It was difficult talking in those near hurricane conditions but MacGregor made the effort:. ‘What is, sir?’
‘Always writing to their bloody MPs!’ shouted Dover, clutching at his bowler hat. ‘Do no more than rest your hand in a friendly way on their bleeding shoulder and they’re bloody threatening you with assault.’ However, Dover was never one to waste his time on theoretical calamities when there were more pressing problems close at hand. ‘How much further to this bloody car?’
‘It’s just by the ninth tee, sir!’ screamed MacGregor, the wind tearing the words out of his throat. ‘Only half a mile!’
‘Jesus!’ gasped Dover and, not being inhibited by any false pride, grabbed hold of MacGregor’s arm and generously allowed him to share the burden.
British Rail was up to its usual tricks and so it was two o’clock in the morning before Dover and MacGregor clambered wearily up the steps of New Scotland Yard and passed through its portals. Even at that ungodly hour there was an air of suppressed excitement about the place which MacGregor found reassuring. Nothing that Dover did or didn’t do could have got things buzzing like that.
Commander Brockhurst was waiting for them in his office. He was stripped down to his shirt sleeves and silk braces and was, figuratively speaking, wearing his naval hat. This was the term disrespectful subordinates used for the occasions when the commander saw himself, blue of eye, tanned of skin and firm of jaw, standing foresquare on the bridge and running a tight ship. It was a bit of play-acting that usually presaged squalls ahead.
Dover and MacGregor were, most untypically, invited to sit down while Commander Brockhurst completed the nautical scene by lighting a rather nasty-looking pipe.
‘What I have to tell you,’ he began, making smoke in a way that would have warmed the heart of any destroyer captain, ‘is strictly confidential. You’re not to breathe a word of it to anybody inside this building, never mind outside it.’ He caught sight of the silly smirk on MacGregor’s face and hastened to make the correction. ‘Except for the other members of the special squad which is being put together for this operation. Now, is the need for absolute secrecy understood?’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘You, too, Dover?’
Dover endeavoured to terminate his jaw-cracking yawn prematurely with the usual disastrous results. Seething with impatience Commander Brockhurst took the watering eyes and contorted features of his bête noire as indicating assent.
‘The Claret Tappers have pulled off another kidnapping job!’
If Commander Brockhurst had expected to startle Dover and MacGregor out of their skins with the news, he was disappointed. They had already worked out for themselves that another kidnapping was a possible explanation for their abrupt recall to London.
‘A police officer again, sir?’ asked MacGregor.
‘The three-month-old grandson of the Prime Minister!’
This time the reaction was all that Commander Brockhurst could have wished. MacGregor’s jaw dropped with a click that was all but audible and even Dover produced a strangled ‘’strewth’, from a dry throat.
‘I’ll bet that’s put the cat amongst the pigeons,’ said MacGregor shakily. ‘Gosh!’
M hope you appreciate the heavy responsibility this places on your shoulders, Dover!’
Dover stared pop-eyed across the desk at the commander and swallowed painfully. His bemused brain managed to recollect that some have greatness thrust upon them – but this was ridiculous. ‘You’re putting me in charge, sir?’ he asked.
Commander Brockhurst caught his pipe just in time and cursed mightily as some of the hot ashes spilled out onto his hand. His reply to Dover’s timid query was appropriately salty but, shortened and expurgated of all obscenities, it still amounted to ‘no’. ‘The Commissioner, himself, is in overall control, of course, but I’m the one who’ll be doing the real work. They’re all trying to get in on the act,’ added Commander Brockhurst bitterly. ‘Special Branch, the Ministry of Defence, the Regional Crime Squad from where the kid was snatched . . . Good God, I’ve even had an inspector from Motorways Patrol on the blower this evening trying to stick his twopenny worth in. And that’s not mentioning that bloody MP who reckons he ought to be running the show because his younger brother once thought of becoming a police cadet.’
MacGregor looked up. ‘So the kidnapping’s not entirely secret, sir?’
‘Well, – Commander Brockhurst had the grace to look a little sheepish – ‘there has been some slight leakage, of course, but it’s not got to go any further. We don’t want the general public getting hold of the story.’
Meanwhile Dover had been experiencing a faint twinge of sympathy for Commander Brockhurst. It was a lousy business when you got yourself lumbered with a job that was destined to involve you in endless labour and then end in tears. Fortified by a lifetime’s experience of shirking, Dover had spotted a way out and now generously offered it to his superior. ‘You want to tell ’em where to stick it!’ he advised. ‘Kidnapping’s not your pigeon. You’re the boss of the Murder Squad and kidnapping’s not murder, is it?’
Commander Brockhurst had neither the time nor the inclination to ponder on the mystery of how Dover always alighted with such unerring accuracy on the inessentials of any problem. ‘I have been put in charge of this investigation, Dover, for two damned good reasons. One – it is a murder case. The Claret Tappers killed the au pair girl who’d been left in charge of the baby. And, two – you’re the only person who’s been in direct contact with the kidnapping gang and you happen to be under my command. Now, let’s get one thing straight right at the beginning, Dover!’ Commander Brockhurst leaned across his desk and thrust his chin out more pugnaciously than ever. ‘Whatever else happens,
