Dover rested his weight on the edge of Commander Brockhurst’s desk. ‘Are we really going to hand over half a million quid?’ he asked, looking happier as he got seventeen and a quarter stone off his feet. ‘And whose money is it, if it comes to that? The bloody taxpayers’, I suppose. Me,’ – he settled down for a cosy chat – ‘I can’t see what all the fuss is about. I mean – the Prime Minister’s daughter’s still a young woman, isn’t she?’
‘What,’ interrupted Commander Brockhurst fiercely, ‘the hell has that to do with anything?’
Dover looked mildly surprised at the question. ‘Only that she’s got bags of time to have a dozen more brats if she wants ’em,’ he explained. ‘I mean,’ – he chuckled a man-to-man sort of chuckle – ‘it’s not all that difficult, is it?’
The jaws of Commander Brockhurst came together like a vice and it was clear that he didn’t trust himself to speak.
Luckily Dover wasn’t in the least bit sensitive to atmospheres. He made himself even more comfortable on the desk ‘Still, you know me! A hundred per cent effort no matter what I think of the personalities involved. And, provided I get a bit of decent support from my so-called colleagues, I don’t doubt we’ll bring the whole thing to a successful conclusion. Sooner or later.’
Commander Brockhurst’s face went a very peculiar shade of red. Those iron laws unclamped and his head turned slightly in MacGregor’s direction. ‘Get him out of here!’
The Bishop’s Crozier was not the worst hotel in Salisbury. The Old Ram had a much more fearsome reputation and it was rather surprising that the Claret Tappers hadn’t condemned Dover to await their summons there. Maybe it was the unique location of The Bishop’s Crozier which had tipped the scales as there are not many provincial hotels which share a noisy cul-de-sac with an all-night fish and chip shop, a small glue factory and a house of ill repute.
‘’Strewth!’ said Dover, looking round the double room which he was condemned to share with MacGregor. ‘What a dump!’
MacGregor was even more distressed at the prospect which lay before them and had, indeed, only bowed to the inevitable after a long argument with mine host about the impossibility of providing a second room. If there was one thing MacGregor did like, it was his privacy. ‘Which bed do you want, sir?’
‘I’ll have the one by the door,’ said Dover, predictably. ‘Just in case I get taken short during the night.’ He continued with his unpacking, putting his tin of stomach powder on the shelf over the wash-basin. ‘How long are we supposed to be stopping here?’
MacGregor shook his head. ‘Nobody knows, sir. Until the Claret Tappers get in touch again with the next set of instructions, I suppose. I shouldn’t think it would be very long.’
Dover sullenly dropped his spare pair of socks in the dressing-table drawer. They were the only spare clothes he’d brought with him and he didn’t want them to come to any harm. ‘It could be bloody weeks,’ he said, feeling in an argumentative mood.
‘Oh, I don’t think so, sir.’ MacGregor smoothed his blue suit lovingly under its plastic cover and hung it carefully in the wardrobe. ‘Every minute this goes on makes it more dangerous for the kidnappers. A three-month-old baby takes a lot of looking after and the sooner they can get rid of it, the happier they’ll be.’
‘Always provided they haven’t already knocked it on the head,’ said Dover.
‘Even if they have, sir, they still won’t want to drag things out. They’ll want that money in their hands and then a quick get-away.’
‘Haifa million?’ said Dover incredulously. ‘They’ve a hope.’
MacGregor didn’t like to be continually correcting Dover, but he didn’t often have much choice. ‘Actually, sir, it’s already here and waiting.’
‘What is?’
MacGregor reduced his voice to a whisper. ‘The money, sir. The five hundred thousand pounds.’
‘Get off!’ Dover’s piggy little eyes grew round with greed. ‘Where is it? Have you got it?’ He looked hopefully round the bedroom. MacGregor always carted such a load of clobber round with him that he might well have half a million nicker tucked away in the odd . . .
‘It’s in one of the cellars, sir. Under armed guard. Commander Brockhurst reckons that, when the Claret Tappers do get in touch, we shall have to respond to their instructions very quickly. They’ll only give us the bare minimum of time so that we can’t organise a trap for them.’
‘What’s all this “we” business?’ demanded Dover crossly. ‘I’m the poor devil that’s going to be out there in the firing line, laddie, and don’t you forget it. Here,’ – what little colour there was drained from his podgy face – ‘you don’t think they’ll grab me again and hold me as hostage, do you?’
MacGregor couldn’t imagine anybody being that masochistic and his attempts to reassure the craven Dover had the ring of truth about them.
Dover was quick to cash in on his sergeant’s sympathy. ‘Let’s go downstairs and have a drink,’ he suggested, swinging his feet off the eiderdown and planting them heavily on the floor But MacGregor had to knock this bright idea on the head as Commander Brockhurst had given strict instructions that Dover was to maintain a low profile and keep out of sight. The press and television boys were now on to the kidnapping and the Home Secretary himself had held a briefing during which he had appealed for discretion and restraint. Only the barest facts had been revealed, just that the baby grandson
