‘The Chief Constable’s just been on the phone, sir. He wanted to know if we’d made any progress.’
Dover’s scowl came back. ‘At this time in the morning?’
‘It is half past nine, sir.’
‘I’ll have porridge, bacon, egg, sausages and tomato,’ Dover informed the waitress, ‘ and a large pot of tea.’ Having dealt with the essentials he turned back to MacGregor. ‘And what did you say?’
‘Well, I said we were just sort of filling in the background, sir. There wasn’t much else I could say, was there?’
Dover snorted unpleasantly. ‘ What did you find out about this Cochran fellow?’ he asked. ‘Was he married?’
‘No, sir,’ replied MacGregor who was quite efficient if given half a chance. ‘He was a bachelor. He doesn’t appear to have had any family, apart from the Chief Constable, of course. He was living in digs here in Wallerton. They haven’t got a station house.’
‘What about his friends?’
‘Well, he doesn’t seem to have had many, sir, not amongst the other policemen at any rate. He’s only been here a few weeks, of course, and the other men are naturally a bit wary of him, his uncle being the Chief Constable. Nobody’s saying much at the moment but I did gather he’d got half a dozen girls kicking around. I suppose it could be something like that that drove him to suicide.’
‘What, a broken heart?’ sneered Dover.
‘Well, it might be, sir.’
‘If you believe that, laddie, you’ll believe anything. It’s only in books a man kills himself because some chit of a girl said no to him.’
‘At least it’s as credible a motive as believing that Inspector Tasker drove him to it just to spite the Chief Constable, sir,’ MacGregor pointed out.
‘Have you finished with that toast? Well, shove it over then. And the butter.’
‘Where were you, er, thinking of starting, sir?’
Dover hadn’t the faintest idea but there was no point in admitting it to MacGregor. ‘We’ll go to his digs,’ he said. ‘Search his room. Have a word with his landlady.’
‘But, wouldn’t it be better, sir …?’
‘No,’ said Dover shortly, through a mouthful of toast, ‘it wouldn’t.’
Chapter Three
Wallerton was a small seaside resort of limited renown and attraction. In this age of the common man it remained select because few people could be found who would put up with the place for five minutes, never mind spend their annual fortnight’s holiday there. In the sunshine stakes Wallerton was three from the bottom, but for chilling winds and driving rain it stood second to none in the entire country. The beach was stony and the natives indifferent where they weren’t actively hostile. Apart from one cinema and the Winter Gardens (which traditionally closed down for the whole of August) there was little on which the unfortunate visitor could fritter away his long bleak hours of leisure. There was the Sailing Club, of course, but the locals wouldn’t admit temporary members unless they had blue blood on both sides going back to the Conquest or a couple of million pounds in their current account – and such people were few and far between in Wallerton.
Still, some hardy annuals and chronic masochists went there year after year for their summer holidays. Quiet and bracing, they called it. It certainly had the virtue of making them markedly less disgruntled with the ennuis of their ordinary, everyday life.
Mrs Jolliott, the erstwhile landlady of Peter Cochran, lived in a part of the town which was even more select than the rest of it. Or, which had been more select. Things change, even in places like Wallerton. Fifty years ago if you lived in Kilmorie Road you really were somebody. Nowadays, however, here and there in the windows of the rather pleasant Late Victorian houses little notices proclaiming ‘Apartments’ or ‘Vacancies’ peeped coyly from behind lace curtains. Nobody took in visitors for money, of course. They obliged only because they had so much spare room going to waste and it seemed uncharitable to turn away people who would otherwise be unable to enjoy Wallerton’s unique amenities.
There were no little signs in the windows of number 48, though perhaps there soon would be.
The door was opened by a woman who admitted, with visible reluctance, that she was Mrs Jolliott. She had one of those faces which look as though they’ve been carved, with difficulty, out of granite. Her hands were rough and uncared for. She wore no make-up. Over her strong, well-built figure was an enveloping white apron, starched within an inch of its life.
She had Dover and MacGregor off the front door step and inside the hall in a flash. Not even her nosiest neighbours got time to have a proper look at them. The thin strip of coconut matting in the hall was covered with clean sheets of newspaper.
‘Watch where you put your feet,’ said Mrs Jolliott. ‘I’ve just done this hall.’ She seemed to hesitate for a moment. ‘ Oh well, I suppose you’d better come into the front room. You won’t be staying long.’
The front room was dank and stuffy and reeked of furniture polish. With a martyred sigh Mrs Jolliott removed the sheets of newspaper from three chairs and revealed the yellowing antimacassars underneath.
‘I hope you wiped your boots as you came in,’ she said as she motioned them to sit down. ‘I’ve only just done this carpet.’
Dover got straight to the point. ‘We’ve come about Constable Cochran.’
‘It had crossed my mind that you weren’t here to read the gas meter,’ replied Mrs Jolliott tartly. ‘You’ll be taking his things away with you, I hope? I’ve got them all packed up. I can’t give that room a good clean out till they’re gone.’
Dover blew fretfully down his nose. ‘Were you surprised to hear he’d committed suicide?’
‘I’ve long got long past the stage of being surprised at what any man does,’ sniffed
