Deadline (The Simon Bognor Mysteries)

by Tim Heald

  ‘Rose,’ she shouted.

  Rose came running.

  ‘We’ll bury him after lunch,’ she said with a crispness which did not entirely conceal her true feelings. ‘Use a dustbin liner and then find a good strong box. No cardboard this time. And get Andrews to dig a grave under the cherry tree.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Potts,’ said Rose. Then, nervously, she said, ‘Straight away, Mrs Potts? I mean shouldn’t Mr Agnew …?’

  Mr Agnew was the vet. He came to the kennels most days to advise and inoculate and examine, and most of all to drink gin and water.

  ‘No need for Mr Agnew,’ said Mrs Potts, ‘the dog’s dead. And I know what caused it.’ She grimaced. ‘I’d rather Mr Agnew didn’t know anything about it, so don’t go gossiping.’

  Simon Bognor was not happy with his latest assignment. There was nothing unusual in this since he had never yet been happy with his latest assignment. Nevertheless in a career which had taken him to an Anglican Friary in pursuit of missing industrial secrets, to stately homes in search of titled murderers and to the gossip column of a national newspaper to find the identity of the columnist’s assassin, this took the biscuit. He grinned wanly. ‘Taking the biscuit’ was an unfortunate turn of phrase in view of the task before him.

  Parkinson, his immediate superior in the Special Investigations Department at the Board of Trade, had tried to impress him with the seriousness of this situation but he hadn’t succeeded.

  It was not the first time that Bognor had wondered what he was doing with his life. He wondered about it daily, sometimes hourly, and invariably he came to the conclusion that he was wasting it. Ever since the interview at Oxford when he had foolishly allowed himself to be deflected from a sensible, routine application for some Civil Service posting into what was laughingly called ‘intelligence’; ever since then things had gone wrong. He wasn’t cut out for it, and his superiors, realizing this, had not, as they should have done, asked for him to be transferred or even sacked. Instead they had fobbed him off with absurdities in the hope that he would thus stay out of trouble. Alas, it meant no such thing. The more absurd and low-key his assignment, the more trouble he attracted.

  He had an uneasy feeling that this would be the same.

  ‘Dogs,’ Parkinson had said. ‘Know anything about dogs?’

  ‘Very little.’ Bognor didn’t care for them since, as a child, he had been bitten on the hand by a stray in Richmond Park. They alarmed him—even chihuahuas—and he had been known to kick out at perfectly inoffensive animals when the owners weren’t looking.

  ‘Never mind.’ Parkinson had been unnervingly friendly. ‘This could be your chance.’ He had referred to the open file on his desk. ‘Dogs are very big dollar earners. We make the best in the world, set very high standards. Total export income from dogs is more than two million pounds a year. Did you know that, Bognor?’

  Bognor had not known.

  ‘British dog breeders send more than two thousand Yorkshire terriers abroad every year. Are you impressed, Bognor?’

  Bognor was very impressed. Also apprehensive. He thought he could see what was coming.

  ‘So you will understand that the Board of Trade is surprisingly interested in man’s best friend,’ Parkinson had continued. He had droned on a bit about the place of the dog industry in Britain’s balance of payments crisis and then stopped.

  ‘Heard of quarantine?’ he asked.

  Bognor had said something facetious about chickenpox. Parkinson was not amused. Very patiently he had explained to Bognor that rabies was endemic in every other country in Europe and most other countries in the world except for Australia and New Zealand. To prevent it being imported all dogs coming in to Britain had to spend six months in quarantine kennels. Bognor nodded. He was getting worried.

  ‘Now.’ Parkinson was approaching the nitty gritty. ‘These quarantine restrictions mean that it is not possible to fly dogs in and out of the country for very short periods. Right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So that if a breeder wanted to put one of his dogs in for a show in Tokyo or Los Angeles he would have to kennel the dog when it returned. The same if he wanted to mate the dog with a Peruvian or Australian bitch.’

  Bognor had frowned and Parkinson, very patiently, explained what was going on. According to the Board of Trade’s information an international gang was smuggling pedigree dogs in and out of Britain. They were appearing at foreign shows under assumed names and carrying off all the big prizes. They were being mated with foreign dogs for improbably high stud fees. And at no time were any of them going into quarantine.

  ‘What makes you think this?’

  Parkinson laughed. ‘Our experts have reported an unusual rise in the standards of some breeds in some exceptionally unlikely places. Best of Breed boxer at Moscow this year,’ he shuffled through papers, ‘was quite exceptional. In my opinion only one kennel in the world could have produced such a dog, and that is in Lincolnshire. Then there was a Dobermann in Darjeeling and a Sealyham in Sydney. Exactly the same. Our man insists that those dogs could not have been produced by any breeder operating in that country, let alone the one who claims to have produced it. The latest is a Tibetan terrier in Tokyo. That was last week.’

  Now sucking his pencil in the scruffy subterranean office off Whitehall Bognor pondered the fate which ordained that he should investigate a team of international dog smugglers. He was not amused, but it could have been worse. For a hideous moment he had feared that Parkinson was going to make him impersonate a dog breeder. Worse things had happened in the past, but to his intense relief he had only told him to get in touch with the Board of Trade’s informant, a man called Mervyn Sparks.

  For the last thirty minutes Bognor had been sucking the pencil and staring sadly at the telephone. He knew that soon he would have to stir himself and dial the wretched Sparks but somehow he could not yet bring himself to do so. Sparks was an international dog judge who had once bred Airedales but had stopped when the breed had lost popularity after the war. He had his own public relations consultancy and had worked in wartime intelligence, hence his continuing, if tenuous links with the Civil Service.

  Bognor was on the verge of picking up the receiver when the phone rang, making him jump.

  ‘Bognor,’ he said.

  ‘Ah, Mr Bognor,’ said the voice in the machine, ‘Mervyn Sparks here. I wonder if you’d care to lunch. I think I may be able to help in your latest investigation. Mr Parkinson tells me you’re in charge.’

  ‘Ah. Yes. Thanks.’

  ‘I have an appointment at two, so if you don’t mind an early bite perhaps you’d meet me at the Club at 12.30.’

  ‘The Club?’

  ‘The Kennel Club. Clarges Street.’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Fine.’

  Bognor did not want lunch at the Kennel Club and disliked eating before 1.30. Nevertheless duty was clearly beckoning. He sighed and went on sucking his pencil.

  Mr Sparks was shuffling testily up and down just inside the front door of his club when Bognor arrived at 12.31. Bognor apologized for being late and remarked approvingly on the large canine bronze which stood at the entrance.

  ‘Nice dog,’ he said fatuously.

  ‘Not a dog,’ said Mr Sparks acidly. ‘It’s a hound.’

  Bognor was about to ask the difference and then thought better of it. They ascended by lift, in silence.

  They went straight into lunch since time pressed and for the same reason ordered from the set menu which, Bognor noticed, was extremely modestly priced. Mr Sparks had the face of a weasel and drank a glass of cider with his lunch. Bognor would have preferred wine but did the same. Over the soup Mr Sparks, who had hitherto confined himself to curt banalities, leant across the table and said, ‘I’ve just heard something very remarkable which might just be relevant.’

  ‘Oh.’ Bognor felt put upon. He was certainly not going to display enthusiasm without due cause.

  ‘Whately Wonderful’s been found dead.’


  For a moment Bognor thought of trying to bluff his way out of this inexplicable revelation but instead he looked what he felt: totally blank.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to explain. It means nothing.’

  Mr Sparks sipped cider and looked wary.

  ‘Whately Wonderful,’ he hissed, ‘dead.’

  ‘I heard you perfectly clearly. I just don’t understand. I’ve never heard of anyone called Whately Wonderful.’

  ‘It’s not a person, it’s a dog.’

  Bognor despaired. He didn’t even seem able to identify breeds correctly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid I don’t know anything at all about dogs. I was only assigned to this thing this morning.’

  Mr Sparks looked pained and his rodent’s mouth twitched in disapproval. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is becoming obvious. I shall start at the beginning. You’ve heard of Ailsa Potts?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I really am tempted to ask where you have been all these years, Mr Bognor, I am really. Mrs Potts is the country’s, probably the world’s, leading breeder of poodles.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘And she owns—or rather owned—a young dog called Whately Wonderful which by all accounts is the finest poodle ever bred. A superb creature. Magnificent animal. She’d already been offered £15 000 for it.’

  ‘£15 000?’

  ‘That’s a top price but not so remarkable these days. She wouldn’t sell for that, of course, and quite right. The dog’s worth far more to her.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘It was an almost certain Best of Breed for Cruft’s and it had a better than evens chance of becoming Best in Show. That would have put its own price up and also inundated her with orders from all over the world. She could have sold any dog she had several times over. Albert Ramble would have gone berserk.’

  ‘Albert Ramble?’

  They were on to their steak and kidney pie now. Mr Sparks was having difficulty with a piece of gristle. Eventually when he’d extracted it from his teeth and put it neatly on one side of his plate he said, ‘Ailsa Potts’ old rival. The second best breeder of poodles in Britain. He tries harder but then he has to. Nice man but doesn’t quite have what it takes. His dogs are never as well bodied up as the Three Corners’ animals. The ribbing’s not good enough.’

  ‘And the dog’s dead.’

  ‘Yes. This morning. One of the kennelmaids telephoned.’ Mr Sparks tapped his nose suggestively with an ill-kempt finger. ‘I have to keep up to date, know what’s going on. That sort of thing.’

  ‘And you think this dog’s death might have something to do with the smuggling?’

  Mr Sparks looked evasive.

  ‘I can’t be certain, but it’s a peculiar coincidence. The circumstances are highly suspicious. I understand Mrs Potts wouldn’t have the vet in. The dog was being buried this afternoon with no post mortem.’

  Bognor was on the point of asking whether there didn’t have to be an inquest and then realized that the question would be thought facetious. Instead he asked for Mrs Potts’ address. For the first time since they’d met he’d asked Mr Sparks the right question. He scribbled down, ‘Three Corners, Surblington’ and Mr Sparks said he’d been hoping he’d go and have a word with Mrs Potts, whom he described as ‘one of the old school’, a phrase which filled Bognor with unreasoning horror.

  During the ice cream they forgot the particular problem of Whately Wonderful to consider the more general one of dog smuggling. Sparks was only moderately helpful. On his travels he had recently encountered several high class dogs that he suspected of being from leading British kennels, but he couldn’t prove it. It remained a suspicion. He hadn’t seen any British dog breeders except occasionally for one or other who had been invited, like him, to judge. The only man who got around as much as he himself was his fellow judge, Percy Pocklington, the general secretary of the Dog-lovers’ League. He didn’t like Pocklington but, well, dog didn’t bite dog, and he didn’t want to speak ill of anyone who had done so much for dogdom.

  Bognor said he’d never believed the aphorism about dogs not biting other dogs. In any case wasn’t it ‘eating’ not ‘biting’?

  Mr Sparks wasn’t interested in semantics. It was 1.30. Surblington was not much more than half an hour if the traffic was fair.

  ‘You suggest,’ he said, trying against every inclination to appear ingratiating, ‘that I should see Mrs Potts about her dead dog; and also grill Percy Pocklington.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In that case I shall take your advice.’

  Mr Sparks acknowledged the tribute with a thin, humourless smile.

  ‘Tell me,’ asked Bognor, disliking the smile, ‘why aren’t there any dogs here? I mean, surely it’s more appropriate for dogs to be members of the Kennel Club than their masters. I haven’t seen a single dog—or hound since we arrived.’

  Mr Sparks picked up the bill.

  ‘It was good of you to come, Mr Bognor,’ he said. ‘I trust I’ve been of assistance. My regards to Mrs Potts.’

  Bognor drove aggressively to Shepherd’s Bush and then fast down the A40, his progress slowed only by the interminable roundabouts which interrupted his progress every few miles. Past Northolt airport he touched 80 mph which was too fast both for him and his little Mini. He only ever drove like that when he was angry. It was the unpleasant little informer who’d upset him. Mr Sparks had reminded him of the school sneak. However, in this sort of work people like him were tedious and disagreeable necessities. He slowed down. There was no hurry. Mrs Potts was not expecting him because he hadn’t telephoned. He had thought it better to surprise her, though quite why he didn’t know. At the back of his mind there was the feeling that if he’d asked to see her she would have turned him down.

  He found the kennels without trouble. There was a large sign on the main road into Surblington which said ‘Three Corners Kennels—Standard and Miniature Poodles—Boarding. Mrs M. Potts’. Bognor parked the car by driving half-way up the grass verge which ran to the privet hedge. Then he walked to the front door of the dilapidated Victorian villa, brushed aside the honeysuckle which hung limply around the front door and rang the bell. He waited, an unlikely caller for a dog breeder, he reckoned. Normally he would have dressed the part but that morning when he left the flat there had been no question of anything to do with dogs. More likely codes, ciphers, the odd check on the activities of the Iron Curtain trade councillors. Perhaps a straightforward piece of suspected industrial sabotage if he’d been really lucky. Because of this he was still in his charcoal suit. It was bagging slightly at the knees, shining slightly at the elbows, thinning slightly at the cuffs but it was still unmistakably a city suit. He smoothed the back of his head and grimaced at the sparseness of the hair there. Still a few years before he was forty. He must take up squash again. It might not make his hair grow but it would get rid of his paunch. He rang the doorbell again and stepped back to take a look round.

  The house was a shambles. It badly needed re-pointing and the paint was flaking everywhere. On the first floor a window had been broken and the pane had been replaced with corrugated brown paper. Several tiles were missing from the roof and one of the drainpipes had come away from the wall. Bognor could smell drains. He sighed and thought of lighting a cheroot. Cheroots were a new pastime and they affected his breath which was becoming alarmingly short. Monica disapproved. Suddenly as he stood gazing up at the headquarters of Britain’s poodle breeding industry he became aware of an alien noise. He strained to identify it. It appeared to be coming from behind the house. He walked round to the back and was rewarded by an increase in volume. It was singing. Very poor singing, high pitched, querulous, dirge-like. He advanced on its source which seemed to be the orchard to the right of what he now recognized as a kennel block. He traversed the wasteland listening hard now to identify the sounds. Unless he was much mistaken it was ‘Abide with me’ sung by a small choir of tone-deaf ladies. One had a dominating
soprano and somewhere in the middle of it all there was a cracked bass. He continued his advance and noticed that the orchard could only be entered through a wrought iron gate of surprisingly ornate design. Over the top of it, picked out in faded gilt were the words:

  The kiss of the sun for pardon,

  The song of the birds for mirth.

  You are nearer God’s heart in a garden,

  Than anywhere else on earth.

  It was undoubtedly ‘Abide with me’. The singing was execrable but the tune was recognizable if only because the human voices were augmented by some dim and crackling organ music. Bognor pushed open the gate and was amazed.

  Twenty-five yards away under a cherry tree of perfect symmetry stood a small group. Three were in overalls with black armbands. One, a lady of considerable bulk, sported an enormous black hat, and a fifth seemed incongruous—snappily dressed in a camel trouser suit, and with long blonde hair flowing over her shoulders. The only man in the group was an elderly agricultural type in heavy boots and braces. He was standing firmly to attention with a cloth cap clasped over his heart. At his feet lay a large wooden box, which Bognor saw as he drew closer had the words ‘Outspan Oranges—with care’ stencilled over it. He had been right about the organ music too. It came from a hand-operated gramophone which had been placed on an upright dining-room chair a little to the right of the tree. By some curious inbred reflex Bognor began to tiptoe. As he did the singing stopped and the blonde glanced in his direction. She noticed him and smiled. Bognor wished he hadn’t worn such an old suit. He felt as if he was playing grandmother’s footsteps and as he had arrived within a few feet of the group he decided to stay where he was.

  The fat lady in the hat, whom he guessed from her shape and demeanour to be Mrs Potts herself, now stepped to the edge of the hole in the ground and, in a voice breaking with emotion, recited: