Bloodlines (Three Oaks Book 8)

by Gerald Hammond

  ‘If it’s any help . . .’ Joe began, ‘I live in a caravan with my half-brother. There’s neither of us married and we’re both in the building trade, so it suits us well enough. We can put the ’van wherever it’s handy for whatever job we’re on. It’s just over the hedge from Mr Hopgood’s house this moment. But it’d be no bother to bring it here and park it right by the kennels. Then we’d be right on the spot if somebody had another go at you.’

  ‘Would you do that?’ Isobel said. ‘The lights work off a sensor, so between them and the dogs you should get ample warning of any intruder.’

  ‘That sounds good,’ said Joe. ‘My half-brother doesn’t start work on site yet—he’s a joiner—and he stays up half the night anyway. Could you give us mains electricity?’

  ‘No problem,’ I said.

  ‘And you can come in for baths and food,’ said Beth.

  ‘And no charge for the work on Jumbo,’ Isobel added.

  ‘I was hoping you’d say that,’ Joe said cheerfully. ‘I’ll away and fetch the caravan now. I may be a while. If Dave’s not there I’ll have to wait for him. Otherwise he’d be getting in a tizzy and calling the police to tell them the caravan’s been nicked.’

  ‘Finish your meal first,’ Beth protested.

  Joe pushed away his half-emptied plate. ‘I’d better go and catch Dave before he sets out on a round of the pubs. There’s more snow forecast.’

  ‘Which is a fair guarantee that it won’t come,’ Henry said.

  ‘Maybe. But nobody can be wrong all the time, not even the forecasters, and it’s not a lot of fun pulling a caravan in the dark, in falling snow and with a two-wheel-drive vehicle. Time enough to eat later. Let me visit Jumbo before I go. The poor old bugger—forgive me, ladies—he’ll be wondering where he is and what’s adae.’

  He had a mutually satisfactory reunion with his still somnolent friend and a minute or two later we heard the van move off.

  ‘That’s a stroke of luck,’ Isobel said. ‘The first one we’ve had for a while.’

  ‘You can carve that up over the mantelpiece,’ I said grimly. ‘This is a mess. We’re being threatened and the police won’t help us because they think that one of us is at the back of it.’

  ‘Count me in with you,’ said Charles. ‘I seem to be in a similar sort of boat. I don’t know whether I can help but I can try.’

  ‘One way . . .’ Hannah began. She was looking at me. Under a forthright and sometimes rebellious shell she was a shy girl and rather nervous. ‘I’m not suggesting that you do it, not by a mile, but I just think that somebody should point out the possibility. As a last resort, I mean. If you think it would do the trick.’

  When she felt unsure of herself, Hannah could go on like that for ever without quite saying anything. ‘Point what out?’ I asked.

  ‘You could stop all of what’s going on, or most of it probably, because we don’t really know why Mr Garnet was knocked on the head—’

  ‘How could we stop it?’ Beth asked her firmly.

  Hannah stopped waffling and came to the point. ‘Mr Cunningham could sign the Kennel Club form.’

  I was on the point of embarking on an impassioned speech, enumerating the still growing list of events which would have to occur before I would let Ben Garnet profit from his duplicity, but Beth frowned me into silence. ‘Can we be sure that that would stop the . . . the persecution?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ Henry said, ‘we can’t be sure. But it seems highly likely. Consider once again the events in sequence. A phone call threatens reprisals if the pups are not legitimized. A man who could very easily be mistaken for John in the dark gets assaulted. The fact that he plays an important role in these events might have been coincidence. But then a dog is poisoned.

  ‘Somebody is trying to force John to sign that form. There you have a neat and compact explanation which embraces all the facts. There may be some other combination, including circumstances which are all unknown to us. But, for the moment, can anybody offer any other explanation which isn’t highly improbable and which doesn’t entail murderous actions by one of us—which we know to be out of the question?’

  The silence which followed was broken by Charles. ‘But accepting every point you’ve made,’ he said, ‘would anybody really go to such lengths for the sake of a pup’s pedigree? Other than Ben Garnet, of course, who has the value of the whole litter at stake and, on present performance, would cheerfully start World War Three to win a bet.’

  ‘Also at stake is his reputation as a master finagler,’ Beth said. ‘I think that may be as important to him as anything. I can imagine his intimate cronies—the ones who are, if not as twisted as he is, at least trying to catch up—I can just see them having a good chortle with him over his more outrageous coups.’

  ‘Despite all of which, he hardly would or could have knocked himself on the head,’ Charles said, completing his original thought.

  We others had had more experience than Charles of the lengths of fanaticism to which dog-lovers could sometimes be driven. We looked at Isobel, our expert on breeding lines.

  Isobel pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose. ‘I think it’s perfectly possible,’ she said. ‘Not knocking himself on the head, I don’t mean that. But that somebody could become so passionate about it. Both sire and dam are unusually friendly, not to say charming, little dogs, which could create an emotional attachment. But they’re also top class both working and trialling—and good looking with it, which is an unusual bonus. They’re uncle and niece and their breeding lines mesh together perfectly. You can never be sure—the damnedest traits can pop up from somewhere away in the background—but all the characteristics that one would most like to perpetuate stem from ancestors that they have in common. Frankly, I couldn’t have dreamed up a more propitious mating if I’d been asked. It’s the kind of breeding a spaniel lover might easily set his heart on and refuse to be turned aside.’ Absently, Isobel pushed her hideous spectacles up onto the top of her head and suddenly looked feminine and quite attractive. ‘It doesn’t only happen about dogs. Once somebody makes up his—or her—mind that “That’s what I want and that’s what I’m bloody well going to get,” the thought either fades out or goes on growing into an obsession.

  ‘And Ben Garnet hadn’t missed the point about the breeding. I hear that he was bragging about what he claimed was the inevitable quality of the pups all the time he was haggling with his prospective purchasers. They were going to be world beaters.’

  ‘That’s his modus operandi,’ Beth said carefully. ‘Or one of them. He sets himself a challenge, puts himself in the position of having to make good and then refuses to be turned aside. He starts with flannel, blarney and persuasion, moves on to bluster and then ends up riding roughshod over all opposition if he possibly can. If it’s a matter of permission and he can’t win out any other way, he just does whatever it is first and apologizes afterwards. Between laying on the charm an inch thick and the reluctance of the average person to get caught up in a lawsuit, he nearly always gets away with it.’

  There was a glum little silence as each of us remembered instances when Ben Garnet had ‘got away with it.’

  ‘He’ll be sorry that he was such an outspoken salesman if he gets a litter throwing back to some hideous ancestor as thick as glue,’ Isobel said suddenly. ‘But that’s beside the point. If we do nothing, or only act defensively, the police aren’t going to look in the right directions. What we should do is to take a good look at each of the people who’ve put their names down for one of the pups.’

  ‘You may be oversimplifying,’ said her husband. ‘Think a bit more. Suppose Garnet himself sent the threatening message. We’re agreed that he didn’t knock himself on the head and he was in hospital when the dog was poisoned. We may have Garnet and one or even two of his clients acting in concert or even at cross-purposes.’

  ‘That doesn’t change anything,’ Beth said. ‘Isobel’s right. If we start with the clients, but remember what He
nry said, I don’t see how we can do any harm and we may come up with some facts. Anyway, it’ll be better than sitting around on our bums or trying to defend the kennels when the next step may be letter bombs or a whispering campaign.’

  ‘In other words,’ I said, ‘the best defence is attack?’

  ‘Exactly. But if it’s to be done it’ll have to be done quickly. In a week’s time, Isobel runs Sylvan in the Spaniel Championship, I have to go with her as driver and dosgbody, John’s supposed to be handling two dogs in a cocker stake and the weekend’s the time that whoever it is is most likely to be free to take the next step in his campaign.’

  We all roused. There was a stirring of the Dunkirk spirit until Daffy spoiled it. ‘But who are these clients?’ she asked.

  The Dunkirk spirit began to wither.

  ‘Seven pups,’ Charles said. ‘That’s according to Mrs Garnet. And I understand that they’re all spoken for.’

  ‘That makes seven suspects,’ Henry said. ‘Eight if you include Garnet himself as the possible originator of the phone call. Don’t we know any of them?’

  There was no immediate response.

  ‘I don’t think we do,’ said Isobel at last. ‘And I don’t see Ben Garnet handing out a list.’

  ‘I think I can tell you one of them,’ Charles said. ‘My architect, Lewis Sowerby. I met him with the builder on site when the job was starting. The builder mentioned that there were spaniel pups on the way. He went over to talk with Garnet and came back looking tickled pink.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ I said. ‘Unfortunately, I can’t ask him about it. Lewis Sowerby masterminded our conversion work here and I sold him a puppy. Just recently, the poor bitch was accidentally shot—not by Sowerby, to be fair to him, but by a Belgian visitor, a client of his, who got over-excited. The Belgian coughed up the price of a fully trained replacement and Sowerby trotted round here expecting me to welcome him and his Belgian francs. By that time, I’d decided that he wasn’t a fit person to own a dog and I told him to go and bowl his hoop.’

  ‘Why was that?’ Daffy asked curiously.

  ‘A long story,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell you in strict confidence some time when we’re not so quite so fraught.’

  ‘I’ll have a word with Lewis on Monday,’ Charles said, ‘without telling him who wants to know, and see what I can find out. He may even know some of the other purchasers.’

  Beth was looking concerned. ‘I quite see that you can’t ring him up during the weekend to be nosy about his purchase of somebody else’s pup,’ she said, ‘but won’t you be back in London on Monday? This isn’t the kind of chat you can have over the phone without starting somebody wondering.’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ said Charles. ‘I’ve finished in London and I don’t start the new job for a fortnight. For the moment, I’m a gentleman of leisure apart from settling any outstanding details about the new house and planning the garden. My wife’s still in London, seeing to the storage of our chattels pending completion of the house here. She’ll be joining me in a week’s time and we’ll move to a small private hotel for several months. I can be around to give you any help you want.’

  It seemed to me that we could use all the help we could get. Even an extra pair of eyes to watch out for vandals and saboteurs would free one of the firm for other urgent duties. I was on the point of offering him the use of our spare bedroom when a glare from Beth stopped me.

  Often, Beth and I each know what the other is about to say. Close contact even over the few years of our marriage has led to an understanding of how each other’s mind works. More than that; I believe that actual telepathy often develops between husbands and wives. My reaction to this unconventional form of communication is to let it save me the bother of verbalizing; Beth speaks out anyway. As a consequence, one of our few areas of dissent is that I consider her a chatterbox while she sometimes thinks me close-tongued; but since this is a common bone of contention between husband and wife we never let it worry us.

  This time, I knew exactly what Beth wanted to say. I liked Charles. As well as being a good client—there are not many who would consider buying two pups in successive weeks—he was an open and likeable man. As a result I had closed my mind to the fact that he had as good a motive as anybody, and better than most, for whacking Ben Garnet over his head. If he had done so, I thought, I for one would have treated him to no more than a click of the tongue and a mildly reproving headshake. But it was in theory conceivable that the threatening message and the poisoning of his own dog had followed in an attempt to camouflage what might well be considered an attempt at murder.

  Beth got to her feet and began gathering dirty dishes. ‘When did you come up from London?’ she asked casually.

  The question might have been no more than a polite follow-up to his own statement. I sensed that Charles quite understood its implications, but he replied with equal courtesy. ‘My colleagues gave a farewell party for me at lunchtime yesterday. After that I was free. I left the car with my wife and flew up. I’d booked a hire car and it was waiting for me at Turnhouse Airport.’

  Too many questions would certainly both warn and alienate him. ‘See what you can get out of Sowerby,’ I told him. ‘In particular, whether he knows of any other purchasers. Meantime, somebody had better go and see Mrs Garnet.’

  ‘You,’ Beth said.

  ‘She’d listen to a woman,’ I suggested.

  Beth shook her head. ‘That’s not her reputation.’

  ‘All the more reason.’

  ‘Think of yourself,’ she said, quite straight-faced, ‘as a human sacrifice on the altar of our solvency; and don’t part with your virtue until you’ve got the whole list or I’ll be furious.’

  Beth sometimes gets a rush of frivolity to the head. This time, I decided to ignore it. ‘Henry—?’ I began.

  ‘My days as a lady-charmer are behind me.’

  ‘Very, very far indeed,’ said Isobel absently.

  ‘And I can hardly approach her again,’ said Charles. He had got up to help Beth and was busily stacking crockery in the dishwasher. ‘She thinks I’m trying to back out of a deal because her husband’s in hospital. It seems to be down to you.’

  ‘All right,’ I said wearily. ‘I’ll go tomorrow morning. Who else? Who’s that man who turns up on Crail’s shoots? I think he has a garage but I can’t remember where. He’s secretary of the syndicate where Ben Garnet’s a member and, I gathered, not a very popular one.’

  ‘I’ve got to be going,’ Daffy said. ‘Rex is at home and he’ll be wanting his little comforts. The man you want is Mr Cochrane and he has the garage and filling station at Muircraigs.’

  Hannah got up with her. ‘I’ll go and give the pups their last feed,’ she said, ‘and make sure the dogs are all settled.’

  ‘They’ll soon get unsettled when Joe and his brother turn up,’ I told her, ‘but by all means feed the pups as soon as one of us is ready to come with you. I don’t want you out there on your own after dark.’

  ‘And I don’t want to keep the pups waiting,’ Hannah retorted. ‘If I scream, you’ll hear me over that thing.’ She nodded towards the loudspeaker which at that moment was relaying the sound of a dog chasing rabbits in its sleep.

  ‘I’d be happier if there was somebody outside,’ Beth said gently. ‘The dogs might not bark at an intruder if they happened to know him.’

  I was preparing to give in gracefully to both of them by escorting Hannah about her duties when Joe’s van was heard approaching, labouring with the effort of pulling a caravan which turned out to be not only large but, being slightly dated, also heavy.

  We all turned out, including Sam, to supervise the placement of the caravan. The kennels and their accompanying runs are arranged in squares of four along both sides of a central path. To permit the occasional access of vehicles, the path was broad and finished in tarmac; but it would not have been wide enough for Joe’s van to be extracted if it had pulled the caravan into a position strategically cen
tral to the kennels and within view of the house.

  So it was all hands to push and then to shake the hand of Joe’s half-brother Dave. I ran out an electricity cable for them and showed them where to draw water. Beth told them to make use of the facilities in the house during waking hours.

  ‘You’re sure you’ll be all right here?’ Beth asked anxiously.

  ‘This is luxury after yon field,’ Dave said. He was the image of Joe but smaller and a few years older. ‘Tarmac underfoot, electricity laid on and the water only a few yards away. You’ll have a job getting rid of us when the time comes.’ I thought to myself that it was not the stance of the caravan which might detain them. Dave seemed to have taken a fancy to Hannah.

  After that it was necessary to adjust the sensors on the floodlights and warn them to watch their language when within earshot of the microphones. By then, the new arrivals had been accepted and when I reached the house again I could hear that the dogs were settling down to sleep.

  We got to bed at last. I was tired enough to sleep, despite all the worries which were chasing each other’s tails through my mind like overactive puppies.

  Chapter Six

  Although I seemed to sleep like the dead my mind must have been at work, because I awoke with my thoughts, which had been in a tangle when I went to bed, now tidily arranged for as far ahead as reasoning could carry them. Not very far, as it turned out. There had been no alarms in the night, the dogs were all safe and sound and a careful search uncovered no poisoned meat lying near the runs. The caravan looked as though it had always been part of the scene.

  I made sure that the answering function of the telephone remained switched off. Any further threatening messages would have to be delivered personally. But I also fetched my radio cassette recorder and attached it to the static part of the cordless phone in the kitchen where, rather to my surprise, it worked perfectly well; and when the girls joined us for breakfast and Isobel arrived from her home, I made sure that everybody knew how to operate it and I expounded on the ghastly fate reserved for anybody who failed to tape any incoming calls, at least until they had proved to be irrelevant. As usual, the ladies nodded and smiled and went their own ways, but I hoped that the message had got through.