“Police. I want to see the Manager. He knows why.”
This did catch her interest. Two others, a man of about forty and a younger woman appeared, ready, it seemed, to man the tills once the flood of the populace demanded entrance. There was no one waiting at the doors. Not surprising. The large notice declared that they would be opened at 8.45 a.m., with judging to start at 9 a.m. Prompt. That would help. Yale turned to the newcomers.
“Inspector Yale. The manager has called. Someone is in trouble somewhere in the Hall. No doubt he’ll be in touch with you any moment now. Until he specifically authorises it, keep the doors closed and the public out. That clear?”
It seemed to be, though certain to raise speculation once he left them. He hoped that the first woman would develop enough in the way of social skills to keep any early arrivals happy as they stood outside waiting. It wasn’t an over-warm morn.
“Can one of you take me to the manager now, please?”
The newly arrived lady gracefully accepted the honoured role and led the way into the main area. It had all the background hum that he expected. As a boy he had been thrilled to go with his father to events such as these. Taking the dogs to shows. Most, so far as he recalled, had been open-air, county fair ones. His father had never had ambitions to go to Crufts but, if only because of the pride in his dogs, which his son had fully shared, they had gone to two or so more serious gatherings each year and had won certificates.
“Never win Crufts anyway anymore,” his father had said on more than one occasion, “not with a Labrador.” This many years ago. “Might win the Gundog Group, but that’s ever less likely. Not been a Labrador ‘best in show’ since Ben of Banchory way back in 1937. They keep them for advertising bog paper these days.” The disgust in his father’s view of the state of judging in modern dog shows rang in his memory as he was led at a smart pace across the hard-wearing, eminently washable, carpeted floor to the office of Mr Trott.
“Inspector! how good to see you here so promptly. Keeping up the wonderful standards of our police force as ever.” Mr Trott was all ebullience and relief. He could now wash his hands of the affair, unless he had to prepare a suitably concerned piece for the cameras when the TV team arrived. Three thirty they now said. He hoped no later. The entrants were allowed to leave at four o’clock. Not before. Oh no! In by eight and not out until four. There was a paying public to consider. Very much consider. The dogs were the entertainment. Some of these exhibitors seemed to think that their little time in the ring was the be all and end all of the day. As if they mattered that much! Their job was to provide dogs, lots of them, for the paying public, the PAYING public, to wander amongst. Of course, these dog owners paid to come in. Through their Association – and here, Mr Trott thought the terms to say the least very generous – but that was not the point. Owners paid for a chance of glory and success, and his efficient services. What kept the punters coming back each year in, happily, ever growing numbers, was the opportunity not just to gaze from the ring sides and purchase from the many stalls, all of which also paid for the privilege of his, and his loyal staff’s, skills, but to meander among the benches and chat to the owners. If they were honest, the owners liked that sort of flattering attention as well. Of that Mr Trott felt sure. They were, really, only too happy to sit there until four. Why did most of them bring padded seats if that was not the case? As for the dogs, they, to his inexpert eye, seemed to revel in all the attention. He reverted his attention to the waiting policeman.
“Yes. Of course. You’ll want to,” he wondered what to say next. “Want to, er, view the scene. Of course. Mary here will take you. Toy Group benches, Mary. You know. The far left area of the arena. Fifth row. Take the inspector please. I shall be on call, of course, as usual, if I can be of any further help. You’ll want”, he continued, this time addressing Yale, “to speak to a Mr Wiseton. He found the,” he almost said ‘body’ but hurriedly uttered, “invalid.”
Yale smiled inwardly at the word, and at the delegation to the fast-walking Mary, but for the moment that seemed a good enough arrangement. Might as well see what the form was. Maybe no more than a fuss about nothing. Just that the Chief Super had been caught on the hop on a particularly bad day and had over-reacted. He was bothered that neither the ambulance nor Doctor Meredith had yet arrived. The staff at the main entrance would have known something was up if they had, and Trott hadn’t mentioned them. He dared a brief hope. Maybe the man was back on his feet already and the emergency had been called off. That would mean a free day. If not? He didn’t want to entertain the idea, but he was not untrained.
“Thank you for your swift co-operation. Maybe nothing in it. Let’s hope so. If not, however, and I must ask this just in case, is there somewhere I, we, could use as a base should further actions be needed?” He had an incident room in mind.
Trott’s face was not happy. His co-operation rapidly drying up, he swallowed.
“A, um, er, base?”
“Yes. An operations room if you like.” Mr Trott did not like. He had done more than his bit in calling these people in the first place.
“No doubt,” he murmured. “Maybe. As and when. As and when.”
Yale was willing to leave it at that. No point in raising panics. The athletic Mary strode off once more. Each pace brought back ever-sharper memories for the Inspector. Dogs and dog shows. The sounds, the sights. He wished his father was with him now, as he would have revelled in the atmosphere. He and his mother still had three Labradors in the Dales, Chief Super Grant’s country, where they had retired, but didn’t enter any of the dogs in the local show. Just happy to be with them and walk them.
The two strode quickly past rings where the judging and administrative staffs were gathering, where the notice boards were already in place ready for the strips of paper showing each result, posted promptly so that the interested, jealous, upset, angry, and unbelieving could read and mutter while the few who had won could joyously note the confirmation of their, and their loyal hounds’, successes.
“This is the row. The gentleman who’s been taken ill is near the far end. On the left. That’s Mr Wiseton. Mr Trott told me. Number 2269. His number’s on his armband and the bench.”
Yale knew the pattern. He told the well-informed Mary that he would not need her any more ‘for the present’. He took a note of how quickly to contact Trott, asked her to tell the manager of his embargo on public entry, which he had deemed politic to declare, and made his way, with care, down the aisle. Grooming was continuing unabated with scant regard to the benighted Mr Graveney. The judging would soon begin. With or without an audience from the general public. His presence wouldn’t raise much concern among such focused people, as Yale well knew. Few would notice him. Or anyone else. To his great relief, the medics had appeared. Even their presence had failed to gather an audience from the engrossed groomers, distinctive though the two uniformed figures were, standing over a collapsed male figure. Also Doc Meredith? Hallelujah!
“Simon! Thought you had left the sordid crime squad. Good to see you again. Just beat you to it. Got in through the exhibitors’ gate.”
“Jerry! Glad you’re here. I was the unlucky sod who was free and get-at-able with no one else around. That’s why I’m on my own. Just, I do so hope, a routine, passing call. Nothing for me, really, is there? Just a sad collapse? “
“Doesn’t strike me that you would have been sent here if that was the impression Chief Super Grant had got.”
“I suppose not. But, he refused to confirm any crime. Any suspicious death. Just a collapse.”
“Well, sorry and all that, but there’s a death, all right. At very first sight I must say, and I have seen a few in my time”, Yale knew that to be true, “I am not happy at this one. Could, just, be a heart attack or something but, well, not to put too fine a point on it, I have my doubts. You’d better get onto Grant and get the wheels moving. Hell of a job as it is to isolate the scene. Impossible in fact”, and, to prove his point, three peo
ple and their dogs pushed past them where they stood, overheard and closely attended by the agitated Mr Brian Wiseton.
That observer stepped forward, in so far as that was possible between the close-set rows of benches, the two medics, a doctor, a policeman, and yet more wanting to squeeze through en route to the ring. Brian’s movement made it clear to Yale that this general movement had to be stopped. He called up Trott on his mobile. This did arouse interest in those nearest. ‘What is it’, he mused, ‘about mobile phones? Do we all speak that much more loudly when using them, or is it common human curiosity?’ He wanted stewards to block off each end of the row. Two would be sent as soon as he could arrange it, Mr Trott assured him. As for any more, that was at that time beyond his powers. So too was immediate help from Grant when Yale phoned the Chief Inspector. His warning of a long delay in providing a scene-of-crime team was no exaggeration. Grant’s point that he had no one to hand was true. He would likely be calling for help from the next-door force, shameful though that was. To confound all else, Grant had added, there had been more sickness than usual. Yale mused that even generous overtime rates were not sufficient to tempt everyone to demo duty in the West End. He would be on his police own for a while.
“This is going to be the most contaminated crime scene the world’s ever known, sir, if the Doc’s suspicions are right. Well trampled over.”
“Fear not old son”, Grant was increasingly desperate to bolster his surviving staff, a move worthy of the great Mr Trott himself, “We’ll get someone to you.”
“You haven’t a DC? A PC even? Surely there’s someone?”
“If only you knew, Simon. No. How could you. I’ve never known anything like it. Appoint a deputy. Like they do in the Western movies. Give him a badge; or a cup of tea; something. Back-up will be on its way inside the hour.
Promise. Is Doc Meredith on the right track with his doubts about cause of death? Don’t move anything, there’s a good chap, in case. Don’t forget all you were taught when you were with us.”
Simon switched off his phone in some despair. The thing was something of a mess, and here he was, alone! Ridiculous! He almost cried the words out aloud. He may as well have done so. Sensing it, Brian Wiseton, knew his moment had come. So this Inspector needed help! Meredith and the medics were grouped over the prostrate Ambrose Graveney. Stepping forward once more into that narrow way, he threw up as regimental a salute as ever he had done on the parade square. Memories of the dreaded Sergeant Hunter flooded back. His elbow near-missed catching a slightly startled Yale on the side of the face as he turned to resume his conversation with Meredith.
“Ex Corporal Wiseman, 887, Royal Military Police at your service, SIR!”
Chapter Four
Saturday, 8.45 a.m.
Simon looked at the time as he switched off his mobile. Was that all? And yet! Was it that hour already? He hoped the main doors were still closed. Now, another concern. Startled by the declaration of number and rank, he feared he had a power maniac on his hands. The body, for there was no denying this any longer, was still slumped on the bench. His dog was still in its cage. There was something slightly surreal as the Bichons in the next row of benches, be-fluffed and beloved, continued expressing their energetic presence, while those who should be weeping the death of a fellow competitor went about their own doggie chores with their usual energy and cheerful gusto. Then this Wiseton. Double eight seven. Also boisterous. As enthusiastic for the chase as a rookie copper or a prize-seeking dog. Simon Yale had quickly to decide on an approach. He had no deputy’s badge to hand; Mr, sorry, ex-Corporal, Wiseman did not seem in immediate need of any tea. Nor, maybe more surprisingly, anything stronger. Seemed quite balanced on second look. Not a maniac. In control of himself. Might that be because ………? Yale studied the fit-looking seventy year old, as he must be, standing, still to parade ground attention, in front of him.
“An ex Corporal. MPs you say,” he temporised as he sought the best approach to this offer of assistance.
“The same, sir. Can I help?”
That speculative ‘because’ hung over his thinking. He moved cautiously.
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Not? Only offering. You look as though you need some. Too old?”
“No, no. No insult. No. Because,” and here it came, “You must see, Corporal – I may call you that, may I? Seems more suitable than Mr Wiseton. Have I got that right?” Brian nodded. “Because, as your service experience must confirm, you are my main suspect?”
“Ah! Hadn’t thought of that.” Wiseton spoke quickly on. “Hadn’t thought of it because it just ain’t so.”
Striving to keep his tone light, Yale went on.
“Opportunity. You’ve that beyond question. Next door to him. The bench the other side of him is still empty. Motive? Competitors in the ring? Can be a fierce business this dog showing. Ask my father.” Brian didn’t follow the reference to the man’s father, but took the point.
“Then if you second me to your team, as it were, you can keep an even closer eye on me. I’m out-of-date as a soldier, sure, but I’ve got the MP training. Don’t forget that in a hurry. What’s more, I know these people and how they work. I’m one of them. Must be of some use. Until your colleagues arrive.”
‘By the end of next week,’ was Yale’s unspoken reply. He paused a moment.
“Right. If I do, what do you suggest is the next move, with the others? Too many to interview at once.”
“They’re all tagged, Inspector. Arm bands matching bench numbers. They are all tied by entrance rules to stay here until four o’clock. I don’t see how any can get round that. Between us, and for sure within each breed, all are at least recognised by someone else and usually well known to everyone else. No need to fear that anyone can get away without someone knowing. Tidy, if you ask me.” Yale could see that. The ex-Corporal continued.
“My immediate problem is the dogs. Ambrose Graveney’s Roley and my own two.”
A red head appeared over Yale’s shoulder.
“I’ll take yours, Brian. And show them if you like. “This use of his Christian name surprised the Corporal. Susan Goodlife was no more than an acquaintance. He had intended to ask Madge Donnelly, but why look a gift horse from the next bench? She was a respected breeder of ETTs, able at handling in the ring. Her offer would benefit the dogs as well as him. He had no urgent need of a certificate today. Great if one came, but no tragedy if, with a handler strange to them, the dogs did not perform to their best. They discussed technical details. Yale looked on with interest at the exchange. A plan was agreed, and Susan greeted Jenny and Mike as Brian Wiseton got them out of the crate and onto the bench. He opened up his case of equipment, but Susan interrupted.
“No need for that. Easier to leave it packed away. I’ve got all that’s needed, and to spare. You get on with your sleuthing. I’ll look after your little darlings, have no fear. Also,” she added, addressing Yale, “I can help, if needed, with pointing out who was where. Or am I also a prime suspect? I will confess now that when I arrived I saw Brian dozing on this seat. Looking a bit like Ambrose does now, if you’ll excuse the comparison.”
Brian sensed that his newly bosom friend was in the hunt for some of the policing glory. Well, why not? She would probably be as valuable an aide to the Inspector as he was. For all he knew, she had been a military policewoman. By the style of her brisk organisation, and he liked the way she began at once to tackle his pets, she could well have been.
Yale was not looking for an army of volunteers. He didn’t want any, but the odd circumstances of the day made Brian’s offer useful for the moment. He hoped for the early arrival of a scene-of-crime team. Then he could dismiss his well-meaning but highly irregular Watson and, with any luck, himself slide gracefully out of the picture. Until then, he had to do something positive to get the investigation started. The parade of people, the movement of dogs, all made retaining the sanctity of the crime site quite impossible. By now, there would be the paying
public waiting to get in. If they also were allowed to move up and down between the benches, looking at dogs, things would get completely out of hand. Fraud Squad or not, he neither wanted that to happen nor risk the opprobrium that would stick to him if it did. He had to speak to Doc Meredith, and insist that Manager Trott send his reinforcements at once. Because of the armband numbers, along with the details in the day’s programme, a marshal at each end of the bench line could identify, control and contain groups at his wish. Wiseton, having settled his own animals to his satisfaction in the hands of his neighbour, spoke again of canine care.
“There’s still Roley. Ambrose’s dog. I know someone who knows, knew, Ambrose well and knows the dog. Might take it on. Someone will have to. All I have to do is ask them,”
“By all means ask away. Then report back here pronto.” Yale fancied he might be developing a parade ground manner himself. He half expected a salute and a smart, crashing, ‘lift ‘em up four inches and drive ‘em down five’ about turn, but Brian, taking Roley’s wheeled crate, still with the dog in it and the equipment case on top, went off down the lane to find a foster owner. He took extra care not to bump into anyone. Not merely because of the dog but because his scraped shins were decidedly sore after his earlier collision.
Pushing Roley ahead of him, Brian, after a quick glance across showed Pugh’s bench to be empty, so no chance of asking him, found Alison Jeffery near the top of the next row. He parked alongside her. This was also someone who had known Ambrose well.
“Brian! What is going on? Ambrose taken ill or something? I spoke to him on the way in. Seemed well enough then. No one here knows a thing, and I couldn’t leave Sam.”
“You only got Sam?”
“Yes. This time. His first up a class, so I must get moving. Not all that many opportunities left this year, although I don’t fancy my chances with Agnes Thorpe. I was hoping she might be ill or something. Can’t be helped. What’s this about Ambrose?”
A Question of Pedigree Page 3