When MacGregor had retreated unhappily from the room Dover sat up in bed and rocked backwards and forwards in silent and malicious mirth. The look on MacGregor’s face! Oh Lord, it was enough to make a cat laugh! That’d teach the toffee-nosed young pup! That’d show him there was still a bit of life in the old dog. Thought they knew everything, these young coppers did. They read a couple of flipping books and before you knew where you were they were trying to teach their grandmothers to suck eggs. Well, there was one grandmother here who’d sucked more eggs than Sergeant clever-boots MacGregor had had hot dinners. And bigger eggs and more complicated eggs than some he could name, too.
With a scowl Dover abandoned the imagery which was getting far too complicated and winced slightly as he suffered yet another of those small twinges of doubt. They had been assailing him ever since a possible solution of the Hamilton and Cochran affairs had first dawned on him. It had been a far-fetched, and really rather amusing, explanation of various things that seemed to have been happening and Dover had had, in his own ponderous fashion, a bit of a giggle over it. His good humour had faded rapidly, however, when almost in spite of himself he began to analyse the implications and found that he was hitting the jackpot every time. He began to get frightened. It was unnerving enough for a detective of his calibre to stumble, however fortuitously, upon the solution of a case, but to stumble on such a solution was hair-raising. His first instinct was to shift the burden on to younger and more capable shoulders – but MacGregor would die laughing. It would be the biggest joke that had echoed round the corridors of Scotland Yard since that old fool of a judge had congratulated Harry Tobias on resisting the offer of a bribe.
What was he to do then? He could, of course, just forget the whole thing. The Chief Constable’s patience was bound to be exhausted before long and he would soon be only too glad to see the back of the Scotland Yard men. It was a way out but Dover, incredible as it may seem, was not entirely devoid of professional pride. He would like to emerge from this messy, neither-one-thing-nor-the-other case with flying colours. For one thing, it wouldn’t do him any harm up at the Yard where his credit was currently at a very low ebb. Several nasty and unkind insinuations had recently been made in his hearing about the carrying of overweight passengers and Dover had had the idea that these remarks were directed towards him. Yes, a glittering success even in a mucky little backwater like Wallerton wouldn’t come amiss. All right. He’d make the effort. He’d solve their flipping case for them and they could put that on their needles and knit it.
A spiteful little sparkle came into Dover’s eye as he pondered over what method he would have to employ to achieve his ends. He didn’t underestimate the difficulties with which he was going to be faced. He wasn’t going to tie this case up with a couple of plaster casts and an old shoe lace, that was for sure. No, what he’d have to do was put the wind up ’ em, force them to act again, and then nab ’em red-handed. Piece of cake, really. With Master Charles Edward MacGregor as the unwitting bait. Dover grinned to himself.
A clock somewhere outside struck ten. Sergeant Veitch, who had been waiting outside for several minutes, tapped gently on the bedroom door.
‘You’re late!’ snapped Dover when he saw who it was.
‘The church clock, sir …’
‘It’s slow,’ said Dover. ‘Well, have you got what I wanted? Gimme!’
The station sergeant handed over a thick file of papers.
Dover flicked contemptuously through them. ‘Aha!’ he grunted triumphantly as he selected one small single sheet. He thrust it in front of Sergeant Veitch’s face. ‘Are you sure Cochran saw this before he took off?’
The sergeant focused his eyes as best he could on the paper which was now being waggled energetically up and down. ‘Well, yes, sir.’ He grabbed the paper to hold it steady. ‘You see, sir, there’s Cochran’s initials down in the corner.’
Dover snatched the paper back. ‘Where?’
‘There, sir. Oh.’ Sergeant Veitch got his glasses out and put them on. ‘No, I’m sorry, sir. He doesn’t seem to have initialled it. Well now, that’s funny. I remember drawing his attention to it myself. He should have initialled it to show he’d read it because, of course, he’s one of the chaps mentioned on it.’
‘I can see that,’ said Dover. ‘ I’m not blind. Could this have been the last thing he was looking at before he hopped it?’
‘Well, it could, I suppose, sir,’ said Sergeant Veitch uncertainly: ‘That might explain why he hasn’t … But I don’t get it, sir. Why should a bit of paper with the date of the annual medicals on it upset him? If that’s what you’re getting at.’
‘Why, indeed?’ said Dover, shovelling all the other papers back into the file. ‘Here, you can get rid of this lot.’
The sergeant’s jaw dropped. He shuddered to think how many hours he’d spent sorting all those blasted papers out. ‘ Don’t you want them, sir?’
‘No.’ Dover tipped the file into the sergeant’s lap. ‘They’re of no interest to me. I’ve got the one I want.’
‘Oh. I see,’ said the sergeant, rising to his feet with sullen resignation. ‘Is there anything else you want, sir?’
Dover had already assumed a prone position with his face to the wall. ‘ Tell ’em to send my coffee up at eleven sharp. And I want it hot, too.’
‘The Chief Constable, sir,’ began Sergeant Veitch.
‘I’ve no time to be
