MacGregor was a reticent person. Otherwise he might have been tempted to assure Dover that, to get him that plum job at Pomeroy Chemicals, he (MacGregor) would willingly face any dangers, brave any hazards (up to and including walking on red-hot coals), work any hours and solve any problems. In short, Sergeant MacGregor could place his hand on his heart and proclaim with all sincerity that there was nothing he wouldn’t do to get rid of Dover.
But Dover wasn’t even listening to the much more muted declaration of loyalty which MacGregor eventually produced. He was looking for his cheese and pickle sandwiches.
(But you’ve eaten them all, sir!’
Dover’s National Health dentures bared in an ugly snarl. ‘Rubbish!’
‘You did, honestly, sir!’
‘Well, in that case, laddie,’ said Dover, leaning back and folding his arms, ‘you’d better get me some more, hadn’t you? You can’t expect me to work at top pressure on a bloody empty stomach. And fetch me a piece of cake while you’re at it!’
But the time always comes when the eating has to stop and eventually Dover and MacGregor arrived in Frenchy Botham. They were welcomed by an impassive Inspector Walters who explained he had given orders that nothing be moved until their arrival and, under his guidance, they duly inspected the body which was still lying where it had been found. They made a cursory inspection of the surroundings and listened to a succinct account from Inspector Walters of the progress so far. All in all a good five minutes was spent at the scene of the crime before Dover’s patience and his feet gave out at pretty much the same time.
‘’Strewth, it’s a bit nippy out here!’ said Dover, breaking into Inspector Walters’s dissertation on the murder’s apparent lack of sexual connotations.
Inspector Walters just wasn’t quick enough. Before he had time to switch his mind to this new topic of conversation, he found he’d lost his audience. Dover was already three-quarters of the way back to the waiting police car and Sergeant MacGregor was hot-footing it after him. Inspector Walters paused only to tell the ambulance men that the body could now be removed before joining in the chase. He caught up with his main quarry just as it was depositing seventeen and a quarter stone of unlovely fat with a deep sigh of relief on the back seat of the car.
‘We’ve established the Murder Headquarters in the Village Hall, sir,’ panted Inspector Walters, naively confident that this information would be of interest.
Dover’s lip curled and his little black moustache (of the style made so unpopular by Adolf Hitler forty years ago) twitched contemptuously. He had yet to meet either a Murder Headquarters or a village hall which came anywhere near his standards of comfort. ‘Stuff that for a lark! I’ll be directing operations from this room you’re supposed to have booked for me.’
‘At The Laughing Dog, sir?’ Inspector Walters was already beginning to crack.
Luckily his foolish question provided Dover with an early opportunity to display the rapier-like wit for which he was so well known. ‘Unless you’ve managed to get me a bed at Buckingham Palace!’
‘But . . .’
Dover ceased sniggering at his own cleverness and spelt it out. ‘I’m going back to my room in this boozer place to have a quiet think,’ he said, slowly and clearly. ‘And I don’t want to be disturbed.’ He noticed that Inspector Walters was opening and closing his mouth like a drowning goldfish and graciously condescended to explain his methods a little more fully. ‘It’s brains that make a great detective, laddie,’ he announced, solemnly tapping the side of his forehead with a grubby finger. ‘You don’t find real experts like me rushing around like a scalded cat on hot bricks. Take it from me, laddie – my “quiet thinks” have solved more murders than you’ve had hot bloody dinners.’
MacGregor, who was installed next to Dover on the back seat, stared unblinkingly straight ahead.
But Inspector Walters still hovered. ‘Er – what do you want me to do then, sir?’
‘How about just buggering off, eh?’ demanded Dover, discarding his philosophical role somewhat abruptly.
‘But what about Mr Plum, sir?’
‘Mr Plum? Who the hell’s Mr Plum when he’s at home?’
‘He’s the landlord of The Laughing Dog, sir. That’s the village pub you and Sergeant MacGregor will be staying in. Mr Plum apparently has some information about the girl.’
Dover frowned. ‘What girl?’
‘The dead one, sir.’ Inspector Walters glanced at MacGregor but there was no help coming from that quarter. ‘I’ve had all my chaps out making house-to-house enquiries round the village, and this is the only lead they’ve come up with.’
Dover thought of Pomeroy Chemicals Limited. ‘Oh, all right,’ he growled irritably, ‘let’s be having it!’
Inspector Walters was embarrassed. ‘Well, that’s the trouble, sir. He wouldn’t tell us. Not my constable, that is. He said he’d got some important information about the girl and he was blowed if he was going to divulge it to some baby-faced copper who wasn’t dry behind the ears yet. My constable attempted to remonstrate with him, of course, but Mr Plum was adamant. It was Scotland Yard or nothing, he said.’
All things considered, Dover took the news surprisingly well. Usually the very idea of work was anathema to him, but he reflected that landlords of public houses are not as other men. And, who knows? A little friendly interview at this stage in the game might well develop into a truly lasting and profitable association. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll see to What’s-his-name. Meantime, you just carry on!’
Inspector Walters tried to hold the car back by brute force. ‘But, sir,’ he bleated, having failed to achieve his initial object and now being forced to run alongside with his head stuck through the open window, ‘the Chief Constable . . .’
‘Oh, stuff the Chief
