‘Cochran,’ said the station sergeant unwillingly.
‘Oh God!’ said the Inspector. ‘Surely not?’
‘I told you how queer he was behaving this morning, sir. And he did go off on his bicycle, because I saw him. Lord, there’ll be the very devil to pay if he’s gone and croaked himself.’
‘Well, hell’s teeth,’ objected the Inspector, ‘it’s not our fault!’
‘You try telling the Chief Constable that, sir. Apple of his eye, that’s what young Cochran was,’ the station sergeant pointed out with gloomy relish. ‘ Thought the sun shone out of that boy, he did. I can’t say I envy you, sir, having to tell him what’s happened. He’ll play blue murder. His own nephew committing suicide.’
The Inspector thought quickly. ‘Oh, no,’ he said firmly. ‘You phone up the Chief Constable and tell him what’s happened, or what we’re afraid might have happened. And be diplomatic about it. I’m going up to Cully Point to have a look at that bicycle.’
‘Good,’ said Dover, lumbering to his feet. ‘ Well, that’s settled that. We’ll leave you to get on with it.’
‘Oh, no, you won’t!’ retorted the Inspector and the station sergeant in unison.
‘I’m on holiday,’ whined Dover.
‘I don’t care what you’re on,’ snapped the Inspector, tossing respect for rank and seniority to the winds. ‘You’re not budging an inch until the Chief Constable gets here which, if I know anything about him, will be in under twenty minutes. Sergeant, put a constable outside this door and give him instructions that neither of them is to leave. Now, come on!’
The two local men hurriedly left the room, turning a deaf and callous ear to Dover’s objections. For the next half hour Mrs Dover patiently endured the endless stream of abuse which her husband, beside himself at the indignity of being incarcerated in a common police station, poured on her head. In the end even Dover himself began to get bored.
Not that the violent erruption of the Chief Constable into the Interview Room provided much relief. He was in a filthy temper and didn’t mind who knew it. Things began to happen with bewildering speed. Mrs Dover, who by now was nearly as sick of the whole affair as her husband, retired unobtrusively into a corner and began thinking about how she would redecorate the lounge should Uncle Percy not succeed in throwing off that nasty chill he’d caught playing bowls last week.
Meanwhile the stronger sex was getting down to it. The bicycle had been recovered from the top of Cully Point and definitely identified as the one on which young Cochran had left Wallerton Police Station that morning. Maps were produced. Times and distances were worked out, due allowance being made for the fact that nobody, not even a world champion, could cycle up to Cully Point in under thirty-five minutes.
‘Of course,’ observed the station sergeant fatuously, ‘it’s much quicker coming down.’
The Chief Constable flung him a withering glance before barking a stream of questions at Dover. What time was it – to the split second – that the suicide was observed climbing over the fence? Why didn’t he know? Surely a trained and experienced detective would note that sort of thing automatically, wouldn’t he? Why hadn’t Dover thought to look at his watch? Wouldn’t the wettest of wet Police Cadets have thought at least of doing that?
‘Aw, get knotted!’ muttered Dover under his breath.
‘What did you say, man?’ roared the Chief Constable who was slightly deaf and very sensitive about it. ‘If you’ve anything to say, say it out loud. I can’t stomach people who mumble.’
The Inspector completed his calculations. ‘I’m afraid there doesn’t seem to be much doubt about it, sir,’ he reported miserably. ‘The times seem to fit as near as I can judge. Of course, Cochran may have lent the bike to somebody else, but that doesn’t seem very probable, does it, sir?’
‘Nothing about the entire affair seems very probable to me, Inspector,’ growled the Chief Constable nastily.
‘What about fingerprints on the bicycle?’ asked Dover, feeling he ought to make some contribution.
‘We’re checking them now,’ said the Inspector, ‘but with all this rain …’
‘I don’t know how I’m going to break the news to his aunt,’ said the Chief Constable grimly. ‘It’ll take some explaining, won’t it? A smart young lad with every promise of a brilliant future ahead of him, with everything in the world to live for, suddenly taking his own life? It’ll take some explaining, that will.’
‘We’ll make a full investigation, sir. I can promise you that,’ the Inspector assured him earnestly. ‘We’ll …’
‘I’m not overlooking the fact that my nephew killed himself after a mere six weeks under your command,’ observed the Chief Constable with heavy significance. ‘Any investigation you carry out is likely to be a bit biased, isn’t it? You never liked the lad. I’ve known that all along. He’d twice your education and three times your brains – not that that’s saying much. You were jealous of him, any fool could see that. Because he was a better policeman after twelve months on the force than you’ll ever be if you last till you’re ninety. Which is highly unlikely. Oh yes, there’s going to be an investigation all right, but I’m damned if you or any of your lousy subordinates are going to do it! Sergeant, get me Scotland Yard on the phone and be damned quick about it!’
The station sergeant scurried out of the room and the Chief Constable stalked purposefully after him.
Dover and the Inspector stared at each other.
‘He isn’t?’ moaned Dover.
‘He is, you know, sir,’ said the Inspector.
‘But I’m on leave!’
‘You try telling him that, sir. The mood he’s in, I reckon he’d get James Bond himself if he wanted him. I knew something like this would happen when he sent his blasted nephew here in the first place. Rotten, sneaking little devil, he was! Trust him to drop us all in it!’
Dover spared a furious glance for his wife. ‘Do you hear that?’ he bellowed. ‘It’s all your blasted
