Dover Goes to Pott

if the old fool were left to his own devices. He’d already got it firmly fixed in his head that John Perking had murdered his wife, and it would take much more than mere evidence to get him to change his mind. In Dover’s book wives were always done to death by their husbands and, if they weren’t, it was up to the husbands to prove it. Since most of the bereaved husbands were unaware of the need to establish their innocence beyond a shadow of doubt, and were often in any case incapable of doing it to Dover’s satisfaction, Sergeant MacGregor felt obliged to undertake their defence. He shouldered this burden in the name of justice, to uphold the dignity of the police, and to protect, as far as he could,, the interests of his own career. Too many reprimands from the Director of Public Prosecutions, too many charges of false arrest, did a rising young detective no good at all.

Once he’d made up his mind to it MacGregor, in his own suave way, could be just as pig-headed as Dover. The Chief Inspector was determined to get John Perking for the murder of his wife. All right. Well, MacGregor was going to be even more determined to pin it on somebody — anybody — else. And this unknown and suspicious visitor as unmasked by the public-spirited Mrs Withycombe would do nicely for a start.

Dover appeared to have switched himself off again so MacGregor jumped in with his questions while he had the chance. He smiled encouragingly at Mrs Withycombe and turned over to a clean page in his notebook.

‘Do you think you could give me a full description of this man, madam? How he was dressed and everything?’

‘Oh, yes!’ cooed Mrs Withycombe, preening herself in the warmth of the handsome sergeant’s glances.

Her optimism was unfounded. For such a talented observer of the social scene in Birdsfoot-Trefoil Close, her descriptions lacked much in the way of detail. Under MacGregor’s anxious probings, however, a blurred picture eventually emerged.

The man was tall rather than short. Thin rather than fat. Young rather than old. Upright rather than stooping. His general appearance was smart rather than shabby. ‘Sort of ordinary-looking altogether,’ admitted Mrs Withycombe feebly.

And how was he dressed?

Mrs Withycombe plunged gallantly on to what she thought was firmer ground. Hat, raincoat, trousers and shoes. Oh, and she could almost swear that he was wearing gloves, too. Colour? Well, the raincoat was sort of lightish and the trousers were sort of darkish. The hat was a trilby and that was sort of darkish, too. Not black, she didn’t think, but darkish, definitely.

‘What about the car?’ asked MacGregor who was beginning to get a bit snappy.

Mrs Withycombe gave a deprecating little laugh. The sergeant mustn’t expect too much, she chided him playfully. Mrs Withycombe was only just an ordinary housewife, really, and not the weeniest bit mechanically minded. Cars were just cars to her. What make was it? She was sorry but she hadn’t the least idea. Wasn’t she an old silly?

Dover opened his eyes to see if MacGregor was going to have the guts to answer this rhetorical question.

MacGregor wasn’t. ‘What size was it, Mrs Withycombe?’

Oh, just an ordinary sort of size, she thought. Colour? Well, she hadn’t really noticed and it was raining and she didn’t really remember it being any definite sort of colour. ‘It certainly wasn’t bright yellow or a shocking pink,’ she stated helpfully. No, she didn’t know how many doors it had and it was no good asking her about the styling of the radiator because, to be perfectly honest, she wasn’t sure what the radiator was anyhow. No, it definitely hadn’t got a canvas roof. On that she would take her dying oath.

MacGregor, poker-faced, closed his notebook and thanked Mrs Withycombe for her co-operation. No, really, she’d been most helpful and he quite understood that if she’d known poor Mrs Perking was going to get beaten to death she would have paid more attention.

Dover yawned and rubbed one hand over his heavy jowl. ‘I need a shave,’ he announced. Pushing aside a wandering infant he stood up with a grunt. ‘We’ll go to the hotel. MacGregor, fetch the Rolls!’

Chapter Five

DOVER guzzled his way through lunch in silence. Although food was one of his few remaining pleasures, he wasn’t giving all his attention to the dishes that were placed before him. He’d got other things on his mind.

Judged in retrospect, the cushy job that Mr Wibbley had all but dangled before his very eyes didn’t look as enticing as it had done in the rosy light of dawn. Jammy, yes—but not really the sort of thing it was worth busting a gut over. The case was as good as solved. What difference would a few hours here or there make? Besides, it didn’t do to make things look too easy. People always appreciate things more if they think you’ve gone to a lot of trouble over them. You’d got to look as though you were earning your money, didn’t you? In fact, ruminated Dover with a rare flash of honesty, it sometimes took a damned sight more trouble to look busy than it did to do the actual work. So, that was that, wasn’t it? Tomorrow would be soon enough. He’d get the whole business tied up in a hangman’s noose — tomorrow.

MacGregor, too, was deep in thought. If he wanted to get his oar in before the Chief Inspector blithely arrested an innocent man, he’d have to work quickly. Dover was a hard man to please, especially if you were trying to get him to go against his most dearly cherished prejudices, and even actually change his mind. The main problem was time. When was MacGregor going to be able to escape the jealous custody of his senior officer and pursue his own lines of inquiry?

MacGregor watched carefully for the monent when Dover’s dentures ground to a final halt. The