‘I think she’s just coming, actually, sir. And the missing handbag is of some importance, you know. You see, we’ve been assuming all along that the handbag was deliberately removed to conceal the identity of the dead girl.’
‘Well?’
‘Well, if the girl was murdered by Mr de la Poche just because she’d accidentally seen something compromising, why should he go to any trouble to hide who she was. There was no point, as far as I can see. On the contrary, since he had absolutely no connection with her, it might have been marginally to his advantage if her identity were known.’
Luckily Dover could destroy that kind of logic with one hand tied behind him. ‘He got rid of the handbag just to confuse us, laddie! To make it look as though she’d been bumped off by the chap who’d got her into trouble—see?’
MacGregor hated doing it of course but he steeled himself. ‘Clifford de la Poche couldn’t possibly have known she was pregnant, sir,’ he pointed out gently. ‘Much less that one of his neighbours was responsible or that . . .’
Mrs Plum came banging in from the kitchen with a pleasingly loaded tray and Dover’s interest in talk about work dropped sharply to zero.
‘Well, it’s just a coincidence that the bloody handbag’s missing,’ he snapped. ‘An accident.’ He watched carefully to see that he got the larger of the two plates of pudding. ‘In any case I’ve been thinking it over. I can’t see that it matters a damn which one of’em we pin it on, man or woman. We can make a case out against any blooming one of’em.’ He at least had the decency to wait until Mrs Plum had left the room before setting out his solution to the problem fairly and squarely in front of his sergeant. ‘Look,’ he began, employing a wheedling tone which set MacGregor’s teeth on edge, ‘let’s draw up a list and stick a pin in it eh? That way nobody can accuse us of unfair prejudice. We can easily juggle around with the evidence a bit so that it fits, and then we’ll go and apply for a warrant. As soon as we’ve got the whole thing tied up nice and tight we’ll call in the newspapers and the TV people. I’ll hold a news conference and tell’em all that I – Detective Chief Inspector Dover of New Scotland Yard – have solved this tricky murder case single-handed in less than twenty-bloody-hours. That’ll hit the headlines – and make Pomeroy Chemicals sit up and take notice eh? Oh, that reminds me . . .’ Dover came down from these dizzy heights and began rummaging aimlessly through his pockets. ‘What the hell did I do with that bloody application form? You haven’t nicked it have you, laddie?’
MacGregor said that no, he hadn’t.
‘Ah, got it! I knew I’d put it away safe somewhere.’ Dover grinned happily and tucked the grubby little wad of paper back in his waistcoat pocket. ‘I’ll send it in as soon as we’ve got this bloody case cracked.’Strewth, it couldn’t have happened at a better time. A success like this and my name’ll be a bloody household word!’
MacGregor sought to bring a touch of reality into the conversation by asking what would happen if they picked the wrong man.
‘He’ll get acquitted!’ snarled Dover. ‘’Strewth, you tell me the last time one of mine didn’t get acquitted! And he’ll probably get compensation for false arrest or whatever it is. The last one bloody well did. Besides it won’t matter then. I’ll be on Pomeroy’s payroll and’ – Dover chuckled richly at the thought – ‘they’ll have to give me a golden handshake to get rid of me! Here, come to think of it, picking the wrong bleeding joker mightn’t be a bad idea at that!’ He was still mulling over this new plan for getting money without actually working for it as he licked the last smear of custard off his spoon. Then he turned to more important matters. ‘Do you reckon she’d run to second helpings?’ he asked MacGregor. ‘Pop into the kitchen and tell her how good it was and ask if there’s any more!’
But MacGregor qualified for the Victoria Cross and sat firm. We all have our breaking point and MacGregor’s had just arrived. Over the years he had put up with a lot from Dover, but to be asked to subject an innocent man to the indignity of being tried for murder just so that Dover could land a cushy job with a commercial firm was too much. MacGregor took his courage in both hands and blurted out his declaration of independence. ‘No!’
Dover had a full stomach and this kept his reaction down to a flicker of mild surprise. ‘Why not? She won’t eat you, laddie. She’ll take it as a compliment to her cooking.’
MacGregor fought for self-control. No doubt the best thing would have been for him to have flung himself across the table and regardless of personal hygiene fastened his hands very tightly round Dover’s unlovely throat. But MacGregor was still a policeman. He still retained that inculcated respect for his superiors which is proof against all the evidence of the senses. ‘I was talking about framing one of the suspects actually, sir,’ he said weakly.
‘Oh?’ Dover seemed puzzled. ‘Well, see if you can get me another plateful of pud and we’ll discuss it, eh? I mean’ – Dover could have doubled as the embodiment of Sweet Reason – ‘I’m easy. If there’s somebody you’d like to fix – that’s fine. I just suggested sticking a pin in the list for the hell of it. I don’t give a monkey’s which one of’em we nab. And don’t you start getting into a muck sweat about him giving us the slip on some blooming technicality. I haven’t seen the
