not too small a shot. Just right for the occasion. He was tempted to settle back. To chat generally. Sadly, he had an on-going investigation, one for which time was running out. He waved his glass in Janice’s direction to acknowledge her robust ‘Cheers!’ and turned to the task set him by Grant.
“We’ve had a sort of report from Brian Wiseton,” he began. “Good chap. Keen to help. Maybe a touch too keen. Like to know if you can shed further light on what he was telling us a short time ago.”
He went on to tell her of Wiseton’s suggestion of a motive for the murder of Ambrose. Janice did not rush to a reply. She, instead, seemed to be considering a PhD thesis on the number of times a small slice of lemon can be carried from the bottom to the top of a glass before the bubbles got tired of the sport. Yale waited with her, watching her rather than his own effervescent tonic water. She spoke.
“He may have got it right. Then again, he might not have. I’m surprised he didn’t know of Ambrose’s journalistic sideline. Many did.”
“He told us that the editor was under orders to keep it secret.”
“No doubt. I know him well. His surname should be Leakey. He’s always ready to leak for effect, if it’s in his interests. Not a security minded fellow. Not venal. A gossip. Useful quality in his trade.”
Yale sensed she was preparing cover for whatever she might be about to say. No one, including herself, must be tarred by the brush of ‘possible suspect’ merely because they knew that Graveney had been the writer behind a series of attacks on matters that upset him. Things he called cheating, fiddling, malpractice, skulduggery in the fetid ranks of dog-owner fanatics.
“Yes,” she continued. “As I said to Brian myself today, Ambrose’s articles would have far from endeared him with those he targeted. Also, his work as an inspector. Did Brian mention that?” Simon professed ignorance.
“He operated in two ways. He was the gateway, as it were, for most of those who wanted to join any established ETT club or group. Then again, for years he was a Kennel Club inspector of breeders. For such an old stick-in-the-mud, as he tried to present himself, it has been rumoured he’s involved in the selection of breeders allowed to use the services of Breedadog.com. I’ve no proof of that, mind. Still. Gives you some idea of his scope. It could, believe me, be a scathing scope. Quiet and dignified may well have been his public persona, but underneath he was a determined cleanser of stables. I was surprised he was not attacked more in the correspondence columns. Probably because he was usually too near the mark. People he was on about wouldn’t want to stir up more publicity.”
Yale was lost with some of this, but got the drift. The man had been able to put backs up, if not damage breeders’ marketing and/or showing potential. A lot of them. There was the rub. Many. Had Graveney been on the verge of exposing something specific at this Show? Had he been killed to keep him quiet? If so, then the killer was here, one of that ‘many’. How to find out? His mind returned to the use Althea Gibbons’ TV interviews might be put to.
He pressed Janice for more detail, any knowledge of reactions, as he enjoyed his drink, but got little further. She thought that she had some past copies of the magazine at home, but Yale knew that he could get what he wanted from the publisher’s files. Either way, it would be too late to be of any use today. Janice had no recollection of anything specific to the Show now going on but then, as she kept stressing almost too much he felt, if it was to do with breeding then, as a Bichon owner, she was not concerned. Not affected. Yale could see that this might be so in the great ‘bad breeders’ row, but this was not the most likely topic. There were other ways things could be engineered for personal advantage in the show ring. Time marching on, he finished his glass and left after due thanks and reminder that she was not free to depart. Indeed, that he would want to see her, or rather, his Super and the any-moment-arriving CID team would need to, before she was able to speed on her innocent way.
Walking back to the exhibitors’ entrance, Yale wondered if the congested, refugee-like horde that had crowded its way along this route early that morning had been part of a master plan to provide cover, the smoke screen that the killer wanted. He wished Doc Meredith would hurry up with the final diagnosis of what it was had killed Ambrose. What drug, poison, whatever, and how long for it to take effect?
So musing, he re-entered the Show arena and went to report to Grant.