‘Where her dead body was found, sir.’
‘She was gunning for the father.’Strewth, I thought we’d settled all that bloody years ago. Blackmailing him or whatever.’
‘But, if the child was going to be adopted, sir,’ ventured MacGregor a little diffidently, ‘would she still be going to all that trouble to contact the father?’
‘Why the hell not?’
MacGregor didn’t quite know. ‘It’s just that she would seem to be in a stronger position to put pressure on the father, sir, if she was intending to keep the child.’
Dover yawned noisily and thought quickly. ‘The father wouldn’t know she was going to have it adopted, would he?’ he asked triumphantly. ‘She could spin him any old yam. Look, laddie, stop picking at it! We’ve got the picture clear now and I’m buggered if I’m going to have you keep messing it up. The putative father’ – Dover was rather pleased with this piece of jargon so he repeated it – ‘the putative father passes through What-do-you-call-it . . .’
‘Barford-in-the-Meadow, sir.’
‘. . . and has it off with young What’s-her-name . . .’
‘Pearl Wallace, sir.’
‘. . . leaving her holding the baby. Somehow or other she’s got hold of his address. Or partial address.’ Dover corrected himself quickly as he sensed rather than saw that MacGregor’s mouth was opening to remind him about the telephone kiosk on Chapminster railway station. ‘She follows him, demands money or marriage or whatever, and he smacks her over the head with whatever blunt instrument he happens to have handy. Got it now? Right, well’ – Dover sank once more into his coat collar – ‘I’m just going to have a quiet think about – er – things, so belt up for a bit!’
Inspector Walters turned up at The Laughing Dog again just as Dover and MacGregor were finishing their supper. In Dover’s case it had been the usual ‘feeding-time at the zoo’ spectacle, and Inspector Walters didn’t appreciate what he’d been spared by arriving only in time for the coffee. Not that the Inspector relished this business of trying to hold conferences across gravy-bespattered tablecloths, but it seemed, to be the only time he could ever get hold of these Scotland Yard men. And this conference had to be held because Inspector Walter’s Chief Constable was beginning to get quite neurotic about not knowing what the hell was going on.
Dover, mindful of past favours, greeted Inspector Walters warmly. The local chap had proved himself more than willing to stand his round, and Dover didn’t ask more than that of anyone. ‘What, no brandy tonight, Inspector?’ he had called out jovially.
Inspector Walters had been half-hoping that it was somebody else’s turn to push the boat out. ‘Oh, sorry,’ he muttered awkwardly and shuffled off to rectify the omission.
With the Inspector’s drinks and the sergeant’s cigarettes, Dover was quite content to sit on over the supper table while MacGregor gave a somewhat optimistic account of the progress so far in the case of the murder of Pearl Wallace. Inspector Walters, while not bursting a gut with enthusiasm, had to admit that some progress had indeed been made. The identity of the dead girl had finally been established and that, Inspector Walters grudgingly conceded, was marginally better than the proverbial slap in the belly with a wet fish.
‘And now you’re off again tomorrow to Birmingham to see the people at the adoption society, are you?’ he asked unhappily. The Chief Constable would run amuck when he heard this.‘I suppose that’ll take all day, too?’
‘It’s a long way,’ MacGregor pointed out, put on the defensive by Inspector Walter’s obvious disapproval.
‘Wouldn’t a telephone call do just as well? After all, you said yourself, you don’t know for sure that Pearl Wallace was ever in touch with them at all. She could have been ringing anybody on that Birmingham number and it may have nothing to do with her death at all.’
‘I’ve got a feeling,’ declared Dover, who wasn’t going to be deprived of another day joy-riding round the countryside in a nice comfy car. ‘In my gut.’ He belched comfortably. ‘There’s a connection there all right.’
Inspector Walters knew a case of malingering when he saw one and remained sceptical. ‘I still can’t help feeling that the solution to the murder lies here in Frenchy Botham, sir,’ he said stubbornly. ‘After all, she did come here – half-way across the country, it seems. And she did ask the way to The Grove – and that’s where the dead body was found. To my way of thinking it stands out a mile that somebody in The Grove killed her – or at the very least knows a hell of a lot more about her than he’s admitting.’
‘Me, I’ve learned to distrust the obvious,’ pontificated Dover, trying to convey at the same time the message that it wouldn’t take much to put him right off Inspector Blooming Walters. ‘Result of a lifetime’s experience. And now’ – he bestowed an avuncular beam on his two young companions – ‘how about the same again, eh?’
MacGregor went off to do the honours this time, and Dover skilfully turned defence into attack though he was not actually feeling entirely himself. He pointed an accusing finger more or less in the direction of Inspector Walters. ‘And what’bout you, matie? What’ve you been doing with yourself all day, eh? Been handing out bloody parking tickets?’
Inspector Walters repudiated the charge indignantly. ‘I’m not Traffic!’ he protested. ‘I’m CID like yourself, sir. And I’ve been busy all day on the enquiries you asked me to make.’
‘Is that so?’ Dover’s eyes crossed most disconcertingly as he raised his empty glass hopefully to his lips.
Inspector Walters dragged a handful of papers out of his pocket and deposited them on the table in front of him. ‘You remember, sir? You asked me to check and see if any of the residents in The Grove had got criminal records. Well, I’ve got the results here.’
‘Good for you!’ applauded Dover, paying more attention to
