‘I thought he seemed quite a decent sort of chap, sir.’
Dover regarded MacGregor sourly. ‘Did you? Well, just see you keep him out of my hair, that’s all. I don’t want him messing things up.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘And I don’t want you messing things up, either!’ added Dover viciously. ‘This is my bloody case and I’m going to solve it in my own bloody way. Savee?’
These days MacGregor didn’t even permit himself the luxury of irony in his thoughts. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said meekly. ‘I understand perfectly.’
2
Both Mr Plum, landlord of The Laughing Dog, and Dover were in the habit of taking a nap in the afternoon (though in deference to his new and dynamic persona, Dover this time kept his boots on when he stretched out on the eiderdown), so it was getting on for five o’clock before their encounter took place. Mr Plum, much refreshed, presented himself in Dover’s bedroom with a loaded tea tray and thus acquired the great detective’s instant and whole-hearted attention.
MacGregor, armed with a notebook and a newly sharpened pencil, resigned himself to conducting the interview and duly raised his voice to cover the sounds of Dover’s uninhibited mastication. ‘I understand, Mr Plum, that you’ve got some information for us about this young woman who’s been found dead?’
Mr Plum, a well-padded man with whiskers that looked as though they’d been tended by a topiarian, settled himself more securely in the other easy chair. He was there to enjoy himself and had no intention of being hurried. ‘That’s right, sergeant,’ he agreed easily. ‘And, going by what I’ve heard about this murder, I reckon my evidence is going to be vital. That’s why I decided to save it for Scotland Yard. I’m sure our local policemen are wonderful when it comes to motoring offences and enforcing the licensing laws, but – murder? No, I fancy they might find themselves a touch out of their depth there.’
Dover, being post a sardine sandwich and ante a cream horn, was free to ask a question. ‘Where,’ he demanded indignantly, ‘is the bloody sugar?’
‘Under the plate of scones, squire!’ Mr Plum leaned across to assist. ‘See?’
MacGregor knew – none better – to what unspeakable depths these interviews could sink if Dover was allowed to keep interrupting, and he lost no time in bringing Mr Plum back to heel. ‘You say that you’ve already heard some details about this incident, sir. May one ask where?’
‘Over the bar counter, old son!’ said Mr Plum with amiable frankness. ‘Soon as we opened at half past ten we had an endless queue of your coppers coming in on the sly for a quick one.’
‘And they talked about the murder?’ MacGregor pursed his lips disapprovingly.
‘Good thing they did!’ rejoined Mr Plum. ‘Otherwise it might have been days before you lot got around to questioning me. Correct me if I’m wrong, squire, but aren’t you up a bit of a gum tree with this one?’
‘In what way?’ asked MacGregor cautiously.
‘Well, like your colleagues calling the girl “Miss X”. I mean, that speaks for itself, doesn’t it? You obviously know damn all about her. Right? Not her name or where she comes from or even – if it comes to that – how long she’s been lying dead in old Sir Percy’s front garden.’
‘We’re only just beginning our investigations,’ protested MacGregor. ‘Still, if you can help us in . . .’
‘I don’t know who she is or where she lives,’ said Mr Plum, ‘but I do know when she arrived in Frenchy Botham.’
‘You do?’ In his excitement MacGregor underlined Mr Plum’s name twice in his notebook. ‘When?’
‘Here, hold your horses!’ Mr Plum had got his story all worked out and the last thing he wanted was a lot of questions confusing him. ‘I’ll tell it in my own way, right? Then you can ask me anything I’ve left out at the end. Now, it was about seven o’clock, as I recall, and I was just having one of my periodic strolls round the bars to check that everything was ship-shape and Bristol fashion before the evening rush got under way. That’s how I happened to be in the Public when this girl came in. Real white trash, she was. Blue jeans, a denim jacket, one of those bag things like old sacks slung over her shoulder. Skinny as a rabbit. Long hair all over the place and a good wash wouldn’t have come amiss, either.’
‘Age?’ asked MacGregor, feeling that in spite of Mr Plum’s injunction it was time he asserted himself.
Mr Plum paused, more for dramatic effect than because he didn’t know the answer. ‘Eighteen,’ he said. ‘Nineteen at the most. And you can take my word for it. My licence depends on me being able to spot how old these dratted teenagers are. Well, normally I wouldn’t have bothered with this kid but Toby – he’s my barman in the Public – was busy stacking crates of brown so, since I was there, I wished her my usual hospitable good-evening and asked her what she wanted. By the way,’ – Mr Plum frowned behind his whiskers. Trying to remember every blessed detail was proving trickier than he’d thought – ‘did I mention that she was wet? Not too wet, of course.’
‘And what the hell’s that supposed to mean?’ Not all of Dover’s attention was being given to squeezing the last cup out of the pot.
Mr Plum was more than delighted to explain. ‘Well, since I heard she’d been found murdered, I naturally got to thinking about her,’ he said. ‘And wondering how she’d got to Frenchy Botham. We don’t have any trains, you see, since they closed the line
