‘Suppose you just tell us about the car numbers,’ suggested MacGregor, more sensitive to the danger signals coming from Dover than the others in the room. ‘Young – er – Leofric has got a note of the number of the old taxi outside the squatters’ house, has he?’
The Arnfields reacted to this blatant theft of their rightful thunder in their several ways but, as was usual in that menage, only Master Leofric’s frustration cut any ice. Bawling and screaming like a stuck pig, the child was shepherded out of the room by his mother while a sour-faced Mr Arnfield sourly revealed all to those heartless brutes who didn’t seem to realise how impressionable some kiddies were.
Dover was as intent on cutting through Gordian knots as any latter-day and hungry Alexander the Great. He stared in disgust at the large, dog-eared exercise book which had been reverently placed in his lap. ‘What the bloody hell’s this?’ Being a nine-stone weakling, Mr Arnfield could only pray for a heavenly thunderbolt to fight his battles for him. ‘It’s Leofric’s record of motor-car registration numbers,’ he said stiffly.
‘There are rather a lot, aren’t there?’ asked MacGregor, removing the compilation from Dover’s nerveless fingers.
Mr Arnfield drew himself up. ‘Leofric has been collecting car numbers since he was five.’
Dover turned wrathfully on Inspector Horton. ‘What the blazes are we supposed to do with this load of old rubbish? Start checking the whole bloody shoot?’
‘I’m sure that won’t prove necessary, sir.’ Inspector Horton took hold of the exercise book in his turn. ‘The registration number of the kidnappers’ taxi will naturally be amongst the more recent entries. I suggest that all we need do is start at the end and work backwards. It shouldn’t be too much trouble to. . .’
Mr Arnfield cleared his throat. ‘Er – I’m at raid it won’t be quite as simple as that, inspector. Well,’ he bleated as three pairs of stony eyes were trained on him, ‘you can hardly expect a little boy to be as methodical as all that.’
‘Come on!’ said Dover, starting to fight his way out of the clutches of the Arnfields’ three-piece suite.
Mr Arnfield watched these struggles with an anxious gaze. How was he ever going to face his son again if. . . ‘Leofric does have a system, though,’ he said quickly.
Dover sank thankfully back into the cut moquette and held out his empty sherry glass.
‘Leofric keeps the numbers in separate sections,’ explained Mr Arnfield, taking the stopper out of the decanter. ‘One for the cars he spots on holiday. One for those noted at his grandmother’s. Another for those he sees at school. And so on.’
‘And one for those he sees at home?’ asked MacGregor, getting hold of the exercise book again and riffling through the pages with more hope. He looked up. ‘There are no headings!’ he pointed out in a prosecuting counsel voice, having picked up one or two unpleasant habits in his long association with Dover. ‘How are we supposed to tell which is which?’
‘Leofric would know,’ said Mr Arnfield, only too well aware that this wasn’t going to be a popular observation. ‘He might be persuaded to tell us which particular page is devoted to Flamborough Close.’
‘Can’t you pick out the page?’ asked Inspector Horton. ‘I mean, you must know the numbers of your neighbours’ cars. Once you find the page they’re on . . .’
But Mr Arnfield had to live with Leofric. ‘I don’t think that would be exactly cricket,’ he said primly. ‘We try to respect Leofric’s rights as a person, you know.’
Luckily MacGregor was not the only one who had spotted that Dover and Leofric were kindred spirits. Dover had noticed it, too. ‘How much does the little swine want?’ he demanded bluntly.
Mr Arnfield went to find out.
Leofric wanted a quid.
Dover was indignant. ‘The greedy little bastard! He’s not getting a penny more than ten bob!’ He turned to MacGregor ‘Give him a fifty-pence piece. I know that type. They can never resist the feel of hard cash.’
Out in the kitchen the seven-year-old succumbed to Dover’s superior guile and agreed to point out the page containing the Flamborough Close numbers in return for the shiny coin. He refused flatly, however, to return to the lounge.
‘No skin off my nose!’ grunted Dover as Mr Arnfield departed once more, furnished this time with Leofric’s exercise book.
In less than a minute, he was back with his finger carefully inserted in what little Leofric claimed was the page they wanted. Whether he was right, nobody any longer either knew or cared. As Dover said, for fifty lousy pence it was worth the risk.
Dover’s luncheon in the Bar Sinister of the FitzCrispin Arms was prolonged, predominantly liquid and very expensive. Inspector Horton, who found himself in – as they say – the chair, didn’t usually patronise so recherche a hostelry but he had on reflection decided not to import Dover into the more friendly atmosphere of the Dog and Duck. Inspector Horton was well known and well liked in the Dog and Duck and he wanted to keep things that way.
At three o’clock the party, which not even the excessive consumption of alcohol had managed to make convivial, broke up and Dover headed back to the Yard with the firm intention of sleeping it off behind his desk until he could safely depart for hearth and home.
He had barely unscrewed his bowler hat from the grooves in his forehead when there came a tap at the door and a world weary man lugging a large, box-like container popped his head round the door.
‘Dan, Dan, the Photofit man!’ he announced as he squeezed himself into the room.
Dover could see his afternoon nap going for a Burton. Speedily manoeuvring his body he tried to deny ingress to the newcomer. ‘Shove off!’ he advised. ‘We’re busy! Come back tomorrow!’
Dan, Dan, the Photofit man was slim and supple. He shimmied past Dover and deposited his equipment on the chief inspector’s desk. ‘’Fraid I’m
