Mr Wibbley looked astounded. ‘You are complaining because your daughter didn’t marry a murderer?’ he howled.
Ottilia got her last thrust in. ‘John would not have been a murderer’, she said, ‘if Mildred had been his wife.’
‘She’s got a point there, sir,’ said MacGregor as he pocketed his change. ‘It takes two to make a murder: the killer and his victim.’
Dover poured the best part of a pint of bitter straight down his throat. ‘Phew, that’s better!’ He belched loudly and finished off the rest of the beer. ‘Well, since you twist my arm, laddie, I’ll have the same again.’
They were sitting in the saloon bar of the nearest public house. Dover had headed for it, like a pigeon returning to its loft, as soon as they had extricated themselves from the court room.
The various members of the Wibbley and Sinclair families had continued washing their dirty linen for a considerable time and with much gusto. Grudges which had been rankling for years were dragged out and polished up. The Wibbleys, accused of being jumped-up artisans, retaliated by branding the Sinclairs as impoverished snobs. The ridiculous clothes worn by old Mrs Wibbley at her son’s wedding twenty-odd years ago were neutralized by the disgusting behaviour of Sir Quintin Sinclair on the same happy occasion. In the joy of battle none of the participants gave much thought to the grievous and tragic circumstances which had brought them together. At long last, however, both sides ran out of effective ammunition and they parted. The Wibbleys swept off in an impressive array of Rolls-Royces and Bentleys and foreign sports cars while the entire Sinclair representation piled, together with six smelly Yorkshire terriers, into one battered Morris Minor.
‘Get us a packet of crisps while you’re about it,’ said Dover as MacGregor slid over the second pint of beer. ‘I dunno,’ he went on, ‘I reckon Perking is a bad ’un through and through. Born to hang. Got what you might call a predilection for murder. Look what he did to me!’ Dover examined his face in the mirror behind the bar. ‘Came at me like a ruddy maniac, he did. Eyes staring, foaming at the mouth. I know he only looks a little tich of a chap, but they’ve got the strength of ten when they go berserk like that.’
‘You think he’s insane then, sir?’
Dover choked on his beer. ‘No, I damned well don’t!’ he spluttered. ‘He’s as compos mentis as I am. And don’t let me catch you spreading it around that he’s potty. That’d put the blooming kibosh on everything.’
‘I really don’t see why, sir.’ MacGregor, in a seemingly casual manner, edged his stool two or three inches away from Dover’s. There was no doubt about it. The Chief Inspector had got B.O. in a big way. ‘I can’t see that it makes much difference.’
‘You wouldn’t,’ groused Dover and shuffled his stool closer to MacGregor. It was difficult to know quite how to express what he wanted to say. Had MacGregor been a more sympathetic, broad-minded character one could have spoken frankly to him. But the truth of the matter was that MacGregor was a sanctimonious, straight-laced young prig and wouldn’t for one moment understand the special relationship which existed between Dover and Mr Wibbley. How could Dover reveal to this unwordly idealist that Dover’s future well-being depended on John Perking being kept in prison for the rest of his life. Dover knew the Mr Wibbleys of this world only too well: no stinging condemnation by the trial judge meant no affluent sinecure for the ex-Detective Chief Inspector: no public outcry at Perking’s heinous crime and Dover could sweat it out in Scotland Yard until he retired. And sweat it out was right, too. It wouldn’t have been so bad, Dover thought disconsolately, if he could just sit on his backside and take it easy, but there were too many people gunning for him. The Assistant Commissioner himself, to name but one. At his last meeting for his senior officers he was reliably reported as blaming the entire rise in the rates of undetected crime on the continued presence of Dover on the police payroll. And it was an open secret that there was an O.B.E. waiting for the man who got rid of him. Dover had few illusions about the security of his tenure. It was all jealousy, of course, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t got to watch his step. He couldn’t even trust his sergeant, he thought bitterly, as he watched that young man waiting with resignation for him to continue the conversation.
‘Well, it does,’ said Dover.
‘Does what, sir?’
‘Make a difference, you damned fool!’ Dover gazed into the depths of his tankard. ‘I don’t know quite how I can put this to you, MacGregor, but for a chap like me this business of solving crimes and bringing the villain to book is sort of like a crusade.’
MacGregor’s eyebrows rose.
‘Yes,’ said Dover, rather satisfied with his comparison, ‘like a crusade. Being a copper isn’t just a job for me —it’s what you might call a mission. I feel I’m here to make this country a decent place to live in. To the best of my poor ability,’ he added modestly. ‘So, you see, getting a lousy little burk like Perking convicted really matters to me.’
‘Well, it matters to me, too, sir,’ said MacGregor, drawing his head away as far as he could. ‘After all, it’s a question of
