‘Why not?’ asked Dover in surprise. ‘He’s a murderer, isn’t he? You can’t be too squeamish in this job, MacGregor’ You’ve got to use your fists as well as your brains, you know! As long,’ he added piously, ‘as you’re careful not to leave any marks.’
Chapter Fourteen
UNFORTUNATELY, the worst nearly came to the worst. Chief Inspector Dover retired to the local police headquarters in Creedon to wait while Sergeant MacGregor got on with the work. His unexpected arrival struck fear and horror into the hearts of the entire staff, not excluding the Chief Constable himself, who paled at the thought that the episode of the ladies’ convenience in the Market Square might be re-created in some even more devastating form.
Dover’s brooding, scowling face did little to restore morale. For want of somewhere better to go he descended on the local C.I.D. inspector and caught that unfortunate man, once again, in the process of filling in his football pools.
Dover sniffed. ‘Glad to see you can spare the time,’ he commented nastily, and installing himself in the leather armchair, the only comfortable one in the room, he propped his feet up on the radiator, tipped his bowler hat over his eyes and promptly fell asleep.
The local inspector gazed miserably at him and then, with a guilty movement, slipped his football pools out of sight under the blotter. He took one of the official files out of his in-tray and, after another sidelong glance at the sleeping Dover, he began, rather hopelessly, to read it.
An hour later the Chief Constable popped his head round the door. Dover was still well away and snoring valiantly through his open mouth. Mr Bartlett tiptoed into the room.
‘What’s he doing here?’ he whispered.
The local inspector shrugged his shoulders.
The Chief Constable leaned closer. ‘Damned funny way to conduct a murder case, if you ask me,’ he breathed. ‘I thought they were supposed to have got a lead somewhere. Has he said anything to you?’
The inspector silently shook his head. Both men stared at Dover.
‘Oh well, none of our business, I suppose,’ said the Chief Constable, his words barely audible. ‘What I really came in for was to ask you about Tottenham. How about them for a draw this week?’
The local inspector shook his head again – it was a respectful reproof.
‘Oh?’ said Mr Bartlett, and with a sigh tiptoed out of the room, closing the door noiselessly behind him.
When five o’clock came the local inspector began to get worried. It was his time for knocking off but he didn’t like leaving Dover fast asleep in his chair without so much as a word. He didn’t fancy waking him up to wish him good night, either. Fortunately the arrival of Sergeant MacGregor delivered him from his dilemma.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ the sergeant began courteously, ‘have you seen . . . Oh, there he is.’
Dover choked on a final snore, coughed unpleasantly and woke up.
‘And about time, too!’ he snarled at his sergeant. ‘What did you do? Walk to London and back again?’
He caught sight of the local inspector, who was hovering uncertainly by his desk.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Dover demanded.
The inspector jumped. ‘Oh, nothing, nothing at all, sir!’ he gabbled, grabbing his hat and coat. ‘I was just going!’
‘Good!’ snapped Dover. ‘Don’t forget your football pools !’
The local inspector made a confused exit.
Dover rose unwillingly from his easy-chair and went to sit behind the desk. ‘Well,’ he remarked in passing, with a contemptuous nod at the door through which the inspector had gone, ‘looks as though there’s hope for you yet, doesn’t it, Sergeant?’
Sergeant MacGregor smiled, faintly.
‘Well, we’ve had a bit of joy from London, sir,’ he announced, ‘but not enough to solve all our difficulties. Luckily Miss McLintock remembered the name of the refugee organization – apparently she’s sent a few things there herself from time to time. I phoned through to the Yard and they sent a chap round right away. Most of the staff there are voluntary part-timers but the appeals organizer, or whoever it is, is a regular full-time person and she remembers the letter being found by one of the women who were unpacking the parcels on Saturday morning.
The woman just handed it in to the office – they quite often find things which have been packed by mistake and this is the normal procedure – and the organizer woman posted it herself. She remembered the pencilled address. So we can tie that letter up quite definitely with a parcel posted to the refugee organization, but I’m afraid that’s about all.’
‘What about the parcel itself?’
‘No joy there I’m afraid, sir. Apparently this is what happens. When the parcels come in they unpack them and sort out the clothes into big sacks-one for trousers, one for overcoats, one for children’s clothes and so on. If the sender’s included his name and address, they write it down in a book and he gets a printed thank-you letter in due course. The Yard chap checked the book. No sign of Bogolepov’s name,’
‘What about the paper the parcel was wrapped in?’
‘They save all the paper and string and sell it for what it’s worth to the pulp merchants. It’s collected monthly. Unfortunately last Monday was the day for collecting it, so there’s no hope in that direction.’
‘Well, how about the clothes themselves? Don’t tell me they’ve been shipped out to darkest Africa already.’
MacGregor grinned. ‘No, sir. There’s just a faint hope that we might be able to get our hands on them. Everything they get is sorted out again into sizes and things like that and then they examine it all to see if it wants washing or mending or anything. I gave the Yard a list of what Juliet was wearing and they’re going to search all through the stuff and see if they can find it. Mr Pilley provided us with an excellent description, if you remember, so they shouldn’t have any difficulty in picking it out
