‘ ’Strewth!’ said Dover. ‘I thought he’d got me that time.’
‘Some of these drivers want reporting,’ agreed MacGregor who had taken in the whole incident with his usual quickness. For a moment his hopes had soared but he accepted Dover’s survival philosophically. He was too cold and hungry to do anything else. ‘Did you get his number, sir?’
Dover released himself and stood on his own feet instead of MacGregor’s. ‘Don’t be a bloody fool!’ he snarled. ‘What do you think I’ve got – X-ray eyes? And where the hell have you been?’ He didn’t give MacGregor a chance to answer. ‘Trust you to be missing when something happens! I don’t know how you do it. You must have a bloody sixth sense or something.’
‘What has happened, sir?’ asked MacGregor, who knew from long and bitter experience that the Chief Inspector loathed explanations and excuses, especially when they were genuine.
‘The dratted girl, Poppy Gullimore, has just tried to kill herself. Left a note confessing to writing the poison-pen letters.’
‘Oh,’ said MacGregor.
‘Now, you get straight off to the hospital, and stop there till she comes round. Get a statement from her as soon as she’s fit to make one and find out what she took and how much. All the usual rubbish. Oh, and I want to know what her underwear’s like.’
‘But I haven’t had any dinner yet, sir!’ protested MacGregor. ‘Neither,’ said Dover pompously, ‘have I.’
And with that he marched quickly into The Jolly Sailor to remedy the omission. MacGregor stared hopelessly after him. Only when the Chief Inspector’s portly figure had disappeared from sight did he realize that he had no idea which hospital Poppy Gullimore had been taken to. And what was all that about her underclothes? He shivered and pulled his overcoat collar up round his ears. Perhaps the old fool had developed a fetish about young ladies’ underwear. It wouldn’t surprise MacGregor if he had.
Chapter Five
THE JOLLY SAILOR hadn’t had a night like it for years. Bert Quince was so overwhelmed by the sight of so many paying customers that he had actually brought another electric fire down from his bedroom and plugged it in near the fireplace. He and his wife were rushed off their feet serving drinks but they had enough sense to recognize and cherish a golden goose when they saw one.
‘There’s the Chief Inspector now!’ Bert Quince hissed to his wife. ‘You go and get him his dinner right away. I can manage in here. I’ll get Charlie to give me a hand.’
The excitement mounted as Mrs Quince and Dover attended to the wants of the inner man. Half the male population of Thornwich had crowded into the public bar and there were several women there as well. The mystery of the poison-pen letters had never really sparked much interest amongst the men folk, but a young girl’s suicide – well, that was something more like it, wasn’t it? It was by now general knowledge that this fat policeman chap from London liked his liquor and was certain to be fairly talkative once he’d wet his whistle a couple of times. All in all, with a bit of luck, it looked like being an interesting session.
Dover had been fed – and very well fed, too – in the kitchen. Mrs Quince had apologized, but it was warmer and he had a bit of privacy there, didn’t he? Dover had been delighted and paid a delicate, if unconscious, compliment to Mrs Quince by wolfing down everything edible in sight. No need to worry about saving anything for Sergeant MacGregor, he assured her, he’d be sure to get a meal out somewhere.
When the Chief Inspector finally entered the public bar he was greeted by a hushed and respectful silence. Those who had not seen him before were a little taken aback but, sensing the prevailing mood, they kept any opinions they might have had to themselves and joined in almost universal offers to stand the great man a drink.
To say that Dover was surprised at this reception would be an understatement. He was flabbergasted! During his chequered career there had been relatively few occasions when he had been the object of popular acclaim. Of course, he was used to other people standing him drinks. He would be an enforced teetotaller if they didn’t, but such eagerness was unusual. He beamed happily at the assembled company and selected the lucky man. In many ways Chief Inspector Dover was no fool and no one could accuse him of lack of foresight where his own comfort and convenience were concerned. Nor was he ungrateful for or unmindful of past favours – not when they came from a man with one hundred and seventy thousand smackers tucked away under his mattress.
‘Good evening, Mr Tompkins,’ he said graciously and walked across to sit down beside his friend.
Mr Tompkins was delighted. The drinks arrived as if by magic. Mr Tompkins didn’t smoke – it was one of his few faults in Dover’s eyes – but he was one of nature’s gentlemen and had brought a packet of Dover’s favourite brand from the shelves of his own shop. He laid it shyly on the table and suggested that Dover should help himself. Dover did.
When Mr Tompkins had lit the cigarette, he and Dover settled down to an intimate conversation. Those standing close around their table listened intently and passed each tit-bit back to the less fortunate ones stuck over by the wall.
‘Well, you’re a fast worker, Mr Dover,’ said Mr Tompkins admiringly and acting as spokesman for the assembled company. ‘You’ve only been here a couple of days and you’ve got the whole case cleared up. That’s Scotland Yard for you, eh? I think it’s marvellous! How did you pick on her? Why, bless me, she’s the only one you’ve interviewed and there you go – hitting the jackpot first time!’
‘Oh, come, come!’ said Dover with a modest smirk. ‘I think
