Dover stirred restlessly. ’Strewth, some people didn’t half like the sound of their own lah-di-dah voices! ‘I thought you were supposed to have found something new?’
‘I’d like first of all,’ said Dr Hone-Hitchcock icily, ‘to clear up the matter of the burns round the head and face.’
‘Oh, big bloody deal!’ muttered Dover, not quite as sotto voce as common politeness would have required.
Dr Hone-Hitchcock’s nostrils flared. He was already promising himself he’d put a formal complaint in about this ill-mannered lout. Dr Hone-Hitchcock was a man of some eminence and his channels of communication went right up to the top. He’d cook this boor’s goose for him, by God he would!
‘ The burns were caused by petrol. Lighter fuel, probably. A bottleful was poured over the head after death and then set alight. The burns were superficial but they did singe and blacken the skin, and most of the hair on the head and face was burnt off.’
There was a pause.
‘Is that it?’ asked Dover with a disparaging sniff.
Dr Hone-Hitchcock clenched his jaw. ‘I did find this,’ he said, in the stomach.’
With a flourish which, even in these unpropitious circumstances, couldn’t help being a trifle theatrical, Dr Hone-Hitchcock placed a little blue object, the size of a smallish lump of sugar, on the table in front of Dover.
Dover poked at it despondently. ‘What the hell is it?’
‘I don’t know.’
McGregor got down on his hands and knees to retrieve the little blue cube from the floor of the caravan. At least Dover’s clumsiness ensured that the brains of the partnership managed to get a good look at the clue.
‘I don’t think it’s a bead,’ said MacGregor, pretending not to see that Dover wanted it back again. ‘There’s no hole for a string to go through.’
Dr Hone-Hitchcock turned gratefully to what appeared to be, if only in comparision with some, a veritable paragon of a policeman. ‘There is that small protuberance on the one side,’ he pointed out, ‘and the small socket on the other. It looks to me as though, if we had two of them, we could sort of clip one into the other.’
It was Inspector Telford’s turn to muscle in on the act. ‘Poppets!’ he announced triumphantly, taking the little blue artefact out of MacGregor’s hand. ‘Do you remember them?’ They used to be all the rage. They were necklaces of beads that weren’t strung together on a string but were slipped into each other. Woolworth’s used to sell them. I remember my daughter had one. The thing was, you see, that you could fasten and unfasten them anywhere so you could make them into bracelets or have them any length you wanted.’
MacGregor took the bead back again. Trust the uniformed branch to start trying to play the detective!
‘Mind you,’ said Inspector Telford lamely, ‘the things I’m thinking of didn’t really look much like this. They were more sort of pearly and not as big.’
MacGregor took the bead over to the window. ‘There are some letters stamped on it,’ he said. ‘Has anybody got a magnifying glass?’
It was several minutes before one of the policewomen found the Murder Bag which MacGregor had brought down from the Yard. It did contain a magnifying glass which was rather surprising as Dover had tipped most of the equipment out years ago to make room for his pyjamas and a spare pair of socks.
MacGregor squinted importantly through the lens. ‘Yes,’ he announced, ‘three capital letters – R, H, and R – and the numbers two and five. Twenty-five, perhaps.’ He looked round at his audience. ‘What do you make of that?’
The policewoman who’d brought the Murder Bag provided the answer. ‘It’s Funny Money,’ she said nonchalantly.
‘What?’
‘Funny Money?’
‘What are you talking about, girl?’
‘Who the hell asked her to go sticking her bloody nose in?’
In due course things calmed down sufficiently for the policewoman to explain, though she couldn’t for the life of her see why it was necessary. Hadn’t any of these clever dicks ever been to a holiday camp?
‘A holiday camp?’ repeated MacGregor incredulously. ‘What in heaven’s name has this thing got to do with a holiday camp?’
Inspector Telford had no desire to go through all that screaming scene again. ‘I’m sure WPC Kubersky will be only too willing to tell us, sergeant,’ he said snubbingly, ‘given half a chance.’
WPC Kubersky was. ‘It’s just that, when you go to one of these holiday camps, you know, they make you use these beads things instead of money. Like when you want to buy things or pay for extras. Or have a drink.’
MacGregor’s scowl wouldn’t have looked out of place on Dover’s mug. ‘But, why?’
WPC Kubersky’s opinion of Scotland Yard was taking a dive. ‘When they say “all-in”,’ she pointed out patiently, ‘they don’t mean “all-in”, do they? You can’t pay for everything in advance.’
‘No,’ agreed MacGregor, ‘but . . .’
‘There are bound to be extras, you know. Well, it stands to reason, doesn’t it? Like incidentals.’
MacGregor reminded himself that the dratted girl was probably doing her best. He held up an authoritative hand so that he could get a word in. ‘But why not use real money?’
Such naivety had WPC Kubersky reeling. Holy-Mary-Mother-of-God, they’d be asking her how many beans made five next! ‘There must be dozens of reasons. It stops the staff getting their hands on hard cash you know, and then you can, like, disguise the real price of things. Like saying a bag of crisps costs five beads instead of forty-seven pence or whatever. And, if you want to put all your prices up, you don’t have to, you know, go round changing all the tickets. Like you simply have to alter the rate of exchange. And then,’ – WPC
