‘I’ll just have a word with the chap outside. He can go and phone from the call box for me.’
MacGregor went out but in a few moments he came back again, accompanied by the dripping policeman.
‘Excuse me, sir, but the constable here has a small piece of information.’
That’s right, sir,’ said the policeman eagerly. ‘P.C. Roberts, he’s a mate of mine, see. He’s on the cars and he was the one that come to the house when Mr Perking phoned up and said what had happened. He came into this room, Roberts did. Well, he had to, didn’t he? I know Mr Perking said his wife had been murdered but you can’t believe everything the general public tells you, can you, sir? Make our job a sight easier if you could, eh? Well, sir, as I was saying, P.C. Roberts is a mate of mine and he was telling me all about it down at the nick before I come on duty. White as a sheet he was, sir, even then. And he’d been sick, too. Never seen a dead body before, Roberts hadn’t. Well, not a murdered one, anyhow. Come to think of it, sir,’ —the policeman gulped—‘neither have I. Not till now, that is. It’s horrible, sarge, isn’t it?’ He turned appealingly to MacGregor.
MacGregor was unsympathetic. ‘Get on with it, man!’ he hissed. ‘The Chief Inspector hasn’t got all day to listen to your ramblings.’
‘Oh yes, sir! Sorry, sir! Well, sir, what struck my mate was that it all looked so homely, sir. There was this nice blazing fire in the grate and the telly was still on. Real gruesome it was, Roberts said. This young woman lying here in a pool of blood and some joker on the telly yacking away about productivity or suchlike.’
Dover looked bleakly at MacGregor and MacGregor looked bleakly at the chrysanthemum-patterned wallpaper.
‘Is that it?’ asked Dover.
‘I thought the fact that the deceased had been watching television might be important, sir.’ MacGregor, to his fury, could feel a blush spreading up over his face.
‘Did you?’
‘Er— yes, sir.’
‘If anybody wants me,’ said Dover, ‘I’ll be in the kitchen.’
It was nearly an hour before MacGregor was free to join him. He found Dover fast asleep in a wicker chair with his feet up on the draining board. He let MacGregor cough his throat sore before he consented to open his eyes.
‘Everything’s under control, sir,’ MacGregor reported happily. ‘The body’s been removed and the fingerprint men are nearly through. There’s no sign of anybody breaking in, sir, by the way. We’ve checked the whole house. I was wondering if you wanted to see Perking himself now, sir? He’s spent the night at his sister’s, apparently, and I was wondering whether you wanted to interview him there or have him brought back here.’
Dover yawned, removed his feet from the draining board and rubbed the back of his thick policeman’s neck. ‘No,’ he said at last.
‘Er—no what, sir?’
‘I don’t want to see him yet. What’s the matter with you— got cloth ears or something?’
‘But he found the body, sir.’ MacGregor didn’t relish the task of trying to teach the Chief Inspector his job, but somebody had to. ‘He’ll be able to tell us if any of the doors were open or if there was ’
‘Later,’ rumbled Dover.
‘But he’s a basic witness, sir. He’s not made a statement yet. He’s not even been interviewed.’
‘He’ll keep,’ said Dover. He got up and wandered aimlessly over to a cupboard and opened it.
MacGregor squirmed. ‘Sir,’ he pointed out, ‘nobody’s checked this room for fingerprints yet. You may, quite unwittingly of course, be accidentally destroying evidence.’
Dover picked up a packet off the shelf. It was a wonder cake-mix. Solemnly and with the sole purpose of annoying MacGregor he read laboriously through the instructions. All you needed to add was two eggs, sugar, butter and vanilla extract. Dover tossed the packet back in the cupboard with a snort of disgust. ‘Wonder cake-mix, my Aunt Fannie!’ he exploded, well aware that his sergeant was hanging on his every word. ‘They used to call it flour in my day!’
MacGregor was on the rack. Sometimes —not often, but sometimes —when the Chief Inspector’s behaviour plumbed the very depths of childishness and irresponsibility, the old fool was actually pursuing a profitable line of investigation. It meant that one couldn’t be too careful. The last thing MacGregor’s self-esteem could tolerate was Dover stealing a march on him.
Dover, whistling tunelessly and nonchalantly, continued to poke around. He helped himself to a couple of biscuits out of a tin. He examined the contents of the fridge. He placed his heavily booted foot on the pedal of the yellow plastic pedal bin and, thoughtfully wrinkling his nose, inspected the contents thereof. He opened a selection of the available drawers and, in the end, was reduced to gravely turning the taps on and off over the sink.
A knock on the door leading into the hall saved him from further exertion. MacGregor went to open it. There was a short murmured conversation and MacGregor came back.
‘Excuse me, sir, that was the fingerprint boys. They’d like to move in here, if’ — MacGregor made the pause as insubordinate as he dared — ‘you’ve quite finished.’
Dover pulled out a handkerchief which had given much sterling service since it was last washed and blew his nose.
‘Sir?’
‘Oh, let ’em in! There’s no peace for the wicked. We’ll go and interview the neighbours. They may have seen something.’
Dover wandered off and, led by an unfailing instinct in these matters, struck it lucky the first time off. Young Mrs Carruthers next door was just making herself a cup of coffee after the usual morning upheaval of getting her husband off to work. Mrs Carruthers was harassed —with eight children under five milling around her this was not surprising—but she was hospitable. She offered the two detectives a cup of coffee in their turn and brushed aside MacGregor’s polite protests with a jocund laugh and the assurance that there was plenty
