Bloodlines (Three Oaks Book 8)

by Gerald Hammond

  Dogs do not recognize the Sabbath and Sunday is often the only day on which a man is free to come in search of a new Best Friend. Much of the firm’s work has to continue and very often Sunday receives only token acknowledgement. I had been hoping to spend the day and much of the succeeding week putting a polish on the dogs entered for the following weekend’s competitions, but now it seemed to be generally agreed that I would have to spend my time spearheading our investigations.

  Isobel, after looking in on Jumbo, who was now fully restored to consciousness and fretting for his beloved owner, had intended to devote herself to her records and the firm’s accounts, but I persuaded her to let the paperwork slide and take over the bulk of my training duties.

  Joe looked in. I decided that one has to start by trusting somebody. So far, he knew about the poisoning and the assault on Ben Garnet. When I told him about the threatening message and the theory that Garnet had been attacked in mistake for me, he looked genuinely shocked. ‘I’ll stay off work and help if I can,’ he said immediately. ‘I said I’d go in and peg out the drain tracks today, ready for the JCB the morn, but I’ve done enough to let him get started.’

  ‘Go and earn some extra daily bread,’ I told him. ‘But ask Dave to keep an eye on the place. Somebody seems determined that the breeding of those pups should be authenticated but if we caved in it would mean letting him get away with murdering poor Accer. Anyway, we’re damned if we’re going to be ripped off that way. We’ll be trying to find out who the purchasers are. I’ll be visiting Mrs Garnet but, if you happen to see her, you might get more out of the lady than I could.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ he said. ‘I’m not hopeful.’

  ‘I thought you said she was a nice-like body.’

  ‘Aye. She is that, though it wasna’ me as said it. But she took to coming across the park and trying to tell the digger-driver where to dump his spoil and when not to fash her with the blatter of his engine. In the end, I had to tell her that we took orders from Mr McArthur and she’d best speak to him.’

  After a moment’s thought he added, ‘I can tell you one of the purchasers and that’s my boss, Mr McArthur himself. But he’s not the kind to be up to anything of that sort. Mr Garnet pressured him into taking a pup. He was happy enough with the deal but not so keen that he’d go overboard about it. Anyway, it was a bitch he wanted and he was going to have her spayed after her first season, so he wouldn’t be fashing hisself over registration and a pedigree. He just wants a dog to train up for the shoot he belongs to over in Angus. What’s more, he was in Glasgow yesterday.’

  ‘Is there a Mrs McArthur?’

  ‘Aye, there is.’ Joe grinned suddenly. ‘But she was saying that she’s not having a damned dog in the house and that if a dog comes in the boss goes out, so Mr McArthur’s got two of the lads building a kennel and run in the garden this minute, copying them off the drawings of the ones we did for you.’

  That seemed to account for one purchaser and his wife, subject to confirmation. ‘Will you see what other names you can get?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, I’ll try,’ Joe said. ‘But I’m dashed if I see how.’

  I prepared to settle down at the phone. Beth, ever the opportunist, persuaded me into one of the basket chairs in the kitchen so that I could supervise Sam and let her get on with the household chores and then do some gardening. Beth takes the business very seriously, but her real emotional attachment is to the house and the garden—and, of course, the dogs themselves.

  My first call was to Ben Garnet’s number but I came up on an answering machine. Either Mrs Garnet was already out hospital visiting or else she was still in bed. I hung up.

  I had more luck with Mr Cochrane at the Muircraigs Garage and Filling Station. His voice answered the phone and he recognized my name when I identified myself.

  ‘Have I caught you at a good moment?’ I asked him.

  ‘The best,’ he said chuckling. ‘The laddie’s manning the pumps. This is my day for doing the accounts and the VAT and, truth is, I’ve had mair nor enough for the moment. Let me get my pipe going and I’ll news awa’ wi’ you till the cows come home.’ I heard a match strike and a puffing sound. ‘So,’ he said. ‘What’s adae?’

  ‘It’s about your syndicate member, Ben Garnet,’ I said.

  ‘What’s the bugger done now? Whatever it is,’ Cochrane added cautiously, ‘he’d no authority to commit the shoot to anything.’ His tone suggested that he had had more than enough of Mr Garnet. ‘Anything he’s been up to’s on his own head. And that includes being dunted on it. You heard about that?’

  ‘It happened on my doorstep, more or less,’ I told him. ‘You remember when my dog coupled with his bitch?’

  ‘At Lord Crail’s shoot. Aye, I mind it fine. I’d no doubt it was done a-purpose. I’d been thinking that the canny bugger would serve the bitch hissel’ rather than pay a stud fee. But I couldna’ swear to it, if that’s what you’re after.’

  ‘Nothing like that. There’s seven pups, I’m told, and I wondered if you could put me in touch with any of the purchasers.’

  ‘I can put you on to twa o’ them,’ he said.

  ‘You can?’

  ‘Aye. They’re members o’ the shoot. Yon mannie Garnet can be a pain in the arse, whiles, but that’s a damn good wee bitch he has—otherwise we wouldna’ thole him. We missed her sair when she was o’er far on to be worked. And then he was bragging that the pups should be as good as the dam or even better, because of the line-breeding. We’re short of dogs on our shoot—some of the members could keep a dog but haven’t the time or the skill to train a pup.’

  ‘They could buy a trained dog,’ I pointed out hopefully.

  ‘And a Purdey for Sunday best,’ Cochrane retorted, seemingly forgetting that Sunday shooting of live quarry is frowned on in Scotland. ‘But Jamie Kinglass, who’s a rare hand with a dog, he said he’d take one and if any other member did the same he’d keep the pup for him and train them both on as long as he was paid for the cost of the feed, no mair’n that. There was one taker. Then another lad made up his mind to take on a pup but Ben said that they was a’ spoken for by then. Point is, yon was a bargain you couldna’ match.’

  ‘I wouldn’t try,’ I said. I thought for a few seconds, wondering how to get what I wanted without spreading the news all round the east of Scotland, which gave him time to relight his pipe. I heard the match again and the puffing.

  ‘Were you shooting yesterday?’ I asked.

  ‘Yestreen? No. We’ve about shot the ground out of last year’s releases, those that hadna’ strayed off or been taken by foxes and hawks,’ he said. Before I could get my hopes up he went on, ‘We had a working party instead, checking snares and making ready. We’re planning to start wi’ day-olds this year.’

  ‘Good turnout?’

  ‘A’body except Ben Garnet. And we couldna’ blame him for that, him being in Ninewells. We slogged awa’ until the pub opened but we got the most of it done.’

  Stoutly resisting the temptation to chat about their plans for keepering, I got the names of the other pup buyers and, after an exchange of courtesies, rang off.

  *

  Sam was determined to imitate one of the helicopters from Leuchars, which were frequent overhead visitors and very annoying to humans. The dogs soon learned to ignore them. Sam’s noise was even more shattering than the real thing. I managed to settle him down at last with the only quiet toy that he would ever tolerate, a complicated set of building blocks that I had never taken the time to figure out although Sam enjoyed solving the geometric problems.

  There had been something familiar about the recorded message on Ben Garnet’s answering machine. I keyed the number again, but this time, when I wanted the answering machine, Mrs Garnet answered. We keep early hours at the kennels, even on a Sunday, and I decided that she had probably been sleeping when I made the first call. It had been far too early for hospital visiting.

  ‘This is John Cunningham,’ I said.

&
nbsp; ‘Ah yes. The father of Cleo’s pups.’

  ‘Yes. Not personally, you understand,’ I paused, but the comment seemed to pass her by. ‘Could I drive over and see you for a minute? I could be with you in a quarter of an hour. I wouldn’t need much of your time.’

  ‘Is it to bring me the Kennel Club form? Ben said that you might come with it.’

  I wondered which of them was living in a dream-world. Garnet, as Beth had observed, was inclined to give to the world as fact his version of whatever he wanted to happen, perhaps as an incentive to himself to move mountains and make it come true. I had met Mrs Garnet once, briefly, and I could picture her, a slightly faded but still pretty woman with a provocative body below an innocent face. From what I had heard as well as from my own observation, she was either unaware of her husband’s reputation and of his misdeeds or else she had a remarkable acting ability. As always, the truth, I thought, would lie somewhere in between—that she could or would not accept what she knew and therefore rejected it. I never decided whether to despise her blindness or admire her loyalty.

  ‘Not exactly,’ I said. ‘Can I come over and explain?’

  ‘It’s not very convenient,’ she said firmly. ‘Ben wants me to do a host of errands for him before I go in to visit.’

  In the face of that allusion I could hardly not ask after him. ‘How is he mending?’ I asked.

  She became more forthcoming. ‘They’re very pleased with him. His scan came up clear. The concussion’s passing off and he’s got most of his memory back. I’ll probably have him home again in a day or two. Apparently he has a very thick skull.’

  Well, I could have told her that. ‘Excellent,’ I said, keeping the disappointment out of my voice. ‘About coming to see you . .?’

  ‘What is it,’ she asked impatiently, ‘that’s so serious that we can’t settle over the phone?’

  Rather than emphasize the seriousness by arguing, I gave in with apparent casualness. If I blew it, I blew it. ‘It’s about that Kennel Club form. There are one or two people around who shouldn’t be allowed to own a dog—’

  For once I seemed to have struck a sympathetic nerve. ‘That’s very true,’ she said with feeling. ‘It’s owners who should be licensed, not dogs. Something with a test to pass, like a driving licence, that can be taken away.’

  This was a subject on which I was in strong agreement but I refused to be drawn. ‘So before I consider signing the form I want to know who his purchasers are.’

  I waited, almost holding my breath.

  ‘I quite understand,’ she said. ‘And you’re so right. I wish I could help you. But Ben dealt with all that. The only one I know of is Sheila Campsie. She came to see me, wanting me to drive for Meals on Wheels, but Ben likes to have me around to act as his secretary at a moment’s notice. Anyway, it was just after the pups were born and she fell in love with them. I’m sure she’ll be a good owner. She’d be more likely to kill with kindness than any other way. I can ask Ben about the others when I see him, if you like.’

  ‘Please do,’ I said. That should give Ben Garnet something to think about. With a little luck it might see him on the way to a relapse.

  ‘I must go now. Please sign that form, Mr Cunningham. Ben will be so disappointed if you don’t. I’m sure that the worry of it is setting back his recovery. Goodbye.’

  She rang off, leaving me feeling slightly out of focus.

  The house was, for once, empty apart from Sam and myself. I needed to talk to the others, in particular Beth who I could see pruning the early roses. And it would be an excuse to leave Sam outside. I fitted him into his outdoor woollies to his loudly expressed displeasure. Like officer Gribble, he seemed not to feel the cold.

  Outside, the sun was blinding at first and surprisingly warm although it was only thawing the surface of the ground and leaving it ready to freeze again into a skating rink. I popped Sam into his special enclosure. It was almost impossible to keep the grass perpetually clean. Sam had seen the puppies sniffing at dog turds and believed that what was all right for the dogs was all right for him; but we had fenced off his own patch of lawn. Dogs lived one side, Sam could run free the other, and never the twain should meet except under adult supervision. He ignored the pedal-car that had cost me the selling price of a good pup and made straight for his favourite toy—a plastic milk bottle on a length of string.

  ‘Who,’ I asked Beth, ‘is Sheila Campsie?’

  She tried to look up at me, shook her head and made an extraordinary face as she tried, apparently, to blow up her own nose. I pushed back the offending lock of her hair for her. ‘Thanks. Mrs Campsie,’ she said absently. ‘Oh, you know her.’

  ‘I do?’

  ‘Well, you’ve certainly seen her. She’s off her rocker. Help me up. The rest of the roses haven’t yet budded enough to be pruneable. I’ve started too early, really, but the mild autumn brought some of them on and we’re always so busy just at the time the garden needs attention.’

  I pulled her to her feet. ‘When have I seen Mrs Campsie?’ I asked patiently.

  ‘Oh, you know. She’s that woman who’s always protesting about something. Those were her and her daughter outside the gates at Freddy Crail’s shoot. She lives just outside Cupar. Her husband left her plenty of money and not enough to do.’ Beth took off her thick gloves and picked up her bag of prunings. ‘I’ll sand the paths again before I come in. You’d better get back inside before you freeze. Take Sam with you.’

  ‘In a minute,’ I said. ‘If Mrs Campsie’s anti-shooting, what does she want with a spaniel of working strain? According to Mrs Garnet, she’s one of the purchasers.’

  ‘She’s mad about dogs but she thinks that working them is cruel. Somebody told me that she has a whole pack of Labs and spaniels and GSPs, all in the house and all over the furniture. She probably thinks that she’s saving them from an awful fate. I told you, she’s off her rocker. Now will you get back indoors and take Sam with you?’

  I collected Sam from his private lawn. ‘I thought I’d got rid of you for a bit,’ I told him.

  Sam was at the age for overhearing and repeating the conversation of the grown-ups, especially those parts which would least bear repetition. ‘Mrs Campsie’s off her rocker,’ he shouted and let loose a burst of maniacal laughter while cocking an eye to observe my reaction. I kept a poker face and lifted him out of his corral. With a bit of luck he would soon forget that nugget of acquired wisdom.

  Before we got as far as the front door a car came rolling up the drive. With the alarms and excursions of the last few days fresh in my mind, I was ready to dive for cover taking Sam with me—the habits drilled into you by a military career tend to linger on—but the big Volvo only disgorged a young couple in search of a pup.

  They knew what they wanted and were sure that they had found it in the sole remaining member of the last but one litter. First, quite rightly, they wanted to see the dam put through her paces. I was fizzing with impatience to get on with the next phase of my enquiries, but there would be no point in averting a threat to the business while letting the business go to pot. They made no objection to Sam accompanying us into the field although they did blink when he repeated his newfound opinion of Mrs Campsie.

  After Moonbeam had faithfully demonstrated her talents, the couple took the puppy away with them, leaving behind a satisfactory cheque. He would, the man said, bring her back for training when time and the pup were ripe.

  It was rather more than an hour well spent and it had used up a part of the day which might otherwise have been largely wasted. When I looked at my watch, the morning was advanced. By now, Mrs Garnet might well have left for Dundee to visit the injured.

  I took Sam back into the warm kitchen with me and stripped off our outermost layers. Soup was already simmering on the cooker. Prepared to hang up instantly if the Garnets’ phone rang more than four times, I was gratified when the answering machine cut in after only two rings, indicating that there was a message waiting.

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bsp; As I had supposed, the recorded voice was familiar. One can put a message in one’s own voice on a tapeless answering machine, but the message is lost at the first power cut or whenever the phone is moved to a different socket. The system then reverts to the original, standard recording. The average subscriber eventually tires of redictating the message.

  There is a facility for listening to one’s messages from another phone but on the simpler machines there is no protection by code to stop any Nosy Parker from making use of the same facility. I waited for the end of the long beep, pressed the noughts and crosses symbol for a count of four and then listened. A voice, gruff but without much accent, said, ‘This is Jamie. Have you got that pedigree fixed up yet? I’m not taking the pup without it. Let me know quickly—I’ve been offered another working pup. See you.’

  I hung up. I could have erased the message but there seemed to be no point. It might even have called to her attention the fact that an outsider was intercepting her messages. Then, if she dialled 1471, she would even be given my number as having been the originator of the last call. I thought that I had no way of knowing whether Mrs Garnet had already listened to the message. Either way, the next incoming call would erase it. It would be interesting to see whether she told me about ‘Jamie’.

  Sam had installed himself in the other basket chair and had whiled away the time imitating my every move. Phones had begun to fascinate him. The wall mounting for the cordless phone in the kitchen was just coming within his reach. He was never allowed into the sitting room unsupervised, but one had to be very careful not to leave the phone within his reach. I put the cordless phone on the high shelf where it now spent most of the daytime hours.