‘Keep your shirt on, sarge,’ advised one greying photographer who, even in Pott Winckle, had seen it all. ‘We haven’t missed anything. You’ll have my artistic pictures by lunchtime. When are you making the arrest?’
‘Er—this morning, I think,’ MacGregor answered, praying quite hard that a merciful Providence would vouchsafe him some irrefutable evidence with which to scotch Dover’s theory.
‘And that’ll be curtains for John Perking, eh? He won’t have a leg to stand on when the jury get an eyeful of all this.’ He waved an indifferent hand round the kitchen. ‘Bit of luck for you lot, isn’t it?’
‘Isn’t what?’
‘Well, rushing down here all the way from London to solve a crime a kid of seven wouldn’t have lost any sleep over. Blowed if I can think why you didn’t make an arrest last night.’
‘Things are not always as simple as they seem,’ said MacGregor severely, and hoped he was right.
Back at the hotel Dover was storming around in the entrance hall like a dyspeptic admiral on his quarter deck. ‘And about time, too!’ he bellowed as MacGregor shepherded the local inspector through the swing doors.
‘This is Inspector Mansion, sir, of the Regional Crime Squad.’
Dover eyed the newcomer up and down with his habitual sneer. ‘Got the warrant? Right, well, Mansion, or whatever your name is, I want this arrest made quickly and efficiently. Get it? I’m not the man to tolerate anything slip-shod. Clear?’
‘I have made arrests before, sir.’
‘Ah, but not for me though, have you?’ retorted Dover with the air of one revealing the hidden truths of nature.
‘No, sir.’ Inspector Mansion’s face was quite blank and his voice expressionless. ‘I haven’t yet had that pleasure.’
Dover glared suspiciously at him. Was that dumb insolence or not? He couldn’t quite decide and vented his frustration on MacGregor by sending him upstairs to fetch his hat and coat.
They made quite an impressive little convoy as they turned into Canal Bank Street. Two motor-cycle policemen rode ahead, steely-eyed behind their goggles. Next came a black police car with MacGregor and Inspector Mansion sitting in an embarrassed silence in the back. As in royal processions the cynosure of all eyes came at the end: Detective Chief Inspector Dover, lolling amongst the cushions of his borrowed Rolls-Royce smoking a big cigar and coughing.
The kids in Canal Bank Street stopped playing ‘Bashing Perking’s Bint’ and stared with shrewd calculating little eyes.
‘Come on!’ shouted one golden-haired tot. ‘It’s the bleeding rozzers!’ Her playmates tore after her down the street in the hopeful but mistaken impression that they were going to witness a topping on their very doorstep.
Their mums were more worldly-wise, but just as interested. They appeared as if by magic on the thresholds of their terraced houses and, in flowered overalls and curlers, nodded their satisfaction to each other.
‘Told you they’d be coming for him before long,’ they said to their next-door neighbours and complacently folded their arms, happy to see one husband about to receive his just deserts.
The door of Number 25 opened. A young woman stood there, correctly dressed in the uniform of the street. She had a bright, intelligent face but she looked strained. Automatically she, too, folded her arms.
‘Yes?’ she asked defiantly as if she had no idea what the three large men had come for. She refused to look at the group of uniformed policemen who were standing dourly on the edge of the scene, waiting to play their parts.
‘We’re police officers,’ said Inspector Mansion.
‘Oh, really? Well, what can I do for you?’
‘We’d like to have a word with your brother, miss. Is he in?’
‘I’ll just go and see,’ she replied, playing the farce through to the end. ‘Hang on a minute.’
But, as she turned away from the door, Inspector Mansion followed by Dover and MacGregor crowded into the minute hall behind her. The uniformed policemen moved closer.
The back kitchen wasn’t much bigger than the hall. John Perking was sitting at the table, a large white mug of tea and a newspaper in front of him. He was in his shirtsleeves. No collar. His attitude was patently antagonistic but his face showed no emotion when he looked up.
Inspector Mansion was equally intent on avoiding dramatics. ‘John Alexander Perking?’ he asked. ‘I have a warrant here for your arrest on a charge of murdering your wife, Cynthia Rosalind Perking. I must warn you that you are not obliged to say anything or make any statement unless you wish to do so, but anything you do say will be taken down in writing and may be used in evidence.’
John Perking stared bleakly at the inspector. ‘She was dead when I got home,’ he muttered at last and watched his words being duly written down.
‘What happens now?’ asked Perking’s sister. ‘We’ve always been a respectable family, we have. You’ll have to tell us what he’s got to do.’
‘I shall want him to accompany me to the police station, miss,’ said Inspector Mansion imperturbably. ‘Where’s your coat, Perking?’
‘It’s upstairs,’ snapped the sister irritably, ‘and so’s his shoes. You don’t want to take him in his slippers, do you? And don’t keep calling me miss. I’ve been married these seven years and
