A Question of Pedigree

by Frank Edwards

  “Can’t see him now. That’s why I sent Wiseton out on a mission. To trace them. Should, must, still be here. Probably with that X3 character.”

  “I wonder if that was altogether wise, sir. In view of what my two ladies told me, I’ve a fancy, no more than that mind you, that there could be some plot or other between Wiseton and the other two. A sort of Last of the Summer Wine lark, or worse. Something nefarious. Something we’d like to know about.” He returned to his notion of the two acting together, with X3 providing diversionary tactics. “This X3 guy seems to be outside everything. A foreigner. Dog already fully Qualified for Crufts, so nothing to gain from being here. Except, maybe, to help silence Ambrose? Might he be the subject of the article? About something in which he was involved? Illegally involved.”

  “You’re rushing me, Simon. Racing away. If Wiseton is in a plot, as you fancifully suggest, with the other two, his chatting to them now isn’t going to make any difference. He’s had plenty of time during the day to tell them all he knows and to warn them, if that be the case, of what to say and what not to say. None the less,” and the Super took in a deep breath of decision making, “we’ll go together now and see what those two, X3 and Harriday, have to say. As a pair.”

  “If we can spot them.”

  “We soon will. Here’s our,” not ‘your’ to Yale’s relief, “messenger. What news from the front, Corporal?” Wiseton was flummoxed by the greeting, but took it in the suitable military spirit he fancied it was intended.

  “Found them both. Together. They’re going to watch the fly-ball semis.”

  Yale had visions of another turbulent interview scene, to match the agility talk with Royston Haig. Noisier, if the din, already coming from the excited dogs being led that way, was anything to go by. But needs must, as had been said more than once on this oddest of days. What the hell! Plunge forth. It meant, again, avoiding Mrs Goldey, though. Was that, in its turn, altogether wise? Should he say so to Grant? Probably not. Wiseton was in attendance, all ears, and both Janice and Miss Greatrex had meandered in their direction, sufficiently close to pick up things said. If they did, would any revelations help them? Help them help Anna G? Better to follow the Super’s lead and tackle the two men first. With Wiseton, they had the alumni three together. However much his superior was minded to dismiss an old boys’ cabal operating to some illicit end, he didn’t want them split. While interviewing the two, they would in effect be checking on Brian yet again. The remaining Bannister-free minutes promised to be of much interest.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Saturday, 4.18pm

  The two were standing against the barricade with a good side view of the fly-ball runs. The semis had yet to start. The crowd was beginning slowly to gather, sub-consciously as the Manager would have all believe, awaiting his invitation before making a last dash for the best viewing positions. These were not only at the ringside, where Harriday and X3 were in earnest conversation. There were raked seats round the arena, ‘not as well marshalled as they should have been due to other calls on my staff’ as Trott was ready to tell the world.

  “Discussing the odds,” was Brian’s comment on seeing them as the three neared the ring. “Bet on anything, Kem.” Then, struck by something else, added, “now there’s a thing. I must have been wrong. Must have been.”

  “In what way?”

  “Look! He’s got his trolley.”

  “Sure it’s his?”

  “Oh, sure. Seen it often enough.”

  “There you are,” was Grant’s view. “This morning he must have parked it out of the way of the crush in order to help someone.”

  Brian sniffed. His earlier hesitant ‘Yes’ to this opinion was unchanged.

  “Help himself he might. Someone else? Out of character. Not your helpful type. Nothing if not competitive. Funny about that trolley. Quite distinctive, don’t you think? Always was one for showing off. Couldn’t miss it, could you?”

  “You seem to have done this morning,” said Simon.

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” was the gnomic reply as they drew level with the pair. As with Haig, Brian did the introductions, so far as any were needed. Harriday knew Yale; X3 was not unaware of things going on around him. Grant looked, with practised eyes, at the men. The scruffy-chinned Kem and the expensively dressed – he agreed with Simon’s sartorial assessment – X3. Brian concluded his social task with an explanation for Kem:

  “Like to ask you again about what and who you saw on the way in this morning. Been doing it with the others. As you weren’t in the benches, came to find you.”

  “Here for the fly-ball. Best part of the day,” said Harriday.

  “Hardly for you, Kem”, Wiseton had kept up with the results. “Best dog; best in breed; ticket to ride to Crufts. Not a bad day. Pity they don’t have a Best in Show here. I bet you think your Triggo would carry off the fly-ball honours as well – if his legs were even longer!”

  “Watch it, Brian. Don’t push your luck, or the ghost of my dad will give you more than just a chemistry lesson.”

  “He was fond enough of doing so,” put in X3. “A firm right hand your father had, as a young teacher.”

  “You don’t have to tell me,” said Kem, symbolically rubbing his rump. “He kept his skills up at home. Good old days. We won’t see his like again in the classroom. All namby-pamby now.”

  “Never did us much harm, but didn’t teach me much chemistry either.”

  Grant was interested in the character of X3, a nickname he would use only off duty. Still learning about dog shows, the Super was willing to allow some chat as a way of getting a feel of these two breeders and their proclivities before pressing his questions. The disciplinary reminiscences over, and being clearer on Kem’s role and standing, he began with the American.

  “You’re an old school chum of Brian Wiseton he tells me.”

  “Sure am. Though lived States-side now for longer than I care to remember. Great country. Been there?”

  Grant admitted to a ‘holiday of a lifetime’ when he had been persuaded to take his wife and the kids to Disneyland some years ago when they were much younger and the Florida resort much newer. It had, he often consoled himself, been that sort of holiday for the children. For him, it must also have been. He had not wanted to go there again. As for the Paris branch, he told his offspring it awaited them with his grandchildren. Scarborough, he decided, suited him better. Even in the rain. None of this did he divulge to his new acquaintance.

  “You must excuse me, Mr Charles. Unlike my young colleague here, I know little about dog shows and dog showing. Seems to me an expensive way of walking the dog, coming over here.” He added a little laugh.

  “Gets easier all the time, sir. What with chips and everything. Can fly the dog on its own passport now. Great for the experience. Nothing to beat your Crufts, sir. No indeed. We look to Crufts. Follow it each year. It’s the only time of the calendar when I’m happy to let on that I’m a limey by birth. Get a bit of kudos that way among fellow devotees. Get even more now I’m doing it for real.”

  “Plenty here to agree with that,” conceded Grant. “I find it interesting that you can qualify in the States. You didn’t need to show today then?”

  “Haven’t done so. No sir. Just smooching around, you might say. Getting a feel of the terrain. Re-learning how to speak proper English,” he gave his little laugh. A friendly enough one, Grant noted. “Wanted to get the hang of the local regulations. How you do things. Had the chance thanks to Kem. Become a good friend, despite what his father did to us.”

  “Taught you chemistry you mean?” All three laughed.

  “Something like that,” put in Brian.

  “Look at it this way,” X3 went on. “I was sure glad to have the chance to see how things work in the UK. Briefing myself for Crufts. I Qualified at the Pennsylvania. Brian can tell you.”

  “I have gathered,” Grant waited a moment to allow a mini-rush of two families with five children and seven leaking ice-cream cone
s press past and step up into the rows of seats. “When did Mr Harriday arrange all this? Before you left America?”

  “We’ve been in touch since we met at our old school reunion. In a way it was dogs that brought me over for that, more than the school. Always taken a dog magazine called Dogs Talk. Saw mention of this guy Harriday’s growing success. Seemed a real pro. Like me. Toy Manchesters, also like me. Finally took the courage to write to him, and found out he was indeed my old teacher’s boy. So, one year, when Kem told me of a special reunion and, I saw from the old school mag – I subscribe to that too; you can see what an old softy I am – that Mr Harriday would be there as well, over I came. Never think a teacher can live that long do you. They always seem so old when you’re in their class. He couldn’t have been more than thirty when we left. There you go! That’s life.”

  “From then on dogs kept you and Mr Harriday junior in touch.”

  “Sure thing. It’s easy to chat on line. We had a common approach. As I’ve just said, I’m a pro and Kem’s got the same approach. Entrepreneurial spirit. Something we admire over there. Thanks to him I’ve gotten this chance for me to see things from the inside. Good opportunity. Didn’t want to miss it. You don’t know how strange the paper work is to someone from overseas.”

  “I can guess. You should see ours, and I work here! Things changed much, do you think? In the old country, since you left?”

  “Don’t start him off,” burst in Harriday. “Everything going, so to speak, to the dogs.”

  “Except the dog shows, Kem. Why I’m here.”

  “What are your first impressions of those?” asked Grant.

  “Don’t want to sound ungrateful and all, but fusty, sir, is what I would say to that. Compared to ours. We hold shows in the best hotels, looking for trade over quiet weekends, not in draughty old barns like this.” Mr Trott would have recoiled at such incivility.

  “Staying long afterwards? Visit your old home perhaps?”

  “Haven’t made any plans yet. See what happens after Crufts. And what the weather’s like. Depends a bit on Kem’s plans as well. But yeah. Might well do. Got a car. Licence good for six months. Am I right with that?” Grant nodded. He wasn’t all that certain. Traffic Division had, happily, passed him by. He took it that the Yank would have had all that checked for him by some super-efficient American travel agency when he arranged the trip.

  The increasingly excited yelps of the eager dogs, mainly collies, were rising to a pre-competition crescendo. If Grant had hoped to tease out memories from X3 of that morning’s events; or any further recollection from Harriday concerning the movements of the murdered man, he had left it too late. He tried, hurriedly, to get on to his reason for coming over to them, to no avail. The clock was touching four thirty. Conversation would become impossible. Harriday’s interest was, in any case, taken up with what the Super fancied was a hurriedly compiled and most illegal, he felt sure, little book of bets taken from those nearest to him. Plus, as Brian would have told him, a healthy side bet with Mr Charles. While the event was on nothing else could have been done. The teams of four would race up and down the carpeted stretch, clearing the low hurdles to thump the footboard, catch the released ball as it was bounced up into the air, and race back to release the next dog to go tearing down the prescribed course on his God-given mission. Their barks, plus the voices of supporters, would drown out all else.

  Simon spoke quickly.

  “Where did you hire your car from, Mr Charles?” X3 was surprised at Simon’s question. So was Grant.

  “Uh! Locally. Kem fixed it. Yesterday.”

  “You staying locally as well?”

  “Sure. Yes. The, the, what’s it called again Kem?”

  “The Royal Sovereign,” was the needed confirmation. “I’m putting up there, too. Good place. They allow dogs. Nowhere else I need to rush off to after today’s results. Can sit back for the big one. Have a break. A rest. We’re going for the Best in Show this year. I’m that confident.”

  “Good on you. I’ll watch with interest.” Simon turned again to X3 as Kem discussed the finer details of odds with a neighbour and the dogs, straining to get going, awaited the Ref’s signal. “By the way, you say you read Dogs Talk. Note the articles by Ambrose Graveney at all? You’ll know why I’m interested. What did you think of them?” His question caused reflection. X3 became punctilious in stepping aside for new arrivals as the audience built to its peak.

  “That stiff! Not much, to be fair with you. Of course, much of it was over my head. Didn’t know enough about the characters involved. What was behind it. It was for other things that I subscribed. Good general stuff. Graveney was understandably tied up with matters of concern to his English, or is that British, readers. Didn’t interest me.”

  Simon pressed on.

  “Did none of the things he wrote about stick in your memory? You obviously knew he was Varro. Maybe something about someone you knew? Had heard of? Had met even. Brian’s been telling me how increasingly international dog shows are.”

  “Can’t help you. My market’s at home. Only Crufts will get me away.”

  As time ran out, Simon tried one last chancer.

  “Never read anything about Kem by chance?” This seemed to score. X3 looked stumped. Kem, hearing the question, took the lead.

  “A good guess, Inspector. Or have you done some research?”

  “Not me. But you are well known in this business, you knew the man, and, you say, you didn’t like him. Ambrose wrote some sharp-penned pieces, we’ve learned today. Just wondered if you’d ever been the subject of one of them.”

  “Won’t deny it? His pen name didn’t fool anybody. As I told X3, he had a go at me once. Couldn’t stand people better, more successful, than himself. Wouldn’t expect X3 to pick it up on his own. Nor many others. Silly, cheap little thing. Some time ago. Water under the bridge.”

  There the conversation had to end. Perforce. No more chance of any questioning. The rising excitement of the dogs, those in the teams matched by the frustrated yelps of the reserves, was if anything outdone by the cries and explosions of the crowd, tight-pressed around the ring and filling every seat. A personal broadcast from Mr Trott could not have been heard above the rising cacophony of sounds. The policemen turned with a drowned-out thanks to the two for their co-operation, and moved a short distance away. The gaps they left were at once filled by latecomers, exulting in their unexpected vantage point. ‘Always said no need to rush’ was the overheard smug comment that hung in their ears as they left the ringside.

  “Not our motto,” was Grant’s view. Simon agreed. B-hour was fast approaching.

  “I fear, sir, we rather lost our chance there. Have to have another go at them.”

  “You’re right, of course. Will have to. Between the semis and the final I fancy. If the noise dies down then. Better still, the end of the afternoon. They’ll have to book out at the site office like all the others. I’ll make sure they’re told to wait for us there. Time enough to do that. Can’t see them wanting to rush off. If they’re running a book on this one they’ll be keener still on the final. Staying nearby as well. Meanwhile, about time I had a crack at Mrs Goldey. Better if I do it alone. She’s a bit tied in to you. That is not,” he emphasised, “any sort of criticism. Without her notes we’d have precious little to work on.”

  “Fine. Understood, sir. I’ve had an little idea of my own I’d like a few minutes to follow up. Also, after the semis are over,” he stressed that, “do you think it would be proper for Brian to do one more thing for us? Make doubly sure Pugh and Stimson got the message about leaving their contact details? Don’t think we’re going to have time to talk to them this afternoon.”

  “Good point, Simon.” Grant squeezed back near enough to 887 to ask him to check that the missed-out two had read the instruction leaflet. “After the semis,” he, too, stressed. Brian was happy to oblige. After the semis.

  “Where shall we meet up, sir?”

  “At the Dogs f
rom the Shows, Simon. Give me a clear ten minutes at the least. Then come along. If there’s nothing doing with your secretary bird, I wouldn’t mind a look round her collection of dogs. Shouldn’t be many there. Everyone’s down here and not likely to give up their places for the final. So, see you there.”

  “Right, sir.”

  Grant left for the doggie screen reps; Simon went back to the competitors’ entrance. He didn’t need to show his warrant to the guardians. It had been a long day. One of them had been on the very first of Trott’s shifts that morning. That long ago! Yale went out of the door and looked again at the approach. A gentle slope up from the service road, as he had noticed walking out with Janice. People, pulling heavy and not altogether stable wagons behind them, would have tended to slow, pressure of numbers or not. He tried, once more, to visualise the scene. The conclusion was as before. Simple to push a small needle into someone’s neck unobserved, in that bodies were so close together. By that same token, though, difficult for the killer to ensure he either arrived at the same time as the intended victim or was able to get near enough before he went in through the door. Could there have been some arrangement? Hard to confirm from reports so far, but what if Graveney had organised, allowed, a last word with someone before entering? A sort of, oh, he didn’t know, like giving that person one last chance to change his mind, to abort his plan? To put Ambrose’s concerns to rest. Something otherwise that, once inside he, Graveney, would expose? Theories! Theories!

  Yale walked along the roadside and crossed it into the car park. He went to the little shed that proudly announced itself as the ‘administration office’. Its window was where all cars leaving had to hand in their parking tickets for verification or, in the case of non-competitors, pay. He had a cheery chat with the two chaps inside. They found the Inspector a break from what was an unexpected quiet spell as the main departure was delayed. Yale had no hope of them knowing anything about the activities of people arriving early that morning. They had not been on shift then, as they explained. What he did want to know was the detail of how cars were allowed in, and allowed to leave. Satisfied that no one could move un-noticed in either direction, he thanked them, and took a walk around the rows of vehicles, neatly lined up to make best use of the space. The morning shift, he was told, immobilised the out gate and acted as parking attendants. ‘Can’t trust those buggers to park sensible’, was the observation that summed up the staff’s view of their clients.