‘It looked a pretty rickety old thing to me,’ observed Dover thoughtfully, ‘I don’t think you’d be able to shove it far without it dropping to bits. And, of course, you’d have to keep on level ground, you couldn’t push it across a ploughed field or anything. Oh, there’s another thing you’d better check – those bloody main gates! See if the bath chair can be got through that little door in the middle. If it can’t. . . ’
‘I’ll get on to it first thing in the morning, sir,’ MacGregor promised excitedly.
‘Hey! Don’t count too much on it!’ warned Dover. ‘If it was Bondy who oiled those wheels, it probably doesn’t mean anything. Don’t let’s build too many castles on thin air!’
‘No, sir!’ The sergeant’s enthusiasm was undamped. ‘Would you like another pint, sir, before we turn in?’
Dover looked at his empty tankard. ‘Might as well,’ he accepted ungraciously’
‘I think my stomach’s got used to this rot-gut now.’
It had, and Dover slept with the peace which is supposed only to come to innocent little children. Considering he’d already had a good five hours’ nap in the afternoon it was amazing that he could close his eyes at all.
However, he came down to breakfast in a benign and smiling mood. He’d had enough sleep, even for him, and there was every likelihood that he’d spend the next night at home in his own bed. Sergeant MacGregor was already hotfoot on the trail of the squeaking bath chair and Dover munched his way through a pretty substantial meal, at peace with the world. As soon as MacGregor got back they would get straight off to Creedon and, with a bit of luck, they should be back in London by early evening.
Then the phone rang. It was Sergeant MacGregor. He wanted to speak to Chief Inspector Dover, urgently.
‘I think you’d better come up here straight away, sir,’ came MacGregor’s voice. ‘I’m at Sir John’s. Something’s happened.’
‘What?’ demanded Dover, his good humour rapidly ebbing away.
‘I don’t think we’d better discuss it on the phone, sir, the local exchange is bound to be listening in.’
‘Well, of all the blooming cheek!’ crackled an outraged female voice, and there was a loud click.
‘Oh, all right!’ snapped Dover. ‘I’ll be with you in ten minutes and God help you if you’ve dragged me up there on a wild goose chase!’
He slammed the phone down and then realized that MacGregor had the police car up at Irlam Old Hall. With a snort of fury he charged out to unearth the village taxi-driver.
He found MacGregor waiting for him in Sir John Counter’s bedroom. The old man, wearing, of all things, black silk pyjamas, was sitting up in bed, his eyes sparkling with excitement.
‘Here,’ he said before MacGregor had the chance to open his mouth, ‘read this!’
Dover took the letter which Sir John handed over. ‘When did this come?’ he asked, morosely eyeing the envelope.
‘This morning’s post,’ said Sir John, ‘and be careful how you handle it. Finger-prints!’
Dover scowled at him.
The envelope, a long narrow one, was addressed to Sir John, care of his bank in London. It had been redirected to him at Irlam Old Hall. His name and the London address were neatly printed in pencil in rather large letters, but the redirection was written in a normal hand in ink – obviously the work of some bank clerk. There were two postmarks. One showed that the letter had been originally posted shortly after midday in the West End of London on the previous Saturday, and the second bore a City stamp showing the time of 5.15 p.m. and dated the day before, Monday. It was pretty obvious, even to Dover, what had happened. Someone had posted the letter to Sir John’s bank on the Saturday. The letter would arrive on the Monday morning and had been duly readdressed to Irlam Old Hall and posted late on Monday afternoon. Sir John received it on Tuesday morning.
Dover sighed and, mindful of Sir John’s watchful eye, carefully extracted the letter with his handkerchief. Fearing the worst, he unfolded the large sheet of paper and read the contents. There was no address or date. The message, like the envelope, was neatly printed in large pencilled letters. It began, with scant regard for Dover’s feelings:
We have kidnapped Juliet Rugg, and the ransom is five hundred pounds. She is alive and well but you know what will happen if you don’t pay up.
Place five hundred used non-consecutive one-pound notes in an empty tin of Vim or other cleaning powder and place it in the middle lavatory in the ladies’ convenience in the Market Square, Creedon. The money must be there by ten o’clock on Wednesday morning next. Place an old dish-cloth on top of the Vim tin.
Don’t try any tricks and don’t tell the police.
Enclosed please find a signed photograph of Cliff Richard which Juliet always carried in her handbag. You will also find her finger-print in the circle at the bottom of this letter. This is proof that we’ve got her.
PAY UP OR ELSE.
Not unnaturally, there was no signature’
At the bottom of the letter was a pencilled circle, about the size of a penny. In it was a rather amateurish-looking dab.
‘’Strewth!’ said Dover in disgust. He turned to MacGregor. ‘Get this photographed and run all the usual checks on it. Where’s this picture of Cliff Richard? Oh, it’s in the envelope. Is this hers, Sir John?’
‘Oh yes, she was very proud of it.’ Sir John was thoroughly enjoying the whole thing. ‘She always carried it in her handbag. You can see, it’s got her name on the back.’
Dover turned the photograph over and sighed. ‘I take it, Sir John, that you’ve no intention of paying the ransom?’
‘Not bloody likely!’ The old man chuckled. ‘Five hundred pounds for Juliet? Oh no, I think not! No, my dear Inspector, it’s up to you and your merry men now. Tricky job, too, if the threats are genuine,
