‘Of course, sir, this Nayland Perking went to see, he could just be an ordinary client of some sort. It may have nothing at all to do with our inquiries.’
‘True,’ agreed Dover with an infuriating reasonableness.
‘Miss Bloxwich was not the most reliable of witnesses, sir. She was inclined to dramatize a bit, don’t you think? I mean, Perking probably behaved in a perfectly normal manner when he returned to the travel agency.’
‘Probably,’ said Dover with a smirk.
Dr Nayland didn’t even have a brass plate to his name. His surgery had once been a shop. The window had been painted over in a streaky opaque white paint except for a narrowish strip along the top. On the white paint, in gold letters, were displayed Dr Nayland’s particulars: Dr J. J. J. Nayland, M.D., B.S., L.R.C.P., M.C. Hours of Consultation: By appointment.
Dover read the notice slowly. The gold paint was in an advanced stage of decay and Dover’s eyesight wasn’t as sharp as it had been.
‘Mm,’ he said at last.
‘Perhaps we should have phoned first, sir?’ said MacGregor, standing on tip-toe in an effort to look over the white paint.
‘Hm,’ said Dover. ‘Well, don’t lounge around all day —see if the door’s open!’
It was. The old shop bell was still functioning and gave a loud ping as MacGregor, with Dover hot on his heels, stepped across the threshold.
They found themselves in a dimly-lit room, crammed with enormous benches which were evidently the former property of the old London & North-Eastern Railway. The walls were decorated with a proliferation of framed diplomas and photographs. Dover ambled over to have a look at some of them. A little to his surprise he discovered many faces that he knew: General de Gaulle, the late President Kennedy, Haile Selassie, all the four Beatles, Sir Laurence Olivier, Maria Callas and a goodly quota of members of the Royal Family. All, according to the inscriptions, were fulsomely indebted to J. J. J. Nayland for his superb care and medical attention and all had remarkably similar handwriting.
The door leading to the back of the shop opened and a man stood there, looking at his visitors.
‘Aha! Good morning, good morning, good morning!’ The newcomer moved forward a few steps. ‘Oh,’ he said in a very wary voice.
‘Dr Nayland?’ asked MacGregor crisply.
The man hesitated. ‘Yes,’ he admitted. He came further into the room, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his off-white coat and swaying slightly in his suede boots. His face was adorned with an enormous Battle of Britain moustache and round his neck was, as MacGregor alone noticed, a Brigade of Guards tie. ‘What can I do for you chaps?’
‘As if you didn’t know,’ said Dover disagreeably.
Dr Nayland sagged a little. Even his moustache drooped. ‘I say,’ he said, ‘steady on, old man. A chap’s innocent until he’s proved guilty, isn’t he?’
Dover sat himself down on the nearest waiting-room bench. ‘Let’s be having it,’ he rumbled.
‘Having what?’ Dr Nayland glared indignantly. ‘You dicks never change the record, do you? Let’s hear the charge first and then I’ll see whether I’m going to make a statement or not.’
‘Ho, ho!’ sneered Dover. ‘We shall have to watch our step, MacGregor. We’ve got one of the old hands here.’
‘What’s past is past,’ snapped Dr Nayland pettishly. ‘I’m reinstated now. You blighters never give a chap a chance, do you? I notice you never go pounding up and down Harley Street in your great big boots. Oh no, not you lot! But you’ll try and lean on me for doing the same blooming thing, won’t you? Just because my patients aren’t wealthy society ladies or young gentlemen with uncles in the House of Lords! Makes me sick, it really does! Well, come on—what’s the bloody charge?’
‘No charge,’ said Dover, revealing his dentures in a grin. ‘We’re just making inquiries, that’s all.’
‘Oh?’ Dr Nayland tossed his head. ‘Well, we all know what that means, don’t we? No bloody evidence, eh? Nothing that’ll stand up in a court of law, eh? Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. She’s mentally deficient that girl, you know, and a lousy little trouble-maker into the bargain. Nobody in their right senses’d believe a word that little tart says. And she’s got a record as long as your arm — did you know that?’
‘No,’ said Dover with remarkable good humour, ‘I didn’t.’
‘Well, she has.’ Dr Nayland nodded his head vigorously. ‘And so’s that brother of hers. I suppose he’s in it, too? Well, wherever he got ’em from he didn’t get ’em from me. Good grief, I’m an ex-officer of the Royal Army Medical Corps— do you think I don’t know how to look after my drugs? Thousands of pounds’ worth I had under my care during the war and never a single audit query.’
‘Do you know a man called John Perking?’ Dover asked suddenly.
Dr Nayland blinked, screwed his face up in thought and then shook his head.
‘He’s a patient of yours,’ Dover asserted with authority.
‘A patient?’ Dr Nayland thrust his hands even deeper into his pockets. ‘Oh well, in that case you’d hardly expect me to remember his name, would you, old man? So many of ’em, you see.’ He waved one hand vaguely round the empty waiting room. ‘Can’t keep tabs on ’em all.’
‘Doesn’t the name John Perking mean anything to you?’ MacGregor asked.
‘No. Should it?’
‘He’s Daniel Wibbley’s son-in-law.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘It’s been in all the papers,’ said MacGregor severely.
‘Never read ’em, old man. Got enough to do keeping up with all the medical bumph we poor old saw-bones have to read these days.’
‘John Perking has been arrested for murdering his wife.’
‘Blimey!’ Wide eyes stared at MacGregor over the bushy moustache. Dr Nayland looked hopefully at the door leading out to the street and apparently decided that he’d never make it. He turned towards his surgery. ‘Hang on a minute, old chap, there’s something I’ve just
