Dover produced a sad smile. ‘Ah, pride!’ He shook his head in gentle reproof. ‘No, whatever anybody might say about me, I don’t think they could accuse me of being proud. No, I think my attitude to criminals is a more humble one than yours, laddie. More Christian, really.’
‘Christian, sir?’
‘Yes,’ said Dover truculently, beginning to wonder why on earth he’d ever started this. ‘I want to see ’em suffer.’ He heard the sharp intake of MacGregor’s breath. ‘Well, and what’s wrong with that, eh? They’ve done wrong—haven’t they? —and they’ve damned well got to pay for it. I can’t see anything wrong with that. I suppose you’re one of these blasted namby-pamby interfering bastards who’d just give ’em a pat on the head and say you naughty boy don’t do it again? Make me sick, your sort do! No flogging, no hanging and bedside lamps all round! You want your fat heads examining! It was a bad day for Old England when you nits got hanging stopped. All right, so murdering louts like John Perking can’t swing for it these days. Well, I happen to consider it my bounden duty to see that he pays for it as far as he can. And that doesn’t mean lolling around in comfort in a criminal lunatic asylum.’
MacGregor was feeling a trifle confused. What was he bumbling on about now? ‘Well, I can understand somebody like Mr Wibbley feeling that way, sir, but . . . ’
‘Let me tell you’, snarled Dover, thrusting his face into MacGregor’s, ‘that I couldn’t feel more strongly if Cynthia Perking had been my own daughter. John Perking was a callous, cold-blooded and deliberate murderer and it’s our duty to demonstrate that to the court that convicts and sentences him—get it?’
MacGregor was far from getting it but he dutifully nodded his head. When Dover was in this sort of mood the only safe course was to humour him. Or, if possible, change the conversation. ‘Will you be wanting me for anything special after lunch, sir?’
Dover was instantly suspicious. ‘Why?’
‘Well, to tell you the truth, sir, I’m feeling pretty whacked. I didn’t get to bed at all last night, sir, and . . . ’
‘Marvellous, isn’t it?’ Dover addressed his question to two elderly crones guzzling neat gin at the other end of the bar. They exchanged knowing glances and sniggered. ‘As soon as you’re asked to do a bit of work, you crack up. I don’t know how you’ve got the nerve to ask, honestly I don’t. If I’d said that to my chief inspector when I was a sergeant, he’d have blasted me from here to Halifax. And I’d have deserved it, too. What are you proposing, laddie? That I go slogging on while you have a quiet kip and catch up on your beauty sleep?’
‘Of course not, sir. If there’s work to be done, I shall be only too willing to do it. It’s just that I thought . . . ’
‘Well, there is some work to be done,’ said Dover quickly. ‘As it happens.’
‘Very well, sir,’ said MacGregor stiffly.
There was a pause.
‘Those pies look nice,’ said Dover with a certain wistfulness.
MacGregor glanced at the clock. ‘Won’t it spoil your lunch, sir?’
Dover shook his head and moved the mustard pot nearer to hand. ‘Eat little and often, that’s what the doctor told me.’
MacGregor ordered a pie. ‘What was it you wanted me to do this afternoon, sir?’
‘Eh?’ Dover chewed resentfully on a tough piece of gristle. Trust MacGregor to go and ruin what few pleasures he got these days. No wonder his stomach was in the state it was in when people kept upsetting him every time he took a mouthful of food. The gristle defeated Dover’s dentures and he spat it out on his plate. MacGregor pointedly looked the other way. ‘You’d better check up on that dark-green car, hadn’t you?’ said Dover with sudden inspiration.
‘Dark-green car, sir?’
‘Naturally.’ Dover took another mouthful of pie and spoke through it. ‘Somebody called to see Cynthia Perking that afternoon, didn’t they? All you’ve proved so far is that it wasn’t Topping-Wibbley. Well, that’s not good enough, is it, laddie?’
‘But, sir, I don’t see how we can get any further. We haven’t anything but the barest description to go . . . ’
‘You’d better go round that housing estate again,’ said Dover ruthlessly. ‘Have another chat with those women in Birdsfoot-Trefoil Close. You never know, maybe they’ve remembered something they forgot to tell you the first time you asked ’em.’
‘I doubt it, sir. Of course, sir,’— MacGregor shot a sly look at Dover—‘I’m probably approaching it in quite the wrong manner. I expect if somebody with your skill and experience was to go round and question . . . ’
Dover rose up from his bar stool and began buttoning up his overcoat. ‘Just watch it, laddie,’ he warned. ‘Don’t go pushing your luck.’
Chapter Eleven
‘SEX,’ said Dover with the air of one who has made a significant discovery.
The scene was the pre-breakfast get-together in Dover’s bedroom. The Chief Inspector liked to refer to it as his early- morning conference but this was a trifle grandiose for a meeting which came about only because Dover didn’t like going down to breakfast by himself. As usual he wasn’t ready when MacGregor’s tap was heard. MacGregor poked his head round the door.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, sir. I thought I heard you say come in.’
‘You did,’ said Dover. ‘Well, come on! And get that door closed. It’s like a howling gale blowing through here.’
MacGregor sidled unwillingly into the room and scurried, eyes averted, over to the window. ‘It’s still raining, sir,’ he remarked in a voice that was not perfectly steady.
‘Hm,’ said Dover without much interest. He continued to contemplate his reflection in the full-length mirror. He was wearing nothing but a rather yellowed, rather shrunken, longsleeved woollen vest. ‘Sex,’ he said again and reached for his matching underpants.
‘Sir?’ said MacGregor, not caring to turn
