‘But you’re always grumbling about members of the public not helping the police,’ pointed out Mrs Dover, who knew what she was talking about.
‘That’s different!’ snapped Dover.
‘And that man – what’s-his-name – he told us to have a go.’
‘For crying out loud!’ groaned Dover. ‘What the hell’s that got to do with it?’
Mrs Dover shook her head. ‘I’m sorry but I don’t care what you say, Wilf. It’s our public duty to report that we’ve seen a man committing suicide and we’re going straight to the police station in Wallerton to do just that.’ She patted her husband encouragingly on the arm. ‘Don’t worry, dear, it won’t be half so bad as you think.’
After some reflection, Mrs Dover got the car moving again, and a quarter of an hour later they drew up outside the police station in Wallerton.
‘You can wait here if you like, Wilf. I shan’t be a minute.’
‘Not bloody likely!’ retorted Dover, still mopping away at his nose which had started bleeding again. ‘ I’m not letting you go in there alone. And just you keep quiet. I’ll do all the talking.’
The station sergeant was listening to Housewives’ Choice. He turned the sound down and removed his feet from the desk as Dover and his wife came in. One look at Dover’s blood-bespattered face was enough. He took the pencil from behind his ear and reached for the book on the counter. ‘Another road accident?’ he asked with resignation.
‘No.’ barked Dover.
The station sergeant looked surprised. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Had a punch-up with the old woman, then?’ he inquired pleasantly. ‘Bit early in the day for a spot of bother like that but then it wouldn’t do for us all to be the same, would it?’
Dover planted two beefy paws on the counter and advanced his face to within a couple of inches of the sergeant’s, ‘If you would stop bleating like an old sheep with the colic for a couple of minutes, I could tell you what has happened.’
The station sergeant glanced sympathetically at Mrs Dover. ‘Been bending the old elbow, has he, love?’
‘No, I have not!’ bellowed Dover.
The station sergeant took it all in good part. He tapped Dover playfully on his bowler hat with the pencil. ‘Now, keep your hair on, Grandpa! There’s no need to go raising your voice now, is there?’
Dover gobbled helplessly. He seemed on the point of scrambling over the counter and subjecting the sergeant to grievous bodily harm when the door of the police station was flung open with a bang. Mrs Dover, who had been preparing to restrain her irate husband, relaxed and sat down quietly on a near-by bench.
Two men, both clad in their underpants and nothing else, were pushed forward by a worried-looking young policeman.
‘Well, well,’ said the station sergeant with evident relish, ‘ and what, as the bishop said to the strip-tease dancer, have we got here, eh? Here, watch ’em, Darwen!’
The two half-naked men, taking advantage of the momentary lapse in the constable’s attention, had started throwing punches at each other. The blows were ill-aimed and lethargic. Neither man was in the first flush of youth and both amply fleshed abdomens were heaving strenuously from their exertions. The police constable had no difficulty in dragging them apart. One man, the bald-headed one, flopped panting across the counter. He had a nasty bruised cut over one eye and the blood had trickled down the side of his face and on to his chest. The other man, wearing underpants with a pale-blue stripe, was muttering under his breath and glaring fiercely at his companion.
‘Well, well,’ said the station sergeant again when peace and order had been restored, ‘this is a bit of a turn-up for the book and no mistake.’ He looked at the man with the cut head. ‘Why, it’s Mr Collingwood, isn’t it? Well, well!’ He turned to the other man. ‘And Mr Davenport?’ He seemed over-awed by his identifications. ‘All right, Constable,’ he said sharply, ‘ let’s be having it.’
The constable put his cap straight and made his report. ‘It was Bert McTurk, Sarge, the boatman at the Sailing Club – he called me in. He said these two gentlemen were fighting like a couple of wild cats in the changing room and he couldn’t stop ’em. He was afraid they’d be doing each other a mischief. Well, I went in, Sarge, and I couldn’t stop ’em either; going at it hammer and tongs, they were, so I brought ’em in here. They’ve calmed down a bit now, but you should have seen ’em!’
The sergeant jerked his head to one side and obediently the constable moved down to the bottom end of the counter.
‘Been drinking, had they?’ asked the sergeant softly.
‘Not so far as I know, Sarge. It’s a bit early in the morning even for that lot, isn’t it?’
The station sergeant raised his eyebrows. Then another thought struck him. ‘You haven’t been laying about you with your truncheon, I hope?’
The constable shook his head.
‘Good lad! These are local residents, you know, not blooming trippers. These two won’t stand for being pushed around.’
With an air of considerable importance he moved back to the two half-naked and now shivering men.
‘Well, now, Mr Davenport, would you like to tell me what happened?’
‘I’ll tell you what happened,’ the man with the bleeding head broke in. ‘This raving maniac here picked up a damned great lump of wood and hit me with it.’
‘Is that true, Mr Davenport, sir?’
Mr Davenport stared fixedly in front of him. ‘I was provoked,’ he said stiffly.
‘Provoked, my eye! The trouble with you, Chauncey, is that you just can’t take a joke. No bloody sense of humour,
