‘Not at all, Inspector. I miss Juliet-for obvious reasons-and I’m only too pleased to do anything I can to help get her back. Sure you won’t have a toffee before you go? They’re very good. I have them specially sent down from London.’
‘No thank you, sir,’ said Dover, and rose reluctantly to his feet. ‘Oh, there is one thing, sir. You don’t by any chance happen to have a photograph of Miss Rugg?’
Sir John had the grace to be, just a little, put off his stride. ‘Well, as a matter of fact, I – er – have, Inspector. Constable!’ He waved a hand at MacGregor. ‘Could you go into that top left-hand drawer over there – yes, that’s the one — you’ll find a cardboard box. Just bring it over here, please !’
Sir John opened the box and took out about six or seven halfplate photographs. He looked at them for a moment with pursed lips, and then handed them to Dover.
‘I don’t know if these will be much use to you, Inspector, but perhaps you’ve got an artist or somebody who could – er – paint the clothes in . . . ’
Dover looked at the photographs with a carefully blank face. They were all of Juliet Rugg, taken in the nude in the sort of poses which generally land the photographer up in court.
‘Hm,’ he said, raising his eyebrows slightly, ‘unfortunately, the faces are a little blurred.’
‘Well, you may be right.’ Sir John, who had taken the photographs himself, sounded a little offended at this lack of appreciation. ‘But, I can assure you, otherwise they are an excellent likeness.’
‘I shall have to take your word for that, Sir John,’ said Dover, tucking them away in his wallet.
Eve Counter, summoned by an imperious ring from her father, came to conduct them up to Juliet’s bedroom. They followed her up the wide staircase to the first floor.
‘We gave Juliet one of the main bedrooms,’ she explained, ‘nobody ever stays here and my father didn’t want her too far away.’
Juliet’s room was spacious and well furnished, with her own private bathroom leading off. Like her mother, she was clearly extremely untidy and slovenly in her habits. Bits and pieces of clothing were littered round the room, the bed had been straightened rather than made, and the bedside table bore a number of disfiguring cigarette bums. The top of the dressing-table was covered with sticky-looking bottles and jars of cream, most of them with the lids left off. There were a couple of dirty broken combs, several lipsticks, a large box of face powder, bits of soiled cotton wool, orange sticks and a pile of plastic hair-curlers. The whole sordid mess was covered with a fine film of pink powder and more lay scattered around on the carpet.
Dover eyed a row of nail-varnish bottles ranging through all possible shades of red with a shudder of disgust.
‘Just have a search round, Sergeant,’ he said, determined not to grub about in this lot with his own hands. ‘See if you can find anything.’
‘Very good, sir,’ replied MacGregor, for once not displaying his usual enthusiasm.
The inspector sat gingerly on the edge of the bed and waited. Eve Counter started to fiddle restlessly with the shade on the bedside lamp.
‘Inspector,’ she began abruptly.
‘Yes, madam,’ said Dover resignedly. It had been too much to expect that he would be allowed to enjoy a few minutes’ peace and quiet.
‘I suppose my father told you that Juliet was his mistress? Well, it’s not true! He’s just boasting, like a little boy. He tells everybody the same thing – and it’s just too stupid for words! He’s just not capable of that sort of thing any longer.’ Her face was bright scarlet.
Dover sighed. What the hell did it matter anyhow?
‘I know what I’m talking about, Inspector,’ Miss Counter went doggedly on, determined to make her point. ‘His doctor told me. He’s just too old.’
Dover shrugged his shoulders, ‘He was apparently toying with the idea of getting married again,’ he observed, and watched Eve Counter’s face.
She turned away and gave the lamp-shade a few more pokes. ‘That’s quite ridiculous,’ she said in a strangled voice, ‘he’s eighty-five and Juliet’s eighteen. What on earth would everybody say?’
‘It’s been done before, madam.’
‘I know, but not by men like my father.’ She turned with a jerk to face Dover, her chin up. ‘My father, Inspector, has had plenty of opportunities to re-marry, but he’s remained faithful all these years to the memory of my mother. She died after they’d been married only a year and I don’t think my father has ever got over it He doesn’t love me very much -1 suppose you’ve noticed that – but that’s because my mother died when I was born and it’s quite natural, in a way, that he should blame me for it.’
It was a gallant effort, but it didn’t convince Dover. Eve Counter didn’t look as though it had convinced her either.
Sergeant MacGregor emerged from the bathroom, fastidiously wiping his hands on his handkerchief.
‘Find anything?’
‘Only this, sir.’ MacGregor reopened a drawer in the dressing-table. Under a pile of voluminous underwear lay an envelope containing fifty-four one-pound notes. ‘She’d have hardly left this lot behind, would she, sir?’
To say that Dover was annoyed would be an unfair understatement. Scowling heavily, he stamped out of the house with the fury of an enraged bull elephant. He flung himself petulantly into the car and the springs sagged with the shock. Sergeant MacGregor followed him apprehensively. The two men sat in silence, gazing vacantly through the windscreen.
After a few minutes Dover broke the impasse.
‘What time is it?’ he growled.
‘Getting on for half-past five, sir.’
Dover’s habit of always asking somebody else what the time was and never bothering to look at his own watch was one of those irritating little things which before now have led to violent physical assault, and even murder.
Dover grunted sulkily. ‘Let’s have a cigarette,’ he said.
Sergeant MacGregor took
