Inspector Walters watched the Chief Constable’s car disappear down the road. Oh, well, it was probably all a bit exaggerated. Old Wilfred couldn’t be as bad as all that or he’d have been booted out years ago. Surely? Of course, they did say if there was one thing the old fool was an expert at it was saving his own skin. And then his sergeant was reputed to be pretty much on the ball, and that probably enhanced Dover’s powers of survival. Inspector Walters frowned. Now, what was the lad’s name? A handsome young buck, by all accounts, and something of a snappy dresser. Supposed to write a letter once a week to the Commissioner begging for a transfer. It didn’t matter where to – dog handling or traffic or the bornb squad – just as long as it was away from Wilfred Dover. Inspector Walters searched his memory. Ah, MacGregor! That was it. Sergeant MacGregor. Poor devil!
Inspector Walters contemplated what lay before him during the next few days and sighed again. Oh, well, he reminded himself with typical lack of originality, a policeman’s lot was not a happy one and the only way to deal with life’s little problems is to grin and bear them. He squared his shoulders and, turning away, marched off to see how his men were getting on with their search.
As it so happens, Inspector Walters had been doing Detective Chief Inspector Dover a gross injustice. True – the old Dover had indeed been a fat, lazy, unhealthy, unintelligent and none-too- honest slob of the first magnitude, but all that had now changed.
Dover himself, his filthy boots resting disgustingly on the opposite seat, explained the metamorphosis to his sergeant as they journeyed down in the train to the scene of this latest murder. The explanation was necessary because, to Sergeant MacGregor’s jaundiced eye at least, outward appearances seemed much the same as usual. The little black eyes appeared as malevolent as ever, the face as podgy and the complexion as pasty. That dreadful overcoat with its dandruff-encrusted shoulders was stretched as tightly as before over the swelling paunch and that greasy bowler hat was still brooding as squalidly over its owner’s ignoble brow – a long way over, actually, as Dover had reverentially deposited it on the rack for the duration of the trip.
No, MacGregor could see no evidence of any physical change whatsoever.
‘Commerce,’ explained Dover when he’d managed to extricate a bit of his pie crust from behind his upper set. ‘Trade. Industry. Big business. That’s where it’s all happening. A seat on the board of directors and’ – his eyes grew quite misty at the prospect – ‘unlimited expenses.’
MacGregor had had his hopes blasted too often in the past to start counting chickens now. Still, the question had to be asked. ‘Are you thinking of – er – leaving the police, sir?’
‘Got beyond the thinking stage, laddie!’ boasted Dover whose bows were rarely drawn on the short side. ‘Virtually all over bar the shouting.’
‘Really, sir?’
Just in case British Rail’s carriages had ears, Dover edged closer to the shrinking MacGregor and lowered his voice. ‘Haven’t told Them yet, of course,’ he grunted. ‘Why the hell should I?’Strewth, I don’t owe Them anything. And to hell with the pension!’ He paused before adding somewhat illogically, ‘Besides, I don’t want to give Them the opportunity of talking me out of it.’
MacGregor was an articulate young man who had been educated at one of our minor Public Schools. He was not often at a loss for words. Nor was he on this occasion. ‘Oh, quite, sir,’ he said from a very dry throat.
‘Pomeroy Chemicals Limited,’ said Dover, expelling the magic formula in a spray of soggy pie crust. ‘Chief Security Officer. Salary subject to negotiation so the sky’s the limit, eh? Here’ — he tossed the packet of cheese and pickle sandwiches into MacGregor’s more capable hands — ‘get this bloody thing open for me!’
MacGregor forced his way through the plastic. ‘And you’ve actually got this job, sir?’
‘Got the application form,’ said Dover, stuffing an entire cheese and pickle sandwich into his mouth so as to leave his hands free for grubbing through his pockets. ‘Don’t reckon I’ll have much to fear in the way of competition.’ He chuckled complacently. ‘There won’t be many applicants with a record like mine!’
MacGregor thought that this was probably true and waited with interest while Dover first found and then flattened out with fingers still greasy from the cheese sandwich a dog-eared and ruinous wad of paper.
‘It’s this bit I want to talk to you about,’ said Dover, handing over one of the sheets.
MacGregor accepted it, grateful that he’d kept his gloves on against the cold.
‘That bit there,’ said Dover. ‘Where it says: List what you consider are the highlights of your professional career (with dates).’
MacGregor could appreciate that this section might indeed cause difficulty.
‘What you’ve got to remember,’ said Dover, reaching for another cheese sandwich, ‘is that these people aren’t interested in the past. Last week’s ancient history to them. It’s what’s happening here and now that impresses them. That’s why I want to go out on a winning streak.’
‘You mean this case we’re going to investigate at Frenchy Botham, sir.’
‘Precisely!’ Dover regarded MacGregor with an almost benevolent eye and made a mental note to try and work it in somewhere in that questionnaire that he was something of a wizard when it came to selecting and training bright young men. ‘I want a really spectacular success, and I want it fast. With the maximum publicity, of course. My past
