‘But it’s not me, sir,’ protested MacGregor. ‘It’s when the case comes up in court and . . . ’
‘Oh, shut up!’ snarled Dover.
MacGregor gazed miserably out of the window. ‘Where are we going now’, sir?’
‘Going to see Mr Wibbley,’ rumbled Dover sulkily.
Mr Wibbley? MacGregor repressed a sigh. What were they going to see Mr Wibbley for, of all people? Oh well, his not to reason why, his just to tag along and pick up the pieces. He slipped off into his favourite day-dream in which a beaming Assistant Commissioner at New’ Scotland Yard informed him that his years of suffering were over and he was being assigned to another—any other—senior detective. MacGregor was just mentally falling on his knees and seizing the Assistant Commissioner’s hand prior to covering it with tear-soaked kisses of gratitude when a bulky elbow rammed in his ribs brought him back to sordid reality.
‘I’m waiting’, Dover informed him icily, ‘for you to open the blasted door for me!’
The interview’ with Daniel Wibbley was not a success. Dover, fondly expecting to be hailed as the hero of the hour, made the tactical error of taking MacGregor in with him. Side by side the two of them tramped across several acres of carpet, lured by the distant prospect of Mr Wibbley’s colossal desk. When they finally arrived they were not asked to sit down. Indeed, for several minutes Mr Wibbley didn’t take any notice of them at all. He sat in an expensive leather-covered chair, his back to an impressive view of the Wibbley works as seen through an enormous floor-to-ceiling plate-glass window. Mr Wibbley read calmly through to the end of several typewritten sheets of foolscap and then laid them neatly on his desk.
‘I see from this report on the post mortem that my daughter was two months pregnant at the time of her decease.’
‘So we understand,’ said Dover, moving uneasily from one throbbing foot to the other.
‘Was her husband aware of this?’
‘It seems likely,’ said Dover.
‘Mm.’ Mr Wibbley swivelled round in his chair and contemplated the view. There was a long, long pause. ‘What progress have you to report so far?’
‘Oh, it’s all over, Mr Wibbley. We’ve finished. John Perking was arrested on a charge of murder not half an hour ago.’
Mr Wibbley swivelled sharply back again. ‘Indeed? That was quick work.’
‘Well, I must admit I’m not much of a one for mucking about,’ smirked Dover modestly. ‘You won’t catch me letting the grass . . . ’
‘I trust that it is not also slipshod work. When this matter comes to trial it is imperative that the case for the prosecution is absolutely watertight. I want no “ifs” and “buts” about it. I want it proved beyond the slightest shadow of doubt that Perking murdered my daughter with malice aforethought, that he had a motive for murdering her — preferably some form of sordid personal gain—and that no one else could conceivably have perpetrated the crime. Perking is not a fool. With the assistance of an unscrupulous lawyer he will doubtless try to establish any number of bolt-holes. I want them all stopped up. I do not wish the judge and jury to be inveigled into giving that young whelp the benefit of any doubt whatsoever.’
‘Oh, quite,’ said Dover, the smirk beginning to seep off his face.
‘You are quite confident that this has been achieved?’
Dover cleared his throat. ‘Oh, yes.’
‘And you, sergeant?’
MacGregor all but jumped out of his skin as this question was suddenly barked at him. ‘Me, sir?’ he stammered.
‘Yes, you!’
‘Well . . . ’ MacGregor was in somewhat of a quandary. Personal integrity and loyalty to his senior officer struggled within him. Personal integrity should have won hands down but the Chief Inspector could turn very nasty at times. Especially when he was crossed. MacGregor gulped. ‘It’s rather difficult to give you that kind of assurance, sir,’ he floundered. ‘It’s very rarely that we can tie up absolutely every loose end. In any investigation there are always a few points which don’t seem to fit into the general pattern.’ He shot a sideways glance at Dover’s blood-infused and lowering face. ‘Just minor points, of course, sir.’
‘Let’s be hearing them,’ said Mr Wibbley grimly.
MacGregor looked appealingly at Dover. Dover scowled ferociously back.
‘Come on!’ snapped Mr Wibbley. ‘If there are some discrepancies we’ll have them now—not sprung on us in the assize court.’
MacGregor sighed. He had been pushed across the Rubicon. ‘Well, sir, I’m not entirely happy about Perking’s motive for the murder. There seems to be no material gain involved for him and they appear to have been a very devoted couple. The only cloud on their horizon appears to have been the lack of a child, and yet Perking is supposed to have killed his wife within hours of hearing that she was at last pregnant.’
Dover opened his mouth.
‘You hold your tongue!’ rasped Mr Wibbley. ‘Anything else, sergeant?’
‘Well, sir, on the afternoon that she was murdered Mrs Perking had a visitor. This in itself was most unusual because, according to the neighbours, nobody ever called. The visitor, a man, left at about twenty-five past five. Mrs Perking was not seen alive after he left the house and, according to the doctor’s estimate, the murder could have taken place as early as half past four, sir.’
‘Who is this man?’
‘We don’t know,’ Dover broke in irritably. ‘It’s of no damned importance,
