‘What about the money?’ Superintendent Trevelyan wasn’t much of an animal lover at the best of times.
I he oily young man blinked again. ‘Oh, there’s no sign of the money, sir,’ he assured the superintendent earnestly. ‘Police Constable Truss – he’s the one we got this report from, sir – he thinks the kidnappers must have waited for the pony at the gate to its paddock. There are some indications that several people may have been standing round about there and there might have been a car, too. The trouble is that with all this rain it’s difficult to be sure about anything much. Presumably, when the pony came trotting home, sir, the kidnappers just grabbed it, removed the sacks containing the ransom money and . . .’
‘Get out!’ Superintendent Trevelyan liked to think he was a father to his men – but not this morning.
‘Half-way to South America by now!’ observed Dover with quite unseemly cheerfulness.
‘If they are, Dover, it’s your bloody fault! If you hadn’t thrown that radio . . .’
MacGregor was as weary, anxious and disappointed as anybody but he tried to remember that he was a policeman, too. ‘At least this ploy with the Shetland pony does give us a bit of a clue, doesn’t it, sir?’
Dover and Superintendent Trevelyan temporarily postponed their eyeball-to~eyeball confrontation. ‘A clue?’
MacGregor was a skilled hand when it came to explaining the painfully obvious to his superiors. He tapped the wall map. ‘This Gallows Farm is miles from anywhere. How did the kidnappers know that there was a pony there, one they could get hold of and one upon whose homing instincts they could rely?’
Superintendent Trevelyan chewed the end of his swagger stick. ‘The Claret Tappers are local villains? Is that what you’re getting at?’
‘At least they have access to local knowledge, sir. It’s worth following up, don’t you think? There can’t be all that many people who would know about the pony, or the suitability of Fish Down for their scheme, if it comes to that.’
Unlike Dover, Superintendent Trevelyan was a man of action and, relieved to have something to do at last, began firing off orders like a runaway machine gun. All around, policemen and policewomen jumped to obey. There was a brief respite when the oily young man returned to convey yet another report. The Archbishop of Canterbury had received a telephone message from a man purporting to be a member of the Claret Tapper gang. The six designated child murderers were to be taken to the Isle of Anglesey immediately and set free in the well-known village of Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwillllantysiliogogoch.
As the oily young man fought his way to the end of his tidings, one of the young policewomen began to giggle hysterically. It was the chance that her sergeant, a much less nubile young woman, had been waiting for and the sound of the resulting smack echoed round the bar.
Superintendent Trevelyan seemed to be taking each fresh disaster personally. He raised his swagger stick to heaven. ‘Dear God,’ he moaned, ‘it’s getting more and more like a nightmare every minute! Isn’t there any news of the Prime Minister’s grandchild yet?’
The oily young man looked annoyed. Good God, if there had been, he’d have said, wouldn’t he? ‘If we’ve got to wait until they’ve released these degenerate psychopaths, sir, it’ll be late this afternoon before we can hope to have any sort of word.’
Over in his corner, under the advertisement for milk stout, Dover was beginning to show all the classical signs of restlessness. It had been a long day and, with the ash from one of MacGregor’s cigarettes dribbling unheeded down his waistcoat, the chief inspector’s massive brow was crinkled in thought. Under the cover of the noise and confusion that Superintendent Trevelyan was generating, he turned petulantly to MacGregor. ‘Isn’t it time for lunch yet?’
Patiently MacGregor indicated the large clock on the wall in front of them. ‘It’s only a quarter past eleven, sir.’
Dover belched. ‘’Strewth, I could eat a horse!’
MacGregor couldn’t think of any telling rejoinder to this, so he kept his mouth shut.
‘I’ve been up since bloody crack of dawn!’
‘I’m afraid it’s just one of those days, sir.’
But Dover was in no mood to be comforted by mere words. As unobtrusively as possible for a man of his unwieldy girth, he got to his feet. ‘T ell ’em to send me up a plate of sandwiches and a couple of pies!’
‘For lunch, sir?’
‘For now, you fool!’
MacGregor expressed some surprise that Dover was withdrawing from the fray.
‘Not much bloody point in hanging round here,’ grumbled Dover. ‘With everybody rushing around like a bunch of chickens with their heads cut off. What I want is somewhere with a bit of peace and quiet where I can think.’ He caught the expression of acute scepticism as it flickered across MacGregor’s face. ‘Well, it’s about time somebody thought a bit, isn’t it?’ he demanded crossly. ‘Actually,’ – he began to manoeuvre over to the door – ‘I’ve got a feeling we’ve missed something somewhere. Overlooked it, you know.’
MacGregor managed to stay just this side of insolence. ‘Really, sir?’
‘Yes, really!’ snapped Dover. ‘And it’s about time you pulled your finger out and got down to some work, laddie! I’ll have all the files relating to this bloody kidnapping lark up in my room in five minutes! Got it? With the sandwiches!’
By the time MacGregor eventually got upstairs with the cold collation and what few papers he could find relating to anything, Dover was already reclining once more on top of his bed. He dragged himself into a
