Mr Wibbley laughed shortly. ‘Enough to cover his funeral expenses, I hope. Throughout their entire history the Sinclairs have lived up to and beyond their incomes. Sir Quintin has been no exception. I have no hesitation in admitting that marrying into that family was one of the few mistakes of my entire business career. My father warned me that they were a collection of whited sepulchres but, at the time, I thought I knew better. I have really no idea how much Sir Quintin will leave. Five or six thousand, perhaps? I doubt very much if it will be more. However, none of this has any bearing on my daughter’s murder and, since that is now your chief concern, I shall not detain you any longer. I should like her husband charged with the murder as soon as possible but not before you have a cast-iron case against him. Should you wish any further information I shall be at your disposal at any hour of the day or night, but kindly ring my secretary first for an appointment.’
Dover rose laboriously and thankfully to his feet but Mr Wibbley had not quite finished with him.
‘I was wondering, Dover, if perhaps, when this business has been cleared up, you might be able to help me on another matter. I am thinking of introducing a new position in my business—Director of Security. I shall be looking for a man who has had considerable police experience, at Scotland Yard, perhaps. I imagine the salary will be around four thousand pounds a year and there will be the usual perks, of course—a company house, a car—you know the sort of thing. You may be able to recommend a colleague, perhaps, who would be suitable? I make only one stipulation. He must be a man who carries out his duties successfully and one who would fulfill any wishes I might have to the letter. You — er— understand?’
A wink is as good as a nod. Dover emerged from the study, clutching his bowler hat and his overcoat and feeling somewhat overcome. Four thousand pounds a year and perks! He, Wilfred Dover, had actually been offered a bribe of four thousand pounds a year and perks! It was unbelievable!
MacGregor got up from a chair in the hall. ‘Gosh, sir, you’ve been in there hours V
Dover stared vacantly at him. And it had all been done so delicately. He was a real gentleman, Mr Wibbley was —when you got to know him. Dover was touched. There were few occasions in his career when he bad been offered a bribe, and never one of such magnitude. Most criminals preferred to trust to his well-known incompetence and save their ill-gotten gains.
‘You must be worn out, sir,’ said MacGregor with an entirely self-orientated sympathy.
All he’d got to do, thought Dover gleefully, was shove Mr Wibbley’s murderous son-in-law in the nick and then collect the jackpot. And he’d tell ’em a few home truths at the Yard when he handed in his resignation! They’d turn bright green with envy when they heard. He’d show ’em! All these years he’d been held back and passed over and trampled on — he’d show ’em! Thought he was a clapped-out old dead-beat, did they? Said he was bone idle and wouldn’t recognize a clue if it was handed to him on a plate, did they? Well, he who laughs last, laughs longest. And with four thousand a year and a house and a car, Chief Inspector Wilfred Dover would be laughing so loud . . .
‘I expect he was very cut up about it, was he, sir?’ MacGregor was getting worried. The thought that some benign providence had struck his lord and master deaf and dumb was a heady one, but MacGregor rejected it. He knew his luck. Still, the old fool was behaving in a most peculiar way. MacGregor had expected him to come storming out of the study cursing like a trooper and demanding to be conveyed to his bed without delay.
‘Sir . . . ?’ MacGregor began again.
Dover continued to stare straight through him. It was a just reward, really, for all those miserable years when he’d been forced to work for a living. Four thouand pounds and a house and a car! And for what? Just for running in the yobbo who’d done the murder in the first place. Well, he —Dover—had better get on with it. He didn’t want to keep Mr Wibbley waiting, did he?
The blank, dazed look on Dover’s face faded and was replaced by his habitual scowl. ‘Wadderyersay?’ he snarled.
MacGregor sighed. Things were getting back to normal. ‘I was just wondering if Mr Wibbley was very upset about his daughter’s death, sir.’
‘Huh,’ said Dover.
‘Chief Inspector Bream’s scared stiff of him, you know, sir. It seems he’s practically God Almighty here in Pott Winckle. Oh, and by the way, sir, that Rolls and the chauffeur —it appears that Mr Wibbley has placed them at our disposal for the rest of our time here. I’ve got them standing by now.’
‘So I should hope,’ said Dover. ‘Though, knowing you, it’s a miracle that you haven’t packed ’em off to the other end of the county.’
‘Well, I thought you’d want to be getting to the hotel and snatching a bit of rest, sir,’ said MacGregor, dutifully turning the other cheek. ‘After all, you have been up all night, sir.’
Dover was well aware that he’d been up all night and, in normal circumstances, the investigation would have been shelved until he’d caught up with his sleep. But not this investigation! Oh dear me, no! ‘What time is it?’ he demanded.
‘Just gone six, sir.’
For one craven moment Dover wondered if it was worth it.
‘I’ve asked the hotel to lay on an early breakfast for us, sir, and
