‘You what, sergeant?’
MacGregor, although he was sitting some distance away at the bottom of the table, recoiled at the brusqueness with which he was addressed. The trouble was that the Assistant Commissioner was more than a little upset himself. He’d had a rotten morning, trying to explain to a bunch of hard-faced politicians why the combined efforts of every police force in the country had been unable to rescue one small child from the hands of a gang of kidnappers. The loss of that half a million pounds hadn’t gone down too well, either, and the Home Secretary had made a very pointed remark about the British Public’s penchant for scapegoats. And it was no good, he had added nastily, thinking that some junior police officer could be put forward as an acceptable burnt offering. No, the British Public (with some prompting, evidently, from the Home Secretary) was definitely going to demand a head with a gold-braided hat on it. For the first time in his life, the Assistant Commissioner felt a cold finger of fear running up and down his spine. As he felt every eye in that ad hoc committee turning to stare at him, he could find only one consolation: if he went, he bloody well wasn’t going alone!
‘You what?’
MacGregor pulled himself together, if only to deprive his smirking neighbours of the joy of seeing him eaten alive. ‘I was just wondering, actually, sir, if I could be excused for half an hour or so.’
‘What for?’
MacGregor tried in vain to catch Dover’s eye. ‘Well, I thought I might be of some assistance in getting things moving, sir. Time being, one imagines, of the – er – essence.’
The Assistant Commissioner couldn’t have gone any blacker in the face than he was already. ‘What things?’ he demanded tightly.
MacGregor dabbed his lips with a very clean white handkerchief. ‘Hasn’t Detective Chief Inspector Dover told you, sir?’ he asked feebly.
‘As you may have observed, sergeant,’ said the Assistant Commissioner through rigid lips, ‘Detective Chief Inspector Dover has been too busy feeding his face to tell me anything.’
Dover, halfway down the table, looked up indignantly, a hunk of bread in one hand and a spoon dripping soup in the other. ’Strewth, what was he supposed to do? Let the bloody grub go cold?
MacGregor floundered on from bad to worse. He shrugged his shoulders helplessly. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I naturally assumed that everything would be well under way by now. I mean, Mr Dover’s breakthrough did seem so remarkable that I almost thought we’d be restoring the child to its parents and locking up the Claret Tappers by now. I mean, I thought you’d want to get everything all tied up before the deadline for releasing those child murderers on Anglesey. I was sure . . .’
I he Assistant Commissioner had borne more than any one man should be expected to bear. ‘Sergeant,’ he roared in a voice that set all the sauce bottles on the sideboard rattling, ‘stop blethering!’
MacGregor’s neighbours sniggered gleefully at his discomfiture and Dover, his bowl of soup as clean as a whistle, licked his spoon and looked round for what was coming next. There was a most delicious smell of steak and kidney pud . . .
‘Dover!’ screamed the Assistant Commissioner who was nearly in tears. ‘I’m speaking to you, man! What’s all this about you having solved the case?’
He might well ask. He wasn’t, reflected Dover sadly, the only one who’d bloody well like to know. Solve the case? That was the trouble with pompous young gits like MacGregor – they couldn’t take a bloody joke.
The Assistant Commissioner’s voice exploded down the length of the dining-room again. ‘I’m still waiting, Dover!’
Dover’s response this time was pure instinct. ‘I think I’d better let young MacGregor here put you all in the picture,’ he said with an air of sweet benevolence that made several of those present want to throw up. ‘It’ll be good practice for the lad in marshalling his ideas and expressing himself. My own part in the successful investigation of this case’ – Dover cast his eyes down modestly – ‘is really over now. I wish I could do more, but I’m afraid the old tripes are playing me up again. A legacy from the war, you know,’ Dover added for the benefit of the totally credulous in his audience. He nodded at MacGregor. ‘Well, come on, laddie! Let’s be hearing from you!’
Having successfully dragged himself out of the mire by standing on his sergeant’s head, Dover lost interest in that part of the proceedings. Grabbing his knife and fork in either hand, he smiled up ingratiatingly at the serving wench in the hope of getting an extra large helping of the steak and kidney.
MacGregor should, of course, have hit the ball straight back into Dover’s teeth, but few of us can resist the opportunity to show off. MacGregor looked at the expectant faces round the table – all those senior police officers who could play such an effective role in furthering a young man’s career . . .
MacGregor cleared his throat, smiled his most winning smile, straightened his tie and stood up. Fame and fortune, here we come! ‘Our main problem, gentlemen, has been our inability to get a line on the identity of the Claret Tappers. And, as you know only too well, apprehension without identification is a virtual impossibility.’
‘Oh, get on with it, for Christ’s sake!’ The Assistant Commissioner took the words right out of Dover’s mouth.
MacGregor swallowed his hasty retort like the sensible little policeman he was and tried again. ‘To appreciate the situation fully, we have
