‘I don’t think there’s much we can do at the moment, sir From the point of view of further investigations, I mean. In my estimation, we’ve done about all we can.’
‘Oh?’
‘We’ve checked that letter for fingerprints, sir, and there aren’t any. Dover’s warrant card and the envelope are still down in the lab but I doubt if they’ll get anything much off’ them. The envelope was posted in this part of London between seven-thirty and nine last night and just addressed to “New Scotland Yard”. Paper and envelope – cheap, mass-produced stuff you can buy anywhere. Sent first-class post and the stamp moistened with a sponge so we can’t even come up with somebody’s blood group. These lads aren’t making any stupid mistakes, sir.’
‘It’s all these damned detective stories and cops and robbers on the telly,’ grumbled the Assistant Commissioner (Crime). ‘The way I see it, you might as well damned well publish a handbook of do’s and don’ts for villains.’
Commander Brockhurst knew better than to let his boss climb into the saddle of that particular hobby-horse. ‘And I’ve had a word with Special Branch, sir.’
‘Special Branch?’ The Assistant Commissioner (Crime) buried his face in his hands. ‘Don’t tell me you think Dover’s been snatched by the agents of some foreign power!’
‘I just thought Special Branch might have come across these “Claret Tappers”, sir, though I must admit they sound more like one of these pop groups than a subversive political organisation.’
‘And had they?’
Commander Brockhurst shook a leonine head. ‘Never heard of them, sir. Not that that means anything, apparently. These political groups come and go like mushrooms in a wet field.’ Commander Brockhurst’s farming antecedents were slightly more remote than he realised. ‘The chap in Special Branch was quite intrigued, though. Seems it’s the first time anybody’s tried to snatch a copper. He reckoned it might start a fashion. The commander grinned ruefully. ‘There’s not so much public sympathy for the victim, you see, sir, if they have to bump him off.’
The Assistant Commissioner (Crime) spurned the red herring of police/public relations. ‘They’re sure it’s political?’
‘What else can it be, sir?’ asked Commander Brockhurst, shrugging a pair of very ample shoulders. ‘The policeman’s a symbol of law and order, a pillar of the Establishment, a willing lackey of the capitalist system. Tailor-made for a job like this, if you ask me.’
The Assistant Commissioner (Crime) was trying to give up smoking. Pie got his bag of boiled sweets out. ‘It could be criminal. D’you want one, Tom? Money the main object, of course, but a touch of revenge mixed in as well.’ He selected a pineapple drop and unwrapped it slowly. ‘Somebody with a grudge, eh? The underworld’ – he perked up visibly as the telling phrase sprang to his lips – ‘getting its own back!’
Commander Brockhurst managed to keep his astonishment within bounds. ‘On Wilf Dover, sir? To the best of my knowledge, he’s been the best friend the underworld’s had this century! The man’s a crying disgrace to the entire Metropolitan Police Force and the fact that my Murder Squad’s had to put up with him all these years is little short of scandalous. I’ve. . .’
‘Yes, yes!’ The Assistant Commissioner (Crime) had heard all these gripes about Detective Chief Inspector Dover a thousand times before and, if there had been anything to be done about it, he would have done it years ago. The snag was that Dover knew just how far he could go. He was lazy, inefficient, stupid, prone to bullying and probably dishonest, but it is notoriously difficult to get rid of a policeman without some pretty solid proof. It was just this solid proof that Dover, so far, had been canny enough not to provide. In spite of being obscenely overweight, he had elevated the craft of skating on thin ice to a tine art. A thousand times his eager superiors thought they had got him, but a thousand times he emerged, thanks to good luck and low cunning, smelling of roses. The Assistant Commissioner (Crime) sighed. ‘You can’t tell me anything about Dover that I don’t already know. Still, keep your fingers crossed, Tom!’ Rather unexpectedly the Assistant Commissioner screwed his face up into a broad wink. ‘All may not yet be lost.’
‘Sir?’
The Assistant Commissioner suppressed an unworthy thought about none being so blind as those who won’t see. ‘The mortality rate amongst kidnap victims is extraordinarily high.’
‘Ah!’ The commander’s rubicund face cleared and he returned the Assistant Commissioner’s wink. ‘All the more reason, if I may say so, sir, for leaving no stone unturned. Just in case our actions are subjected to scrutiny at some later date.’
‘Quite.’ The Assistant Commissioner frowned and jammed the brakes on his imagination. Alluring as a future without that slob Dover might be, Tom Brockhurst was right – all the motions must be gone through meticulously. ‘Now, how do you suggest we handle this reply they want on the telly?’ Commander Brockhurst picked up the typewritten letter again. ‘They want a spokesman to appear in the Nine O’Clock News to announce acceptance of their terms for the return of Dover. Hm. That’s BBC 1, isn’t it? Well, I think we’ll have to comply with the demand, sir, if only to give us more time. Er – you’ll be the spokesman, will you, sir?’
The Assistant Commissioner (Crime) was very proud of his profile. ‘Who else?’ He smirked modestly and smoothed his hair down. ‘By the way, how’s Sergeant MacGregor taking all this?’
‘I hear they’ve had to give him a sedative, sir He’s over the moon. He’s had his bellyfull of working with Dover all these years. He puts in an application for transfer at least once a week.’
‘Application for transfer to what?’ asked the Assistant Commissioner curiously.
‘To anything, sir. Last time he wanted to join the Bomb Disposal Squad, if I remember correctly. And before that it was a course for Dog Handlers. You
