‘You know what the general public are like, sir,’ he whispered. ‘They like to look upon us policemen as their friends.’
‘More fools them!’ scoffed Dover.
‘Suppose it gets in the newspapers, sir? And they say that you, a senior Scotland Yard detective, were on the spot and didn’t do anything to help? The Commissioner would be livid, sir. You know how he feels about public relations.’
Dover scowled. ‘If she’s going to jump, she’ll jump, won’t she?’ he grumbled. ‘And if she isn’t, she won’t. There’s nothing I can do about it.’
‘You could try, sir.’
‘And suppose I go and natter at her and off she pops, eh? They’ll blame it all on me, won’t they? That won’t do our public image much bloody good, will it?’
‘Well, will you let me have a shot at it, sir?’
Dover liked this idea even less. ‘I’ll give her five minutes’, he announced generously, ‘and that’s all.’ He glared at Dr Moreton. ‘What’s her blasted name?’
‘Mildred,’ obliged Dr Moreton quickly, ‘Mildred Denny. She’s a cousin of that girl who was murdered the other day. I don’t know if that’s what’s upset her.’
Chapter Fifteen
To THOSE who only know Chief Inspector Dover in his lethargic, permanently-hibemating-dormouse mood, his reaction to Dr Moreton’s casual remark would come as a revelation. Bouncing with fury he bawled orders in all directions—orders which when they weren’t unintelligible were contradictory. MacGregor and Dr Moreton scuttled hither and thither in panic-stricken attempts to round up the skittish nurses and clear them out of the storeroom. The nurses and the assorted medical auxiliaries who had manoeuvred themselves into seats in the front row were loath to relinquish them and a couple of hospital porters actually squared up to MacGregor and asked him how he’d like a punch up the nose.
‘Why wasn’t I told?’ screamed Dover, getting very red and very hoarse. ‘Why wasn’t I told? I’m surrounded by certifiable cretins, that’s what it is!’ He seized his bowler hat and in an excess of emotion rammed it even further down on his head.
MacGregor, looking shop-worn, panted up to report. ‘We’ve got the room cleared, sir, but it’d take a company of guardsmen with fixed bayonets to shift ’em off the top floor. They’re all leaning out of the other storeroom windows and as soon as we move them out of one room they pick another lock and fill up another.’
‘Moron!’ snarled Dover. ‘Call yourself a copper? I’ve seen better policemen than you in mouldy cheese.’
‘If you’d like to come this way, sir,’ said MacGregor, nobly turning the other cheek, ‘I think we can get you through. If you’d just stick close behind me, sir.’
They charged in tandem through the closely-packed ranks of interested spectators. In answer to MacGregor’s warning yell Dr Moreton opened the storeroom door at exactly the right moment. As soon as the two policemen were safely inside the door was slammed to and a couple of large packing cases were dragged across to form a barricade.
Dover looked round for something to gripe about. He found it. ‘Who’s that?’
‘This is Mr Whitbread, the hospital chaplain,’ said Dr Moreton. ‘We thought he might be able to help.’
‘C. of E.,’ said Mr Whitbread with a toothy smile. ‘I’m quite prepared to go out there, you know. I haven’t much of a head for heights and I may be the grandfather of our little party here, but I’m quite prepared to go out there.’ He smoothed down his shock of snow-white hair.
Dover ignored him. ‘Where is she, the bitch?’
‘You’ll have to lean right out of this window, sir,’ MacGregor explained, ‘and sort of twist yourself round and upwards to your left. You’ll see her standing on the roof six or seven feet above you.’
‘I’ll deal with you later,’ Dover informed him as he pushed past and headed for the already open window. Carefully removing his bowler hat he stuck his head out and got a faceful of rain for his trouble. He looked down into the courtyard, which was a mistake because the hospital was a Victorian building of imposing height. Dover clung, limpet-like, to the window still.
‘You’ll have to lean further out than that, sir, or you won’t be able to see her.’
Dover risked another inch and took a quick glance upwards. Thanks to the overhang of the roof he couldn’t see anything. He pulled back into the room. ‘I think she’s jumped,’ he said with ill-concealed relief. ‘I can’t see her.’
MacGregor had a look. ‘No, sir, she’s still there. You’ll have to lean right out, sir. Perhaps if I held on to your legs . . . ?’
Mr Whitbread broke off his prayers. ‘I’m quite prepared to have a go, you know. Quite prepared. My arthritis is hardly worrying me at all today, in spite of the inclement weather.’ Dover addressed MacGregor. ‘You hold on to the tails of my overcoat, and just see you hold on hard. If you let me slip . . . ’ He left the threat unfinished.
MacGregor gripped two handfuls of Dover’s coat as the Chief Inspector poked his torso gingerly out of the window again. As he took the weight of Dover’s seventeen and a quarter stone he was tempted. He would hardly have been human if he hadn’t. However the presence of witnesses prevented the thought from fathering the deed.
Dover could now see a pair of rain-sodden shoes. That was good enough for him. He filled his lungs and let fly.
‘Hey!’
The rain-sodden shoes leapt a good four inches into the air. There
