“I made a few notes. Needed to. Enough to answer any immediate question from CID. They can get the full low-down for themselves.” Simon waited as Grant took out his notebook. He had been prepared, the Inspector noted.
“Here we are. You might like to know. Quite easy, it seems. Once you’ve got the hang of it. And the right equipment. Nicotine sulphate is the stuff. So he explained. Don’t ask. I quote: ‘need to free-base the sulphate, which is a white powder, in order to get a liquid.’ Rest is easy. Put the liquid into a syringe, and bob’s your uncle. Meredith says that he has come across it, but not in this context. That’s one reason why it took him and his chums so long to come up with the goods. Too long a lunch as well, I wouldn’t wonder. Anyway, he says that up to now he’s only read of cases of nicotine poisoning resulting from exposure to concentrated forms of the compound being used as an insecticide.”
“So we are looking for a farmer, not a dog breeder.”
“Don’t dog breeders have gardens?”
Simon paused. He had a follow-up question, but didn’t want, however accidentally, to catch his superior out. Ten again, he had to show how on the ball he was! He needn’t have feared.
“Did the Doc say anything about speed of effect, sir? How long after a jab the drowsiness or whatever it was would begin to take effect?”
“I asked that. Long enough, he made clear, for the jab to have taken place on the way in, probably near the entrance door, and for the victim to make it to his bench. Depends on strength, quantity, temperature – oh, you know, all the usual caveats. What it does mean, and it gives me no pleasure to admit it, is that the death blow needn’t have happened in the line of benches at all.”
“The world’s our oyster, then. Just as well we agreed to keep the lot back to five o’clock. All the more reason to ensure they book out in the office. But, heavens! Whatever I thought about looking for a syringe in a haystack earlier, the haystack’s just got a bloody sight bigger.”
The two officers looked at each other as if for further enlightenment. Consolation would do. Neither could give it to the other. ‘What now?’ was the shared, unspoken sentiment.
Grant, as was his wont, decided to do something. To get something underway.
“You haven’t got round to speaking to Wiseton about this Dogs Talk thing you say.”
“No. I had Ms Gibbons to deal with. To get rid of.”
“Hope you gave nothing away.”
“She had got her story. What I was about to tell you was that, in the process of getting that story, she stumbled across another possible suspect. Not that it matters so much now the suspect list is blown wide open. Everybody here’s a suspect, if Meredith is right. However, for what it’s worth, she says that Anna Goldey, the lady who did the recording of interviews for me, has no reason to love Ambrose Graveney. It seems that he wrote a particularly spiteful article about her plans to have this Dogs from the Shows thing that she is running today. A ‘First’ he didn’t approve of. Might be worth having a look at it, as a way of having a word with her.”
“Maybe. As you say, she’s no more than one more in the ever-lengthening queue. No. Tell you what. Let’s tackle Wiseton first. I’ll come with you, if you have no objection.” As if Yale could! “I’d like to hear what he has to say. As you rightly put it, if we want to know something, why not go and ask.”
“Then go and ask Mrs Goldey.”
“We’ll do your Corporal first.”
They found 887 sitting in the seat of death. Or of dying; the death blow may well have fallen – how long? – earlier. The ex-soldier came swiftly to his feet. There was, to Yale’s relief, no salute of any sort, crashing or Hitlerian. He seemed pleased, eager, to see them.
“Here you are, sirs! Didn’t want to leave my post. In fact, had a visit from my past. Old friend. Very old friend you could say. All the way from America. To size up the joint, sort of. His dog’s into Crufts; he’s after sussing out the judges. Or so he says. Been around with Kem Harriday.” Yale’s mind clicked on the smoker’s companion at the ringside. “X3 we called him at school. Tell you why later if you’re interested. Got something I reckon’s more up your street. It’s happened!”
The two showed appropriate interest. No need, especially in view of how their thoughts were turning on his possible involvement in the killing, to put him of. To suppress his keenness to co-operate.
“It’s been drunk!” Yale grasped the meaning. Grant was slower.
“The champagne?”
“The same. Gone. Guzzled. The lot. Not that one ordinary sized bottle takes long to drink, mind, when you’ve won something.”
“Who’s won what?”
“Kem Harriday. The lot! His ETT. Toy Manchester to be exact. If I was judge, it wouldn’t be allowed. May as well accept min pins. Still, that’s how it goes these days. With all these rich foreigners pouring in. Good day for Kem, though, fair enough. Get him in the KC Stud Book for life.”
Grant, recalling Simon telling him about gossip concerning over-confident entrants, didn’t want to waste time on exploring Brian’s dislike of overseas visitors, or finding out whatever min pins were. No doubt, he mused, foreigners were feared for the extra competition they introduced. The Corporal’s last point caught his interest. He looked to Yale.
“Stud Book? Does that mean he can charge twice as much to anyone wanting to mate with his dog?”
“Not quite, sir, but along those lines. It does mean, if Brian is right, that the dog is now Qualified for Crufts for life. No more annual struggles to get enough wins.”
“Well worth bringing a bottle of bubbly along in case, wouldn’t you agree?” Ten, to show that he was with it:
“And the congrats card? That signed and delivered as well?”
“Yes sir. Going the rounds as fast as the bottle. One helps the other. The story’s already about that there was more than the one. Bottle. Many signatures on the card.” The three looked at each other. Grant couldn’t see a significant link to the case they were on. The man, a man, had won best of breed. Someone had to. So what? Brought along a means of celebration on the of-chance of success. Wouldn’t be the only one, maybe. Any other hint would be no more than peer jealousy. Yet! Could it be that the dead man knew something that might have led to that winning dog’s exclusion? Or had he stumbled across a foregone outcome? If so, did the owner, Harriday or whoever, know of that and, if he did, get rid of what would have been a large spanner in his works by removing it with a syringe? Grant decided to follow this line and, with care, to probe Wiseton on the magazine articles and his knowledge of their author.
“I recall a story Inspector Yale told me,” he began. “Are you suggesting that the event was fixed? Otherwise, no more than an over-confident winner, this Mr Harriday. I agree, a bit rash of him to advertise the fact. Laying himself open to spiteful comment.”
Wiseton’s answer was cagey. He spoke warily.
“Often get rumours. In this business. Not to say that they’re wrong, and I enjoy listening to them as much as any one. We all like a little chat. To be honest, it’s not the first time I’ve been told such a tale.”
“About Harriday?”
“No, no. Generally. Get quite a bit of it. Doesn’t do to go along with such yarns too much. In any event, I can’t recall a murder before. Got to be careful. Yes, there can be, shall we say, good indications for some that they are in with more than a shout. Have been myself once or twice. Not that I brought any champagne with me, mind you. And Kem’s not daft. If it was him with the champers, then I bet my old mucker X3 had something to do with it. Typical Yankee show-of. But yes, it’s goes that way sometimes. If a dog is really good, and the field isn’t too wide, and you know the judge or, shall we say, know how the judge works. What that judge likes. What they look for. Well! Stands to reason, doesn’t it?”
Yale responded to this little speech.
“From what you say, your chum X3 – and I will ask about that name later – is practising for his debut at Crufts
on all fronts.”
Wiseton took his time answering.
“For a start, at Crufts you’re supposed to use the cafés. No parties in the benches. They say! Humans aren’t as easy to corral as dogs. But, yeah. There’s talk. Always is, and the higher the stakes the sharper it can get. The pressure to win gets beyond for some. Takes time and money. People don’t like to think someone’s got in by the back door.”
“But,” interjected Grant, “money and time well spent if you can buy your way in.”
“Could be. No need for Kem to cheat, though. His Triggo is good enough by any standard.”
“Kem apart, only ‘could be’?” exclaimed Yale. “For all he said otherwise, there was a time when my father would have given anything to have got his coupon. Not that he would have killed for it. I hope.” Simon hoped to lighten the moment. Grant took the next step.
“Just a thought, Wiseton, but it does strike me. About these articles of Graveney’s. I am a little surprised that you didn’t know that your late friend wrote them, albeit under a pseudonym, in Dogs Talk. Have you ever read anything by him? Something that might throw a light on what’s happened today?”
Did the former MP hesitate, or was it a continuing part of his increasingly cagey approach to answers? He didn’t rush to reply. His audience waited. No pressure. No hurrying-on question.
“I haven’t. And I didn’t. Know that is. Ten again, I don’t read that mag.” A further pause. The two still waited. “Only learned today that Ambrose was the critic. Bit of a surprise really.”
“Yet you were a close friend of his?
“Not really. As I told the Inspector earlier. I saw him at shows and the like, but not real close in a social way. We’re all friends when we meet at shows. So much in common. You greet strangers in the car park, when unloading, as though they were bosom pals. If you want information on his private life I suggest you have a word with Alison Jeffery. Armband 2257. In the next line. She and her husband used to meet him for meals and so on. She’d know more. I only saw him at shows. Like this.”
“Yet still had no idea, no idea at all, that he was a writer well known for putting people’s backs up?” Grant pressed the point. Wiseton was firmer in his answer.
“No. Really. Didn’t cross me, and I prefer Dogs World. Better balance of article in my view, and they manage to print the adjudications earlier. Don’t know why. Dogs Talk comes out at the wrong time of the month, I suppose. Something like that.”
Neither policeman was sure how to proceed. 887 gave them a lead, echoing Simon.
“Why not ask them? Dogs Talk have a stand here. Think I mentioned it earlier. Must be listed in the catalogue.” He brought out his much-thumbed copy – ‘he can’t complain of lack of use for his money’ Simon thought – “Yup. There it is. Had to be. Why not go and see them? Stand 59. They always try and get that number. Fifty nine varieties. Get it?”
Grant knew he should have ‘got it’ earlier. Brian was dead right. He had said something about it, hours ago. Simon felt the same. A bit of a fool. There they had been, moaning on about not being able to get back numbers of the magazine in time to be of any use when all they had to do was ask. Sure, it was unlikely that the Show stand would have those past editions to hand but, surely, the people manning the stall would know more, far more, about the writings of Ambrose Graveney and their effect on people in the dog world than most.
Chapter Sixteen
Saturday, turned 3pm
They were busy. As busy as any stand; busier, they were sure, than any other magazine. Chief Superintendent Grant wanted to speak to the most senior of the three, who were busy pushing their wares and offering an eclectic mix of special and unmissable offers to those attracted to their, he acknowledged, well decorated and eye-catching stall. Parents and their kids were pressing around, a little to his surprise. Then he saw the ‘free’ glove puppets. Either a ‘catch-em-young’ loss leader, or ‘free’ only to those signing up for a subscription. A trial subscription. “Please, mummy!”
As they had pushed, more than made, their way through the full-afternoon crowd, leaving the benches of their earlier enquiries unguarded, open to all and sundry – ‘especially sundry’ as Grant told Yale; he was a literate copper with a wide range of reading – Yale had half-shouted over his Chief’s shoulder :
“What if any one does go early? Before four o’clock or whenever Trott can erect his barricades?”
“What if indeed,” was the gnomic answer. “I told him that problem was my pigeon.” Then, in an attempt to be more constructive, difficult as he was talking backwards over a rising hubbub as they neared the free puppet counter, “we’ll check on those we’ve interviewed when we get back. Not much we can do if someone from another breed or set of benches skives off. If one of ours hops it, we’ll send out an all stations. Just do what we can. Make it up as we go along. What else have we, you, been doing all this damn long day?”
When they arrived, it was only by peering over the heads of the host that Grant could see there were indeed three serving. Clearly the promotion was a great success. Maybe the give-away had been advertised for that time. Occupied with their investigations, they had not kept up with the broadcast programme announcements to the paying public. Grant wanted, needed with some urgency in view of the passing time, to get this interview out of the way. Had to be done. Should have thought of it earlier. Essential to learn more about the dead man and his influence and effect on others, especially others in the Hall that day. With Yale now alongside him, the Superintendent tried, in that hopeless way felt at overcrowded bars when you just know that your eye will not be the one caught by the server, to do just that. Catch an eye. He could scarce wave his warrant card at that distance. The Corporal came to the rescue. How often has an officer known that feeling?
“Hey there, Royyo!” Wiseton’s voice soared over the throng. The eldest of the three raised his head and shouted back.
“Brian, you old bastard! Not buying our paper at last are you?”
“Want you over here. Now. Urgent. Come on!”
This exchange had no visible effect on the attracted masses, other than to slow the rate of service as the addressed Royston left his post, wriggled around the end of the magazine’s stall, through a populace happy enough to allow someone to pass in the opposite direction, and came to their side.
887 had followed the two policemen when, for reasons he was not given, Grant had indicated that he was free to leave the seat of death. Grant now knew, what Brian did not unless he was the killer, that it was near certain that the fatal jab had been administered on the way in and not after Graveney had sat down.
Royston Haig drew alongside.
“What ho, me old friend.”
Wiseton did, as best he could given the press of people, the introductions.
“Need to speak to you. Urgently, Royyo. Where can we? Can’t here.”
“About Ambrose I’d guess. All the talk.” Grant shuddered. “No problem, Bri. Just a sec while I tell the lads what’s on.” He did this by a semaphore worthy of the racecourse. “About to go anyway. My Trevor’s running Gyp in the agility in ten minutes. Was about to go there to support. Come on. That’ll do us nicely.”
Yale, with boyhood memories in mind, was not so sure.
“The agility? Great, but won’t that be the busiest part of the Hall right now? And noisier than anything other than the fly-ball?”
“Not where I can get,” was Royston’s reply. “Got a spot at the competitors’ entrance. As quiet there as anywhere in this place. Don’t want to go outside. Will miss Trevor. He’s drawn first spot, so you won’t waste too much time hanging around. No need to wait for the others if you don’t want to. Me, I want to see the competition. Ask me whatever it is you reckon I can help you with.”
Haig turned and set off, head slightly down, to lead the way through the milling throng. The pressure eased for a while before they caught up with the queue gathering to get seats around the agility ring. As they pass
ed through this comparative eye of a storm, Grant turned to 887.
“Thought you were no friend of Dogs Talk?”
“Not a customer. No. But Royyo and I go back some. We did a lot of shows together before he took up this job with the mag. Younger than me, of course, but he’s been in the business since he was a kid. Runs in his family. His son Trevor’s carrying on the tradition. I was a late beginner. Lucky enough to bump into him on my first outing or thereabouts. Great help. Great help to me. Been good friends ever since.”
Satisfied, Grant, with his two fellow sleuths, followed where Haig led, to a surprisingly calm spot in the general uproar and excitement that surrounded the agility trials. As Royston had said, it was a cordoned off spot where the competitors led out their dogs into the challenging circuit of seesaws, fences, tunnels and slaloms.
As they neared the arena, Grant was attracted by the spectacle of what he took to be a slow motion ballet. Circling around the ring, arms outstretched like little boys playing at being aeroplanes, was a line of men and women. None broke ranks. They followed, as though sleep walking, one behind the other, arms swaying from side to side, varied by the occasional dramatic upsweep of one, a waggle of the other, a twist of the torso, as if participating in an ethereal yoga session. Grant’s eyebrows asked the question.
“Walking the course, sir,” said Yale. “Getting the sequence of obstacles in their minds and rehearsing the commands that they’ll be giving their dogs. Only allowed a few minutes. Then it’s back behind the scenes, and the first one is off.”
“An advantage then for Trevor. Being first. Less time to forget the course.”
“Not quite. Others can watch those that go before them and spot the awkward bits.”
“Does that mean they’ll all be squashing in here to see that? Not much chance of a quiet chat with our new friend in that case.”
“Happily, no. They’ll be along there,” Simon waved his arm in a good imitation of the dog guiders, “to get a clearer view.”
“Good. Now all we have to do is get Haig’s attention before he’s engrossed in what’s going on. Before he’s absorbed in Gyp’s run.”
A Question of Pedigree Page 14