‘Freda Comersall?’ said MacGregor, trying hard to remember where he’d heard the name before.
‘She runs Freda’s Cafe in Thornwich,’ said Dover, at last relieving his aching buttocks by transferring his weight to his aching feet. ‘You want to train your memory, laddie. It’ll let you down badly one of these days. And now, young woman,’ – he swung ponderously round on Eleanor – ‘what is your surname anyhow? Smith? ’Strewth! Well, Miss Smith, I think that’s about all we shall want from you for the moment. Unless, of course, you actually know the name of the woman who was going to adopt the baby?’
Eleanor shook her head. ‘No, I never knew who it was. Freda never told me.’
‘Well, no,’ said Dover, stifling an enormous yawn, ‘she wouldn’t, would she? Not if she’d any sense.’
Chapter Eleven
‘I’M SORRY, sir, but I do think we ought to go and see this Comersall woman tonight, before she gets wind of the fact that we’re on to her.’
Dover’s nostrils flared as he breathed heavily down his nose. Young Charles Edward had been asking for it for some time and, by God, if this went on much longer he’d bloody well get it! It had been nothing but argey-bargey ever since they had left Eleanor Smith. There had been a fundamental clash of opinions, and not for the first time. MacGregor wanted to get on with solving their case. Dover just wanted his dinner. The Chief Inspector found himself placed at a most unfair disadvantage: he could hardly be as frank and open about his motives for holding back as MacGregor could be about his for pressing on. The rain dripped off Dover’s bowler as he tried to persuade MacGregor to see reason. The streets of Bearle were dark and deserted. Anybody with any sense was indoors watching the telly or enjoying a convivial drink in a nice warm pub.
‘What you’ve got to consider,’ Dover pointed out fretfully as he stumped along, ‘is that we need a pause at this stage, just to review our findings and plan the next step we’re going to take. What’s the hurry, anyhow?’
‘I should have thought that was obvious, sir. We’ve got to get hold of Freda Comersall tonight before this Smith girl gets a chance to warn her.’ -
‘Chance to warn her? What the hell makes you think she’ll do that? She doesn’t give two hoots what happens to Comersall. I should have thought that was obvious, even to you.’
‘She could easily pick up the phone and let her know we’ve been asking questions,’ said MacGregor obstinately.
‘Well, in that case she could have done it already,’ snorted Dover. ‘If she’s going to warn the Comersall woman she’s got bags of time to do it before we get back to Thornwich, hasn’t she?’
‘I suppose so, sir,’ said MacGregor and let himself be steered towards a dubious-looking Chinese restaurant which was the only place in Bearle where you could get a meal after six o’clock.
Dover spurned the exotic dishes of the East and ordered fish and chips. MacGregor, however, felt it incumbent upon him to look as though he knew his way around and, in consultation with the little Chinese waiter who laughed heartily at everything which was said, was finally served with about ten tiny bowls of smoking and unidentifiable food.
Dover eyed MacGregor’s plate sceptically. ‘What does it taste like?’ he asked.
‘Oh, all right,’ said MacGregor, manfully swallowing a spoonful of fried cornflakes. ‘Very nice, really.’
Dover sniffed. ‘Well, rather you than me, mate! See that?’ he poked a fork at one of the bowls. ‘Cat food, that’s what that is! I wish I’d got a stomach as strong as yours. Must be wonderful to be able to eat anything.’
MacGregor started to talk about the case again. ‘The way I see it, sir, is this. It’s just possible that Mrs Tompkins’s suicide wasn’t suicide at all. I mean, in any case of sudden death we’ve got to be on our guard, haven’t we?’
‘Arthur Tompkins didn’t do it,’ said Dover, resolutely shovelling a forkful of chips into his mouth. ‘He’s got a complete alibi, unless you think that French floosie was covering up for him.’
MacGregor shook his head. ‘No, Mr Tompkins is in the clear, I agree. But what about this three hundred pounds, sir? Mrs Tompkins desperately wants a baby. Eleanor Smith is going to have a baby she doesn’t want. The connection’s obvious, especially with Freda Comersall actually in Thornwich as the go-between.’
‘That,’ said Dover, preparing to tackle a dish of prunes and custard, ‘is pure, undiluted, unfounded speculation. It’s sheer guess-work that Winifred Tompkins was going to buy the Smith baby. Apart from anything else, Mrs Tompkins drew three hundred pounds out of the bank. Miss Smith talked about getting fifty plus a quid a week till the kid was born. What’s the other two hundred odd pounds for? Nappies?’
‘Freda Comersall’s commission for arranging the deal, sir?’ Dover grunted. He wasn’t much of a believer in letting youth have its fling, but since he was MacGregor’s guest he was generously prepared to put up with it. ‘Any chance of a glass of beer?’ he asked the smiling waiter who pattered up with his cheese and biscuits. He gave MacGregor what attention he could spare from his food. ‘All you’ve said so far just strengthens the case for Mrs Tompkins’s suicide,’ he pointed out. ‘She sets her heart on getting this baby, it dies, she can’t have it. Bingo! She croaks herself.’
‘But the three hundred pounds, sir,’ said MacGregor earnestly, moving an imitation Chinese lantern so that he could get a better look at Dover’s face. ‘That money has disappeared. Now, suppose Mrs Tompkins paid it over after the baby was born, but before it died. When the deal falls through and she learns she can’t have the baby, what’s the first thing she’s going to want? She’s going to want her three hundred pounds back. Let’s suppose that whoever’s
