To his eternal shame, MacGregor nipped. On his way back he called in at the public bar for a shot of Dutch courage and two pints of best bitter when he found Inspector Walters already there, carefully setting out three glasses of brandy on a small tray.
‘Hello, sergeant!’ he said in companionable greeting. ‘I was just on my way to have a word with you and your governor.’ He nodded his head at the glasses of brandy. ‘I thought I’d push the boat out a bit, just to celebrate your first full day’s work.’
MacGregor smiled feebly and, abandoning his own order for drinks, bought a couple of packets of cigarettes instead. They were, of course, Dover’s favourite brand only in the sense that any brand paid for by somebody else was Dover’s favourite.
‘There’s been a development,’ said Inspector Walters as he pocketed his change. He indicated the folder he had tucked under his arm. ‘I don’t know if it’ll lead to anything, but it’s the first bit of bloody movement we’ve had in this case. I thought I’d better bring it round because your governor doesn’t seem much of a one for going by the book, does he? Why, as far as I can tell, he’s not so much as put his nose inside our Murder Headquarters since he got here.’
‘Chief Inspector Dover has a very individual style of working,’ agreed MacGregor, sticking conscientiously to the literal truth. ‘Shall I take the tray for you, sir?’ He would dearly have loved to ask Inspector Walters what the new development was, but the comparatively crowded bar was not the place for such confidences.
Inspector Walters failed to match MacGregor in tact and general delicacy of feeling. He went ahead to open the door which led out to the dining room and paused with his hand on the handle. ‘I say,’ he bawled back across the room, ‘is it true that the young Bones kid had a piss in your governor’s bowler hat?’
MacGregor scorned to answer so impertinent a question.
Dover had already eaten his second helping of pudding and was half-way through MacGregor’s on the indisputable grounds that it would otherwise grow cold and go to waste. He was pleased to see the brandy, though less ecstatic about the arrival of Inspector Walters.
‘A new development?’ he whined. ‘’Strewth, couldn’t it have waited till morning? I’m only flesh and blood, you know. I can’t keep going twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I’m not made of iron. You should see the state of my bowels. I don’t know whether it’s overwork or the water in this dump or what, but. . .’
‘I was just telling Inspector Walters that we’ve already made considerable progress, sir,’ said MacGregor, who knew that not everybody could take Dover’s intestinal complications in their stride.
Dover scowled. ‘I’m confidently expecting to make an arrest at any minute,’ he announced. It was a phrase he’d picked up from those very old films on the telly.
Inspector Walters evinced some surprise. ‘But you don’t even know who the dead girl is yet, do you, sir?’
‘That doesn’t stop me from spotting the blooming murderer!’ retorted Dover crossly. ‘And have you checked up yet to see whether any of the people living in The Grove’s got a criminal record?’
Inspector Walters was taken aback. ‘You didn’t ask me to, sir.’
Dover shrugged his shoulders. ‘Thought you’d do it automatically,’ he said, chalking this one up to himself.
Inspector Walters gulped and avoided MacGregor’s eye. He was a man of some professional pride who didn’t care to be found wanting. ‘I’ll get on to it right away, sir,’ he promised.
‘Suit yourself!’ Dover sat back and allowed MacGregor to ply him with a cigarette. Having re-established the pecking order, the Chief Inspector felt he could afford to relax. ‘So, what’s this new stuff you’re supposed to have come up with?’ he asked.
Inspector Walters opened his folder. ‘The forensic people from the lab came across it, sir. I don’t know whether you could really call it a clue to the girl’s identity, but it’s the nearest we’ve had so far.’
9
‘Of course,’ said Inspector Walters, painfully conscious that his revelation had been something of an anti-climax, ‘we’ve still got the option of putting the girl’s photo on the telly. We’ll get every crank in the country ringing up but . . .’
‘It’s a bloody paper bag!’ said Dover, indignantly and accusingly.
‘Yes, sir.’ Inspector Walters was beginning to wish he’d let one of his underlings bring the damned thing round and collect the glory. ‘The forensic people have had quite a time with it, as you can see. It’s disintegrated pretty badly. That’s why they’ve put it between these two sheets of transparent plastic, sir, so that it doesn’t crumble away any more. Still, you can read the writing on it quite clearly, can’t you?’
Dover took hold of the talc and paper sandwich again and screwed his eyes up. The paper bag was a white one, some eight inches square, and it had obviously been folded up half a dozen times. It was a special bag, individually printed for the establishment concerned. ‘Ermengilda’s Kitchen’, Dover read aloud in a voice of total disbelief. ‘Gifte Shoppe & Cafe. Souvenirs. Homemade gateaux a Speciality. Barford-in-the-Meadow.’ He handed the sandwich to MacGregor and addressed himself to Inspector Walters. ‘And what the hell am I supposed
