‘Strewth!’ exclaimed Dover, blundering into a rack of vaguely Oriental-looking draperies.
The boutique was small and dark and apparently crammed from floor to ceiling with weird and wispy garments piled in untidy heaps and draped over every available surface. MacGregor gave Dover a shove in the back and achieved the six inches necessary to enable him to close the door behind them.
Dover fought off a long woolly muffler which was threatening to engulf him. ‘Funny smell,’ he complained.
‘It’s new clothes, sir,’ explained MacGregor. The buttons on his coat sleeve got caught up in some knitted garments and by the time he had freed himself he sensed that somebody was watching him. Peering round a pile of soft peaked caps in faded blue denim, he located the counter and, behind the counter, a pair of bright and beady eyes peeped up out of the darkness at him. The eyes belonged to a very small, bird-like woman who, once she realised she’d been spotted, moved forward slightly.
‘Can I help you?’
From behind MacGregor came a grunt of satisfaction. Dover, having found a chair, had duly sat down on it. In a better humour now that he’d got the weight off his feet, he took it upon himself to answer the tiny lady’s query. ‘Yes, I’m looking for a bright pink mini-skirt and young hopeful here’d like to see what you’ve got in gold lame blouses.’
‘We’re from the police,’ said MacGregor quickly, producing his warrant card and passing it across the counter. ‘From Scotland Yard.’
‘Are you here in an official capacity?’ asked the tiny lady.
‘Blimey!’ objected Dover impatiently. ‘We don’t look like customers, do we?’
The tiny lady’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Oh, you’d be surprised at some of the people who come in here,’ she whispered. ‘They don’t even pretend that they’re looking for a wee present for a sweetheart or a wife. Sometimes I hardly know where to look. And such big, hairy men, too! Oh dear,’ – she fetched up a sigh of incredible depth and pathos – ‘when I think what this shop used to be in the old days! Such a nice class of lady! And such lovely wee clothes! People used to come from as far off as Swindon to purchase our all-wool spencers, you know, and our. . .’
‘Actually,’ MacGregor broke in apologetically, ‘we are making enquiries about this blue suede jacket.’ He produced the garment from his brief case.
I he tiny lady took it with regret. ‘I know one ought to be prosecuted for selling such rubbish, but it’s not really against the laws is it? Of course, in the old days before we were taken over – when we were still Clarissa Modes – we wouldn’t have had trash like this in the shop then. Not even for the sales.’
‘A girl bought that coat here,’ said Dover, rushing in where poor devils like MacGregor hesitated to tread. ‘Who was she?’
‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ said the tiny lady, turning back the collar of the jacket, ‘but this garment was bought in London, not here. You can see from the wee label. All garments offered for sale in this establishment bear our own label – Naicewhere, Bath. Mr Diamantopoulos calls it “personalising the merchandise”.’ The tone of voice in which the tiny lady made this last observation was probably actionable under the Race Relations Act.
Dover sat back and left it to MacGregor to sort that particular mess out.
The tiny lady’s face cleared. ‘Ah, I see! Not this actual garment but one similar to it.’
‘With your label on it,’ said MacGregor. ‘Can you remember selling it?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘To a young woman?’
‘All our customers are young. It’s Mr Diamantopoulos’s policy to aim at the teenage market.’
MacGregor tried the Photofit pictures and there was a moment of triumph as the tiny lady unhesitatingly picked one out. ‘That’s that poor girl they found butchered in the Crescent, isn’t it? Why, it must be five years ago at least. Does this mean that you’ve caught the murderer at last?’
MacGregor collected up his pictures and got down to doing things the hard way. ‘flow many of these blue suede jackets did you sell?’
The tiny lady considered. ‘Not more than half a dozen. It wasn’t a popular line. Apart from being incredibly hideous and very badly made, they were rather on the expensive side for our clientele.’
‘Do your customers have accounts?’
The tiny lady shook her head. ‘Mr Diamantopoulos doesn’t believe in extending credit. He’s not very keen on cheques, either.’
‘So most of your customers pay cash?’ MacGregor’s hopes dribbled away. It was obvious that he and Dover were marching resolutely up yet another blind alley.
‘Sometimes it seems more like soap coupons and wee Green Shield stamps!’ tittered the tiny lady, making a tiny joke.
Dover moved fractiously on his chair and, looking up at MacGregor, gave him the thumbs-down sign. MacGregor was loathe to admit defeat but there seemed little point in prolonging the agony. He risked one last question.
‘Can you remember when it was you had these coats in stock? Was it recently?’
‘Oh, no.’ The little lady looked happier as she saw that her two visitors were preparing to leave. ‘About a year ago. They were part of our spring stock.’
‘And you’d sold them all by when?’
The tiny lady frowned. ‘Two we didn’t sell. They were returned to our central depot to make room for the summer stock coming in. That would be just after Easter.’
MacGregor immolated himself on a rack of plastic shower coats as Dover moved relentlessly towards the door. ‘But that means you only sold four of these coats, doesn’t it? Are you sure you can’t remember any of the girls you sold them to?’
The tiny lady was genuinely sorry. ‘I try to put everything that happens in
