Let Sleeping Dogs Die (The Simon Bognor Mysteries) Read online

  As usual, Bognor’s predictions regarding Parkinson were sadly accurate. His boss listened in silence to his tale of frustration and woe, then commented, ‘So all you have to show for your jaunt is a packet of chewing gum and a meaningless message?’

  ‘I saw Pocklington.’

  ‘But we all knew Pocklington was going to be there. He had a perfectly good reason for being there. It’s scarcely surprising that you saw him.’

  ‘He must have told Larssen.’

  ‘Speculation.’

  ‘The dog was there.’

  ‘Conjecture.’

  ‘Winterfeld’s an expert. He saw the animal.’

  ‘So you say. I’m not impressed. In fact if I were to be frank I’m appalled, aghast, amazed, apoplectic with anger.’

  All this he said with the icy self-control which Bognor knew he adopted only when he was very very cross indeed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Bognor, defeated, ‘I really did think I was getting somewhere.’

  ‘But, alas, you were mistaken,’ said Parkinson, still frigid. ‘You have gone round in the proverbial circle. As usual you’ve accumulated a wealth of tittle-tattle and gossip and innuendo and scarcely a single fact. Can you imagine the sort of case we would present in court? We’d be a laughing stock.’

  Bognor was silent. He realized, forlornly, that there was nothing to say. He had failed again.

  ‘As I see it,’ said Parkinson, who appeared to realize that further fury was superfluous, ‘there is one goal you have achieved.’

  Bognor brightened momentarily, then remembered just in time that Parkinson’s faint compliments always preceded some crushingly climactic insult.

  ‘Your friend Winterfeld,’ he continued, ‘suggested that our smugglers were becoming over-confident. He’s quite possibly correct. I am prepared to concede that your present of chewing gum could be in some oblique way related to the matter in hand. And if they have been provoked into sending such childish messages then they can only have been provoked into it by your staggering display of stupefying incompetence.’

  Bognor, staring at Her Majesty the Queen on the wall behind him, blinked hard and focused on the regal tiara. He was hurt by Parkinson’s remarks but he knew better than to show it. He said nothing.

  ‘You had better,’ Parkinson went on, ‘return to your beginnings, since that is where your eccentric travels have deposited you in any case. I suggest you go back to the Kennel Club and to Mr Watherspoon and to the Duchess of Dorset and to Mrs Potts and to all the other improbable characters upon whom you have stumbled. Perhaps then you may find something worthy of the name of evidence. But please, no more gallivanting. Just try to employ some self-discipline.’

  For days Bognor made lists and programmes, tearing them up as soon as he had compiled them. He met Watherspoon for a cup of coffee and the man commiserated but could offer no further help. He discussed it all with Monica but she was more interested in the gallery. He purchased dog dictionaries and dog encyclopaedias and dog magazines and newspapers and scoured their pages in a vain search for evidence. He contemplated re-interviewing the Duchess and Handyside and Coriander Cordingley and Pocklington but could think of no way in which he could extract the information he required.

  The inquest on Rose, Ailsa Potts’ kennelmaid, was adjourned but the police persisted in their view that her killing was the work of a Surblington Strangler, and were abetted in this view by the press who printed lurid stories about the ‘wild beast who still roams the leafy lanes’.

  It was confirmed that there was an outbreak of rabies at the Duchess’s, but comment was largely flippant and it was generally assumed that the disease had been caused by some mysterious freak of circumstances which was better left uninvestigated. Parkinson began by asking Bognor about his progress but soon desisted, and eventually even Bognor became listless and apathetic. He began to believe that the assignment would be allowed to drag on indefinitely, never requiring a solution but, supposedly, keeping him occupied and out of harm’s way. In his most extreme moments of introspective gloom he even wondered if the entire episode had not been dreamt up by another department of the Board of Trade solely for his benefit. As the days dragged by this last idea became more deeply lodged in his mind and he found that he spent hours on end sitting at his desk surrounded by a protective screen of canine publications while actually engaged in an uphill struggle with The Times crossword.

  Then, a week after his unhappy return from Denmark, he had a second break, and this time it seemed certain to be a winner. He had just decided that ‘13 down—College building mortgaged to pay Paul (10)’ must be Peterhouse, when his phone went and the main door announced that a Mr Ramble was there to see him.

  8

  ALBERT RAMBLE WAS AGITATED. His strong unflappable face was mobile with anxiety and his tie was awry. When he shook hands with Bognor his grasp seemed almost peremptory and his greeting was disjointed.

  ‘I came at once,’ he said. ‘Felt you would know what to do.’

  ‘Let’s find somewhere to talk,’ said Bognor. ‘It’s not very discreet here. Nor exactly comfortable.’

  It was 12.30, and for a moment he thought of suggesting the Italian café, but thought better of it. He hadn’t been back since Rose was killed and he doubted whether he would. A return meal would somehow be lacking in respect. In the case of Mr Ramble he decided a pub would be more appropriate. He suggested the Perch and Parrot and Mr Ramble agreed. His trousers were specked with dog hairs and his own locks were uncharacteristically dishevelled. As they were about to leave the building Parkinson passed them, walking purposefully. He glanced at the two men, raised his eyebrows, seemed on the point of speech, but instead strode on.

  In the pub Mr Ramble asked diffidently if he could have a Scotch, which again, Bognor guessed, was uncharacteristic. They sat down in a corner as quiet as they could find. It was still noisy and convivial but their fellow drinkers were engrossed in their small talk and their secretaries. It was as safe a place as any.

  ‘This came in the first post,’ said Mr Ramble, taking the whisky like medicine. He pulled a piece of pale blue paper, folded in two, from his inside breast pocket. To Bognor it was instantly familiar.

  ‘Basildon Bond, I see,’ he said, knowledgeably.

  Mr Ramble glanced at him with amused surprise. ‘As a matter of fact, yes,’ he said. ‘I use it myself sometimes. It’s not exactly rare, is it?’

  ‘I suppose not.’ Bognor felt deflated again. For a moment he’d been almost pleased. Mr Ramble handed him the paper. There were several sentences on it, picked out in letters torn from newspapers. The style was the same as in Mr Handyside’s ransom note, though Bognor had the sinking feeling that he couldn’t prove it even if the ransom note still existed. And he was nearly certain that by now the letter would have been destroyed. The lettering was expertly laid out. ‘We, a highly exclusive agency, are prepared to arrange showing of your Perfect Prettyboy in important foreign shows waiving all quarantine restrictions. Complete confidence guaranteed. Foreign stud fees virtually certain if required. Fees negotiable on percentage of commission basis. Reply to …’ There followed an address in Tottenham. Bognor read it and re-read it.

  ‘Who’s Perfect Prettyboy?’ he asked.

  ‘Toy poodle,’ said Mr Ramble. ‘I’ve been keeping very quiet about him so far but he’s the best I’ve ever done. No question. Actually it’s a bit of a fluke but he’s near perfect. Only seven inches high but strong with it. Marvellous temperament, well muscled loins, plenty of spring, carries himself beautifully. But he’s still young and I want to bring him on slow. Heaven knows how this lot found out about him. As I say I’ve been keeping quiet about the little boy. He’d have been one in the eye for Ailsa Potts, though she does concentrate on standards. I tell you,’ he finished his drink, ‘unless we’re lumbered with biased judges like Pocklington he’ll win everything.’

  ‘My impression,’ said Bognor, ‘is that if you go along with this you’ll have a biased
judge exactly like Pocklington, with the considerable advantage that he’ll be on your side.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Mr Ramble sighed. ‘So what do you suggest I do?’ he asked.

  ‘You must play along with them,’ said Bognor eagerly. ‘Answer the letter, telling them you’d love to let them show Perfect Prettyboy abroad. When they reply you do what they ask, exactly as if you were really falling in with their scheme. Keep me informed of every development and leave the rest to me.’

  Mr Ramble pursed his lips and looked doubtful.

  ‘Can’t you trace the letter? Have it analysed or something? And the address. Surely if you go there and confront them you’ve done it all.’

  Bognor smiled, rather as Parkinson might when confronted by his own innocence. ‘I’ll have it analysed, of course,’ he said, ‘but I can’t hold out much hope. Basildon Bond is very common, as you yourself point out. The letters are cut from newspapers and are therefore untraceable. There might be fingerprints, but I’ll wager there aren’t, and I’ll be very surprised if we’re dealing with people who have criminal records.’

  ‘The address then?’ Mr Ramble was very obviously reluctant to agree with Bognor.

  ‘You may be right,’ said Bognor, ‘but it’s almost bound to be an accommodation address. A staging post. I’ll investigate it but I don’t hold out much hope. Easily our best chance of success is to follow this through and catch the smugglers in flagrante.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Aha,’ said Bognor, beginning, for the first time in ages, to feel confidence returning. ‘I shall follow your dog until it is on the point of being illegally removed from the country and at that precise moment I shall, as it were, blow the whistle.’

  Mr Ramble was still more doubtful. Bognor went to the bar for more drinks and came back with them and ham sandwiches besides.

  ‘One aspect worries me,’ he said, eyebrows beetling with concern. ‘Would you be able to identify your dog?’

  ‘I’d recognize him. Straight away. No problem.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I asked,’ said Bognor, almost brusque with buoyancy. ‘It’s no good recognizing him. You have to prove that you recognize him. Even with Raffles, for instance, there was no way of proving incontrovertibly that the dog was Raffles, or not, as the case may be.’

  ‘Name disc,’ said Ramble, speculatively.

  ‘Hardly. Easily removed. What about tattooing?’

  ‘Possible,’ he said. ‘Don’t like it though. You can damage a dog tattooing it. Hepatitis if there’s anything wrong with the needles. Besides, if you use a vibrator they can’t stand the noise. Not if they’re more than ten weeks old.’

  ‘Must you use a vibrator?’

  ‘Could use a clamp. Don’t like it though.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I just don’t hold with it.’

  ‘It seems to me that it’s essential,’ said Bognor. ‘You have to be able to say with absolute certainty that will stand up in a court of law that the dog is yours.’

  Mr Ramble peeled some bread off a ham sandwich, peered at it disparagingly, replaced it and put the sandwich in his mouth.

  ‘I still don’t like it,’ he said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Suppose something goes wrong?’

  ‘Nothing can go wrong. It’s out of the question. Now you must write back at once. Send a postcard. Just say, um, “Accept kind offer. Please advise terms, arrangements, etc.” Then sit back and await developments.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Mr Ramble sat hunched over his sandwiches and alcohol, exuding disappointment. He had obviously hoped for a speedy solution but now found himself inextricably embroiled. Bognor took pity on him.

  ‘I promise I’ll have the letter analysed and the address checked before I ask you to do more. If I’m correct will you promise to help along the lines I’ve suggested?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ He was almost surly now. Bognor was surprised.

  ‘Come, Mr Ramble,’ he said. ‘Think of your obligations to dogdom. You owe it to your friends and colleagues. They’ll be eternally in your debt.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ he said. ‘If you ask me they’re all in it except me. All bent. If I help put the dog smugglers behind bars I’ll be ostracized.’

  ‘In the doghouse, in fact,’ said Bognor, and wished he hadn’t. ‘Seriously though. Think of Mrs Protheroe. There must be others like her.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ he said, standing up, ‘but I’ll do what I can all the same. I’ve let myself in for it and I’ll see it through if it’s the last thing I do.’

  ‘I’m sure it won’t be,’ said Bognor. ‘I’ll keep your letter if I may. For analysis. Don’t do anything until I call you.’

  As soon as he got back to the office he sent the letter to the laboratory. It was received with superciliousness, but it was at least received. He had feared that after his last offering, the cake tin of bonfire ashes, he would be turned away. Then, true to his word, he took the tube to Tottenham.

  The address was almost precisely what he had expected—a dingy corner newsagent’s with cards outside advertising ‘French lessons’, ‘Strict schoolmistresses’ and second-hand mopeds and perambulators. Outside on the dusty pavement half a dozen children played football and an old man in a tweed overcoat that had once, many years ago, been almost respectable, leaned against a hoarding and stared unseeing at the slow moving traffic.

  Bognor pushed the door open and it swung back with a clang from the bell. An elderly woman wearing a headscarf looked up from the nudie magazine, open at the gatefold, which she was perusing. More soft porn lay round her on the counter in among Practical Rollerskating, Homes and Gardens and Woman’s Realm.

  ‘Afternoon,’ he said, feeling that civility might yield results. The woman looked at him expressionlessly, a smouldering cigarette hanging limply from the corner of her mouth. Civility, he realized, pained, was going to have no effect.

  ‘Box 301,’ he said. ‘Could you give me the name and address of the user?’

  ‘What?’ said the shopkeeper, removing the cigarette grudgingly.

  ‘Name and address of the owner of Box 301.’

  ‘It’s confidential.’

  ‘I’m official.’ He produced his card and flashed it under her resentful eyes. It might have been a Diner’s Club card for all the effect it produced.

  ‘You can piss off,’ she said, replacing the cigarette.

  ‘I most certainly will not piss off,’ he said. ‘You tell me who has that box number or I’ll get the police round.’ He was damned if he was going to be sworn at by some porn-peddling grandmother in North London.

  ‘You piss off and get the bleeding police,’ she said. ‘See if I care.’

  Normally he wouldn’t have bothered, but today he was feeling uncharacteristically aggressive. He slammed the door, almost fell over one of the tiny footballers and hurried off in search of the nearest police station. It was close by in the main street and the occupants were perfectly civil. The duty officer identified the newsagents, said it was probably Mavis, and deputed a young constable to go back with him. He couldn’t tell whether such service was the result of his Board of Trade Identity Card, or the fact that they were having a slack afternoon.

  Mavis was still sullen when they returned. She and the constable were evidently acquainted.

  ‘You’ll have to tell the gentleman,’ said the policeman. He was bored, matter-of-fact, but he sounded and looked authoritative.

  ‘Can’t tell what I don’t know,’ grumbled the old girl.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Bognor.

  ‘Never the same bloke,’ she said. ‘Don’t know their names. Never know when they’re coming. They take all the three hundreds.’

  Bognor raised his eyebrows and the constable nodded. ‘That’s usual, sir,’ he said. ‘Whoever your man is, he won’t pick up himself. He’ll use a delivery service. Makes it just that bit more foolproof.’

  ‘Does he—do they—come in at a regular time?’
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br />   ‘No. Could be any time, any day. After hours sometimes. No telling when they’ll be in.’

  Both she and the policeman obviously reckoned they’d done enough. Bognor sighed. There was not much point in pursuing it. He could wait for the collector and follow him round, but he had better ideas. His only reason for coming to Tottenham was his sense of obligation to Albert Ramble. Like the others he’d probably done enough. He thanked them and returned to the station.

  On his desk when he returned was a buff envelope with the elaborate insignia Whitehall gave to anything urgent and confidential. It was Albert Ramble’s letter together with the analyst’s report. ‘Basildon Bond writing paper,’ it said. ‘Letters cut from Times and Daily Mail. No prints.’ He smiled. It wasn’t proof but it suggested probability. After all it was unlikely that there were two independent groups operating in the dog world and sending out curious anonymous letters cut from The Times and the Mail and pasted on Basildon Bond.