His car was not there. Trained to look, he knew where to look. He had noted his slot before getting a ticket from the machine at the entrance. Like so many of these places, from inside the car finding an empty bay was a puzzle. Public space planners delighted in twee little hedgerows grown just above sight level. He saw no value in such bushery carpark-wise. Took up space where a few more vehicles could be left. Could act as a screen for a ne’er-do-well. No doubt the defence was that such green rows were saving the planet. Turning CO2 into oxygen or whatever. That aside, he was on his feet at full stretch, yet where was his car? He, as the last CID man standing, was now left standing. His dismay turned to irritation when it dawned on him that if someone had stolen his car, they would have stolen his car park as well. So much for his powers of observation! Wrong car park! Turned the wrong way out of the lift! Unsighted by the unseemly! Annoyed, he turned back into the gleaming portals, past the chocolate emporium, and up to the information desk. He knew there were at least four car parks. Possibly five. Maybe six. He was short of time. He swallowed his pride but hid his identity. He asked. The young man with a wispy beard looked at him with kindly eyes.
“Often happens,” he said. “Got your ticket?”
This, Chief Inspector Grant of the CID, promptly produced. The bearded one took it with reverence and slotted it under a scanner attached to his state-of-the-art computer.
“Ah,” said the knowledgeable one, “Wrong car park.”
Grant had deduced that. He waited.
“You need three. Straight on down to your right, past the stationer and the florist, and out through door F. Turn left, left mind you, and pay into the cash machine on the wall. There are two of them. Either will do. You’ll need,” he glanced at his screen, “two pounds forty. No change. Can I help further?”
“No change?” Grant felt forced to challenge.
“Alas not today. Not at gate three. Technical problems. They are on their way. You can of course,” and here he burst into a smile of sheer joy, “go to gate two, or five where you’ve just come from, and pay there. Still valid. Those machines give change OK.”
“Do these machines take notes?”
“Oh yes. Certainly. Have a nice day.”
Grant had not so far. He had no time to improve it by going to either gate two or gate five. He took a five pound note out of his wallet, stormed, more or less, out the way he was directed, fed the machine, no change, and got into his car determined all the more to fill in that claims form. Fully.
The car was there, where it had been all along. A slightly flustered senior officer set off to relieve and assist the hard-pressed Inspector from the Fraud Squad. Before driving off he dared one more call to his office. To Lawrence. First to tell him the good news of his elevation to position of action man and thus, dramatically as he could, to explain his own movements over what promised to be a missed lunch break. Also, to ask if Doc Meredith had produced anything further. The promise of that autopsy, fitting in so conveniently with the seminar or study group being run that day, had been the one bright note. The one thing that was performing not just to pattern but better than. Once he had got it, he would be able to get things moving more positively at the scene of the crime.
Back at the Show, the member of the Fraud squad was increasingly thinking himself to be the victim of a fraud. A fraud perpetrated by his former boss in the CID. He was in the Hall under false pretences. He fancied that the same could be said of the murderer, for a murder there had been in the happy boundaries of this well-rated dog show. He had finally worked his way through all the ETT owners, with the one exception of the cigarette puffer he had let loose. If he didn’t return, would he be the killer now sought? No such luck. As promised, within the time requested, the fellow made his reappearance and stood before his interrogator suitably grateful.
“Thanks. That was Christian.”
“I hope you can help me in return. You’ll have gathered by now what this is all about.”
‘Kem’ Harriday nodded.
“Sure. Poor old Ambrose. Didn’t deserve that. Not my favourite man. Anyone here will tell you that. One of those over-fussy, paper-bound rules guys, if you know what I mean. But dead? I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy,” and he laughed at his own sally. Yale gave a weak smile. The comment rang true, an honest one, something he could do with.
“What do you know of Ambrose Graveney’s movements today? Did you see him on the way in? Or arriving at his box perhaps?” Harriday gave this question thought.
“Saw him, only in passing, in the car park. We drove in about the same time. He went ahead of me. Didn’t catch up with him. Hung around for a last fag before coming into this new-model centre of healthy air”, and he gave his laugh again. Yale pressed.
“Behind him, you say. So was he in place when you came into the Hall?”
Again Harriday paused before replying.
“Yes. At least I think so. Must have been, mustn’t he. Being in front of me in the wagon trail. Can’t swear to it, but he must have been. Didn’t really look. Had no need to. Went on to my slot in the next row. He was probably hidden away behind his stuff, like all the rest.”
This man’s reply matched most of the others. Yale went on with his attempt to get some distinctive observation. Some helpful recollection. Had Graveney spoken to anyone, possibly a stranger? Stood out in the crowd on the way in by any action of his? By anything he said? Had he called out? Exclaimed? As this was the last of the ETT set, Simon went though the whole of his repertoire. Anna Goldey did not exude enthusiasm as the catechism continued its standard course.
“The man himself. Graveney. You say you weren’t exactly a mate of his.” Harriday grimaced an acknowledgement. “What sort of man was he? Apart from being a bit of a stickler for protocol, as more than one has told me. Something of a secret lady’s man, by chance? A secret Lothario?” This brought much more than a grimace in reply. More a guffaw.
“Ladies’ man? Ambrose? Bit of an old queen, more like. Not to speak ill of the dead mind. I wouldn’t know for sure. Still, you’d be hard pressed, I would say, to find any lady here – and they’re not exactly a cross-section of glamour mag beauties I think you’ll agree (glad to get anything some of them I wouldn’t wonder) to be a signed-up member of his fan club. Apart from being a poof,” Harriday saw Simon’s reaction, and hastily added, “well, why not say it? He was. Old tart. I think so, anyway. Apart from that, he won too often. Beat the others again and again. He knew how to win all right. Which judges to win with”, and ‘Kem’ gave a wink of the ‘nudge-nudge know what I mean’ variety. “That didn’t help his popularity.”
“Jealousy, then? As a motive?”
“As a motive for murder, Inspector? Could fit the bill. Suit the Bill, wouldn’t it?” Once more his laugh. A most relaxed guy.
“If what you say about the man is true, how would you rate his chances with a woman judge?” At this the interviewee showed his true campaigner colours.
“Not always the disadvantage you might think. But win! He had no chance today, no matter who had been the judge. Not against me. Agnes Thorpe doesn’t come into it. When he hasn’t fixed his success,” a bitter if relaxed man thought Yale, “he only comes along to spread the acid and spy on the others. He liked to make bitchy comments after each judging. If you want your killer, Inspector, don’t cherchez la femme as they say in Chinese. Look for a guy. A guy who had it in for him. A loser. Someone Ambrose got up the nose of.”
With that elegant remark, Yale let the man go. Nothing more to be gained than he hadn’t already gained from his morning’s trawl. Most dispiriting.
Equally dispirited, although only for the shortest of intervals for he was of robust character well able to cope with the slings and arrows, was Mr Trott. Dispirited because he had known for more than an hour now that it must happen. The TV people had rung to say that they would be coming early. Around one of the clock in the afternoon. As any good manager might, and any excellent manager would, Mr Tro
tt responded with a positive move.
‘Very well’, he told himself, ‘it has happened. So. Get on with it. Get on top of it.’
He very well knew why they were coming early. Someone had told somebody something about something. What had or had not, or was rumoured to have, taken place in the Hall that day. The Hall under his command. It was bound to happen. He always knew it would. His mind, therefore, had not been idle. Turning away at the back of that well-organised mental organ had been a range of imagined scenarios each being provided with the right response. In this way, although experienced enough to know that no one of them would fit exactly whatever it was the shape of the things to come took, Manager Trott was confident that he would not be caught off balance. Not him. He now pondered how far to spread the news of the new timing. Delegation, like keeping the staff informed, was all very well. Such input could be of use. Also, ‘forewarned is forearmed’ and all that. But TV? The cameras had attractions to the untrained, undisciplined mind. People always wanted to get in on the act. Those reporters loved to speak to ‘ordinary folk’. Trouble was, such folk were at best, and that usually was the worst, only partly aware of what had occurred and, even more, what the implications were. Why wouldn’t reporters listen to the authoritative voice, and that voice alone? In this case, his. Mr Trott was, further, aware that he wasn’t fully in the picture himself. Try as he might to stress the doggie stories of the day, he knew only too well that he’d never put a reporter off a crime.
So then? He had, to date, limited his assistance to the police to what seemed appropriate. And unavoidable. That done, by his manners, actions and demeanour, his purpose had been to smother dissemination. Now, he sensed, the bright light of publicity was about to shine upon him and his Hall. Public exposure could be so unfair! Was there a plot aimed at him? Was it too much of a conspiracy theory to fancy that one of his enemies – and what great man didn’t have enemies? – had arranged this, this, episode, this unwelcome business, to bring him down? Oh, he had rivals. Rivals who, he had been known to expostulate, would do anything to destroy his position. Well, he was far from down. Indeed, the whole affair could be, would be with proper management, turned to his advantage. To his greater purpose. This could be just the break, the publicity he needed, on which to build his push for the very top job. Why not? Get it right and…. His speculation stopped. He was still short of ammunition. Short of the full facts. Might be caught out in detail. How to fill in that gap? The Inspector? Not, he fancied, a likely source of information. He needed something more. A minor miracle perhaps?
His internal phone rang. It was from the main entrance.
“There’s a Chief Superintendent Grant to see you. Shall I bring him up?”
Chapter Eleven
Saturday, about 1pm
Cheered by what Lawrence had been able to tell him of Doc Meredith’s progress, Grant had driven, with caution – the last thing he wanted was another accident however demanding the direction of the ACC – to the Hall. Parking was again a problem. He knew, he should have remembered, that there was only a small public car park, scarcely sufficient. The Council had been told time and time again. Nothing happened. Visitors parked in all the wrong places. There was a consolation. Uniform, along with the traffic wardens, made a steady contribution to target achievement and to community finances. There was a small courtyard for ‘Hall Staff Only’. Competitors, less well treated, used their own compound some distance, if you’re pushing a heavy trolley, on the far side of the service road. Grant had a choice. He considered himself, in view of his new role, to be one of the elite. There was a space next that clearly emblazoned ‘Manager.’ No sign on it. Who would have the presumption to park so near to Trott’s mechanical delight? He took it and walked up to the front entrance. He had no more intention of paying there than he did for parking. This was important. He was unaware how his arrival was to be doubly important. For Yale, yes he knew; and for Mr Trott.
Presenting himself at the desk, armed with his warrant card, he asked to be taken to their leader. He had considered asking for Inspector Yale, but thought better of it. Best keep to the proprieties.
The said Yale was, as the judge Jenkins before him, beginning to feel the weight on his feet. And the passage of time, in the way similar to the good ladies of the Bichon Frisé lines. Also a gnawing at his stomach. He had scarcely sat down, let alone pandered to any of his other human needs, for near on five hours. Where had this self-sacrificial dedication got him? Not far, as he would have to tell Grant soon enough.
That opportunity came quicker than expected. Across his horizon, as he pondered these deep aspects of life, moving with a proper police-like tread behind the ever-magisterial progress of the Manager himself, came Detective Chief Superintendent Grant. There was a perfunctory handover, and Trott departed, pleased by this minor miracle. The Chief Super had Satisfied his briefing needs. Sufficient for his purpose. He now had his own inner man to satisfy. Once done, he could return to the task of preparing for the demands of the fast-approaching TV team. Grant grunted a thanks to his retreating guide, and took a quizzical look at his junior.
“Reckon you could do with a drink, young Simon.”
“A sit-down wouldn’t do any harm. I’ll need to drop off in the little boys’ room before I do even that. But first, a few introductions are in order, and you’ll want to see the scene of the crime.”
“Or what’s left of it, if what you’ve told me is true!”
“We’ve managed to keep Graveney’s box clear of any interference but, yes, sadly and as I told you on the phone, the passageway and all around have been much walked over.”
“Come on then. And those introductions; any that can’t wait?”
“Two. Well, three, really. Here comes the first, refreshed and eased I trust. Chief Superintendent Grant, meet my right hand man, 887 Wiseton.”
A duly impressed and not-a-little-pleased Brian shook the great man’s hand, assured the two policemen that he was, indeed, refurbished all round and ready to take on the weight of responsibility whilst they, in their turn, took a deserved reviver, and humbly stood aside for the Super to meet the two leading ladies. Janice Mulholland was used to such eminence. She bred champions, after all, and had met the very top judges. Had entered the illustrious portals of the Kennel Club. Spoken to its Chairman. She was gracious in her welcome.
“You’ve come on the right day and about the right time for the Show, Mr Grant. So sad that your reason is this dreadful business.”
Grant agreed that his visit was not a happy one. Not unusual in his line of work. Anna Goldey, when introduced, was more specific in her comment.
“The thing is getting in the way of my Dogs from the Shows somewhat”, and she elaborated her problem to the necessarily receptive Super who looked at Simon.
“I’ve briefed the Hall staff, sir.” The scrivener admitted that things should now be easier, needing to get back to her arena as soon as poss if things were, at last, warming up. Who knew what had been going on while she was doing her civic duty? For sure, the TV cameras would need her there when they called. She would be needed to explain the fine display, and to comment on such a novel public attraction.
Grant thanked her for, he was sure, excellent and certainly greatly appreciated work in recording the interviews and took a quick decision.
“I’m sure you are now free to return to your exhibition. The Force is most grateful for your fine work. It will be reported.” He did not actually say that an MBE would be in the post, but his voice, honed by years of dealing with the unlawful public, as all its members potentially were, gave the good lady hopes of things to come. She set off to her stands, leaving her near-immaculate notes with Simon. There had been a few crossings, but only when necessitated by witnesses changing their minds mid-sentence. At the same time Janice, also with Grant’s blessing, was told that she could stand down her guards.
“No point in the barricades any more Simon. So, if Wiseton here will be good enough to guard the
dead man’s box, I’ll take you off to refresh and to review. We can release the manager’s men as we pass them.”
887 was more than good enough; he was keen, “No one to touch anything, mind,” Grant strictured the ex-Corporal, “and not a word to anyone. If there are any enquirers, note who they are if you can and tell them to refer to us when we return. For the nonce, I’m going to give this officer a well-deserved break and, at the same time, work out with him where we go from here.”
The speaker cast an experienced eye around him. As he had spotted on his march with Trott, there was a café in the balcony. He gestured to Yale.
“I’ll go up, grab us a table, on our own if at all possible, and see you there. I’ll get the beers in.” Yale did not argue. He set off with a brisk pace, causing heads to swivel in anticipation that they might be about to see an arrest.
“Need to ease springs,” pronounced the former Military Policeman to anyone in earshot, “and then get together for a pow-wow with the boss man. We’ll carry on as per until they gets back. With new orders I’ll be bound.”
Janice Mulholland rejoined the group, having swiftly stood down her sentries. She fastened on to the last remark.
“Will need more information from some of us I expect. What do you reckon? Has he got anywhere? Who it was what dunnit, as they say?” Wiseton shook his head.
A Question of Pedigree Page 9