A Question of Pedigree

by Frank Edwards

  “I see that. Must have a go, though. There are rules, after all, as you’ve been telling me. You can’t get in unless you are fully documented, dog and competitor. Can’t get into or leave the car park without the right ticket. That sort of thing. Plenty to make cheating difficult, I would have thought.”

  “You might hope so. My new boss would agree. He’s always banging on about fake identities. All for ID cards, whatever the cost and despite the near certainty they can be forged. ‘A forged ID card’, he claims, ‘is a darned sight better than having to take someone on face value alone. ID cards can be traced. Fake identifies are rife in the fields of mortgage fraud.”

  Grant was interested to hear his colleague’s growing involvement in his new work.

  “Doesn’t quite apply here, though, mortgages.”

  “I was picking up your point about control of entry. If the deed was done on the way in, then those controls won’t help us quite as much.”

  Their discussion was brought to a halt. Being that bit away from the competitors’ benches, they were better able to hear the tannoy. That megaphone blasted to all corners of the widespread Hall. It was the voice of Mr Trott, firm and audible.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen. This is your Hall Manager speaking. I am delighted to be able to tell you that, for your extra pleasure and interest, the competitors have agreed to stay on until five o’clock. This gives you an extra hour to wander among them in the bench rows to the Eastern end of the Hall, just the far side of the main banners you can all so easily see, to talk to them about their work and have a closer look at their dogs. Your interest will be the icing on the cake for them as, I feel sure, it will be for you. And don’t forget the fly-ball semi-finals in the main arena at half past four, with the final at five. This top-notch event will round off what I hope has been as happy and fulfilling a day for all of you as it has been for me and my team. Have a good day, now.” In his eyrie, Trott smiled at his embracing ‘your’ at the start and the cool ending. Showed how with it he was. At one with the paying public.

  “Good Lord! That’s torn it!” Grant was bothered.

  “The notices should have reached the dog owners by now, sir. So, no shock, surely?”

  “Not the reason we gave them, is it?” demanded an increasingly incensed Super. “What’s the man playing at?”

  “Quite possible not many heard the announcement clearly, if at all. We’ve found earlier ones too muffled to make sense over the background hum. Only got this one because we are clear of the benches.”

  “Don’t you believe it. Human nature, that’s what’s what. If it doesn’t suit them, they’ll hear it all right. I bet most of them are packed-up by now. Ready for the off. It is just, I’d go no further than that, just possible they would have gone along with our directive willingly enough, out of civic duty if nothing else. Or self-preservation! Better if we catch who done it. But this! They are not going to be happy parties to that blasted manager trying to get kudos and labelling them volunteers. No sirree.” Grant was on his high horse. He rode on.

  “There’ll be trouble in the trenches, I tell you. A mini Paris student riots if we aren’t careful.”

  Yale felt this overblown. Yet, such is the power of suggestion, at that very moment he fancied that he heard a rising roar of discontent from the people they still had to work with. Among them, consoling thought this, should still be the murderer.

  “Surely not?” was the best he could do.

  “You bet,” was the American-style reply.

  “Look”, he didn’t add ‘sonny’ but the Inspector half heard it, such was the tone, “I said we needed a little time together to go over your statements. Send that Wiseton of yours on a mission to check that all have had the notice, tell his chums it’s how we mean things, and to check the competitors’ entrance is secured. Then tell him to join us in the café where you and I are now off to, pronto.”

  Not hesitating, as Brian was about to disappear in the rows of dogs, Yale strode after him. He feared that the man might, thinking his role at an end, reclaim his own dogs, pick them up, and join the fretting owners entombed in the Hall. Why Grant wanted him to join them he wasn’t clear. Probably to help interpret Anna Goldey’s notes. Simon was relieved at this notion. It showed Grant was still willing to trust the ex-Corporal. He caught up with 887 and explained the task.

  “Take your time. Make sure they all know, so far as you can, the real reason for their having to wait around. Not to pander to Trott’s wishes, but to assist the police in their enquiries. If there are some who don’t know what’s happened, you can tell them. No harm in that now.”

  Above, in his sanctuary, Mr Trott was congratulating himself on his masterful move. His making something positive out of the otherwise negative note from the police. Also, it should ensure a maximum crowd at the end for the fly-ball final instead of the leaching away early to the car parks. He knew why that happened, despite the excellence of ‘his’ entertainment. Weaklings! To get out before the main body jammed themselves into a mess of edging, horn-blowing metal as they struggled to reach the unfettered motoring joys of the high street. Not rush hour today, but plenty of shops and such shed their staff and customers at the same time, creating a car-borne struggle for survival that Grant and, whenever they could, the traffic police preferred to leave well alone. Mr Trott also. He left much later, when things had calmed down. So much to do!

  Yale joined his boss in the café. Its owner was one of those happy at the broadcast news. He had got water boiling away for extra teas. Not all was gloom. Grant’s face was gloomy, gazing at two plastic cups of that bonus production.

  “I put in milk and sugar. We both need sustenance.”

  “Right. Thanks.”

  Grant continued to contemplate the substitute for best bone china.

  “You’ve got your notes?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m not forgetting the clock. There’s bound to be, all joking apart, an arrival before five. Before we get into them, though, let me pick up on something you said about fraud cases.”

  “At your instigation, sir. I haven’t really seen this one in that way.”

  “Be that as it may. Fraud. False representation is at the heart of it all. Correct?”

  “As a generalisation, yes.”

  “So what if that’s what Graveney was onto? A judge changing the rules a little to engineer a win? A re-writing of an adjudication? You described to me two chaps studying a judge very closely. In the ETT ring. Now that sort of thing would have been close to Ambrose’s journalistic as well as breeder’s heart, wouldn’t it.”

  “Seems certain. But what? Those two blokes I told you about, well, hardly doing anything wrong. Plenty of others pressing up to the ring side to read the results board, or merely passing by and stepping out of the way of others. I wouldn’t give much traction to that as a reason for some polemic in Dogs Talk.”

  “Graveney might have been forewarned. Seen more into it.”

  “Maybe. Had he been alive to be there.”

  “Before Wiseton joins us, as we can’t be sure absolutely of anyone even him, among this lot, get onto your father. Can you? He’ll know the form. How fraud can enter the ring when the whole set up is so open to public scrutiny? I think you’re onto something with this fraud business. Can’t ask any of these,” he waved at the notes, “in case we choose the very one we’re after and scare them off.”

  Yale thought Grant was taking things too far too fast. There had been that earlier, fanciful, suggestion that he flew his Dad down by helicopter. This was more practical, but sensible?

  “I can try. Mobiles work in here, thank goodness. He might be in. Tea time and all that. I can give him a call.”

  “Do so. There’s a good chap.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Saturday, nearly 4pm

  “If I was Ten years older I would be considered wonderful for my age,” was Yale père’s response to his son’s solicitous enquiry.

  “Sti
ll getting out with the dogs, then.”

  “Cheeky puppy. To what do I owe the honour of this call? You must want something. When are you going to come up again? Your mother would like to see you. As well as me.”

  “Yorkshire’s a long way from anywhere.” Grant pulled a face. “I need your help.”

  “Thought there would be something. What now? Never money, surely? Expensive new girl friend?”

  “No such luck! Rather awkward, but I’ll do my best to explain.”

  Simon Yale did just that. Where he was, what he was doing or trying to do, who he was with, why, so far as it made any sense, he was there in the first place. Mr Yale seemed to take it all in. Thank goodness for a clear line.

  “You want me to tell you that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry, Simon, but I don’t really get it. I’m glad you’re back doing proper police work,” Simon let that pass, “but, surely, you are surrounded by experts. For Heaven’s sake, boy, I’m years out of date. Why not ask someone there?”

  “That’s the snag, Dad. We don’t know who to ask. We might get the right answer, but that’s not the problem. If we ask the wrong person, someone who turns out to be suspect, it could alert them to the way we’re thinking. So, you see, you’ve become our trusted independent advisor”

  “Very flattering! Glad to assist, of course. You can tell your Super that. But I’ve been out of the showing lark for some time now. You probably know as much as I do.”

  “You still get the dogs’ mag don’t you? Still subscribe.”

  “Yes, I do. Keep in touch with things. Very well, then, here goes. But don’t quote me in court. I can give you all the main points but, remember, shows are run by autonomous societies or clubs. Each is likely to have its own local rules. I wouldn’t know anything about them.”

  “Fine. Fine, Dad, but there’s a good chap. Do get on with it. We are up against the clock here. What we are about is trying to stop a killer getting away.”

  The tone of his son’s voice concentrated Arthur Yale’s mind, and he began, with care, and with obvious efforts at recollection, to give what guidance he could to his son, who was taking notes the while in Grant’s valuable little book. At the end, Arthur Yale concluded:

  “I do hope that helps. As much as I can dig out on the spur of the moment. Most of it will be on the Kennel Club’s rules sheet. They’re handed out at Crufts. Bound to be a copy in the event office I’d have thought. Do, please, use my information with care. I am not in the running these days as I keep telling you. I look through the mags as much to see what old colleagues are doing, or are dying of as anything else. Haven’t got time to speak to your mother I suppose?”

  “Just a few words. Honestly. We are very pushed.”

  “She’ll understand. Just a word.”

  Duty done, Yale ended the call, switching his mobile to stand-by. Skimming over his scribbled record, he prepared to pass on to his boss what his father had told him about entry rules and how the rules were usually enforced. As he went to speak another mobile rang. It was Grant’s. Irritated, but not able to avoid the call, its owner signalled to Yale to be patient and answered. It was Lawrence.

  “What’s that you say? No. Blast it! No. No sign here. No sign a-bloody-tall.”

  There was an agonised strain of a voice at the other end. From across the cafe table, Yale could only sense the angst, not gather the words. Grant replied again.

  “I don’t! I can’t. Believe it? No! What! How?” This anguished outburst was so much from the man’s soul that Simon assumed a problem on some great scale. Some personal disaster perhaps? His bank had collapsed? His wife run away with the milkman?

  “I give up. What else? Nothing else! Dear me, you’re getting slack!” The last remark was not serious. More desperate. Further squawks. Grant appeared to give in. He spoke in a tense but resigned voice.

  “All right. I get it. You get this, though. Get them!”

  The last two words were spoken in something larger than capital letters. Simon braced himself for what was to come. He was near forgetting the notes from his father. He knew, it took no genius, that they would have to wait. The message Grant had that moment received and, however unhappily, understood, took priority. The Super, at first, seemed unable to speak. Then, somewhere deep inside him, a rumble began that worked its way, getting ever louder, up to his throat and out of his mouth. Not an eruption of anger. A roar of maniacal laughter. Yale could only gaze and surmise. He could never have guessed what was to come.

  “I really do give up,” was the first spluttering words that made any sense to the Inspector. “Absolutely give up. You’ll never guess. Never. Good Lord above. What else can happen? Tell me that?”

  Yale made no attempt to speak. He waited, with as composed a face as possible. He wanted to know, but did not expect to enjoy, whatever it was had caused this reaction. Grant struggled to control himself.

  “Thank goodness Wiseton hasn’t joined us yet. Let alone what that TV woman would think. Oh heavens!” and he was off again. Time was passing as the laughing policeman struggled to regain composure.

  “I won’t ask you to guess. You never would. Despite this being a day like no other in my career. No. Nobody would guess. That was Lawrence.”

  Yale dared a: “I gathered so”, and dropped out of the running.

  “Lawrence. Rang to ask if the CID team had arrived.”

  “Odd question.”

  “Not, I’m sad to say, in his eyes. The ACC finally got going after they had taken his brain out and tarted it up. Got a team. Bannister. Know him? Think I do. Smart chap. Needs to be. Getting here nearly ten hours after the event won’t help him any. He and his team should have already arrived, Lawrence said. Sent direct by the ACC.” Simon gazed down over the café balustrade, scanning the still busy scene beneath. No sign of any support.

  “Don’t waste your time looking. Lawrence only rang because he was bothered that I hadn’t reported their arrival. Because of that he asked a question or three and rang me. That was the call.” Yale guessed that much. No point in speaking.

  “The ACC briefed them himself, it seems. Proud as punch he was to have got correct procedures under way at last. When I didn’t ring, as I say, Lawrence got wary. Rang the ACC. The great man told him in short, sharp sentences that all was at last in hand. The team, Bannister’s, was on its way. To the show.”

  “Yes?” Simon wanted to sound encouraging. Grant had stopped, as ire had finally put out the fires of humour.

  “To the flower show! Twenty odd miles of traffic-jammed roads away. They haven’t got there yet! Communication problems make it no use trying to radio them, the moron said! Added to which, their mobile’s flat, or some such. Would you, could you, credit it? Such a muddle? I can’t cope with it. It would take a composer of Christmas cracker jokes to provide a suitable answer. When they arrive – at the Show! – Lawrence can only hope that the manager is as efficient as our Mr Trott and they get his message to reverse direction and come down and join us in the dog house. Don’t,” he raised a warning hand, “Again! Don’t ask how it all comes about. I must assume that the ACC is by now back under the scanner having another MoT. He needs it. Oh blimey! Too much. Too much.”

  Time passing or not, there had to be a pause. A pregnant one. A silent one. An unfulfilled one, pregnant or not. A collapse-of-stout-party event. A letting-go-of-reality moment. A sigh of desperation.

  “Twenty miles, you say?”

  “Mainly along your favourite A road. Right through the middle. And, you may as well know, as part of life’s little joke, they will have to queue both ways where the new water main is being laid. ‘Long delays expected.’ You get the picture.” He gulped for air. “Where, for the umpteenth time it strikes me, I ask, where now?”

  Simon had an answer.

  “My father’s comments.”

  Grant looked at Simon as though he were speaking from another world. A parallel universe. No. On a day like this, a divergent other unive
rse. Nothing was in any pattern. He pulled himself together. So, they had a little longer to solve the case themselves. Once more he, metaphorically, got hold of his sturdy copper’s bootstraps, pulled them up, and answered his own question.

  “Where now, young Simon, is that we have extra time to pin this one down ourselves, and hand over to Inspector Bannister a rounded-off case with the guilty party neatly skewered. That’s the approach. On with the motley! What did your revered father have to say, speaking from the land of wondrous puddings.”

  “When made by my mother,” Simon began, but was once more delayed. Brian Wiseton arrived.

  “Good news, sirs.” Neither took up the phrase. “All is in place. Everyone I’m certain has got their piece of paper. Some grumbling and complaints as you would expect. So I said to them, now don’t go shooting the messenger, I said. It’s all in a very special good cause. We want to get this thing finished. Hardly go on, can we, to next week’s show with a killer in our midst. Now can we? I said. Most agreed.”

  “I’d like to think that they believe we are about to catch whoever did it.”

  “Most will, sir, because they want to. Even them what don’t know Ambrose are all for it really. Only that they’ve made plans. You know. Not too easy for a few. But there it is, I told them. On and up as my old sergeant used to say. Nobody went to biff me one when I plugged that bit about asking permission to leave and leaving details. Good sorts, most of ‘em.”

  “And the doors?” Grant spoke again.

  “All done. The boys are there. Mr Trott came down himself to see they was all on the spot. Right proper he was. Asked me to tell you, sir, that you can rest assured that nobody will leave by the competitors’ entrance before five o’clock. He did ask me to stress that five o’clock.”