MacGregor frowned. Like most policemen, he equated uncooperativeness with guilt, and there was no doubt that this four-eyed, bald-headed little squirt was definitely being uncooperative. ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to reveal details at this moment, sir, but we are currently engaged on a matter of some importance.’ MacGregor paused before issuing the threat that generally brought them to heel. ‘Of course, if you’d rather continue the conversation down at the police station, sir . . .’
Mr Pettitt removed his glasses, huffed on them and polished them on his handkerchief before replacing them on his nose.
‘The Dockwra Society is a small group of stamp collectors. It is named after a very early pioneer of the penny post.’
Dover waved his bare foot in the air. ‘On the little toe!’
Mr Pettitt leaned forward to make a closer examination and then started to rummage amongst the surgical-looking instruments which MacGregor had displaced on the table.
Dover eyed the scalpel with some anxiety. ‘Hey, watch it!’ he advised. ‘It’s as tender as hell.’
‘It’s only a corn,’ said Mr Pettitt mildly. ‘It looks as though somebody’s been hacking at it with a razor blade.’
‘That was the wife,’ said Dover, one of nature’s rats. ‘I told her not to.’
‘It’s a highly inadvisable proceeding, whoever is responsible.’
‘Somebody had to do something,’ retorted Dover. ‘It was throbbing lit to bust. They don’t give you sick leave in the police for a bad toe, you know.’
Mr Pettitt didn’t appear to be listening. He was no stranger to the results of DIY chiropody. When he got round to opening his mouth again, his remarks were addressed to MacGregor. ‘We began the Dockwra Society a couple of years ago. It’s very small and informal. We specialise in pre-war European issues.’ ,
‘EEEEEyouch!’ howled Dover, lashing out with the foot that wasn’t clamped between Mr Pettitt’s knees. ‘That bloody hurt, you sadist!’
‘You’ve really only yourself to blame,’ murmured Mr Pettitt, pushing his spectacles back up his nose. ‘If you had consulted a qualified practitioner and . . .’
‘Would you mind telling me how many members you’ve got,
sir?’
‘About twenty. We’re hoping to attract more in time.’
‘You had a meeting of some sort at the Rankin’s Holiday Ranch at Bowerville-by-the-sea, I believe.’
‘That is correct. It was our annual general meeting. We picked a location which was as central as possible.’
‘Bloody hell!’ screamed Dover. ‘Mind what you’re doing!’
Mr Pettitt reached for the cotton wool. ‘We’ll have to leave it for a few days for the inflammation to go down. Come back next week.’
‘You’ve a hope!’ snarled-Dover, who didn’t suffer sadists gladly. ‘What the hell’s that?’
‘Just a piece of sticking plaster to keep the wound clean.’ Dover’s eyes narrowed. ‘When I came in here, mate,’ he snarled, ‘I didn’t have a wound!’ He watched Mr Pettitt pick his boot and sock up. ‘You got a list of the morons who were at this crummy meeting of yours?’
Mr Pettitt blinked. ‘Yes.’
‘Let’s be having it, then!’
‘What do you want it for?’
Dover was blowed if he could remember. He fell back on MacGregor again. ‘Got a fag, laddie?’
Mr Pettitt courageously scotched that idea. ‘I’m afraid I don’t permit smoking anywhere on the premises. I’m allergic to tobacco smoke.’
‘I’ll bet you’re a bloody tee-totaller, too!’ said Dover, really stripping the kid gloves off.
Mr Pettitt turned back to MacGregor. ‘You were asking about our meeting at Bowerville-by-the-sea?’
‘We’re looking for a middle-aged man, sir,’ said MacGregor, feeling that the least he could do was put his cards on the table. ‘About five-foot eight. False teeth. Dark hair. Plumpish. Would that description fit one of your members, sir?
‘It might,’ said Mr Pettitt cautiously. ‘What’s he done?’ McGregor took out the photograph which had been taken in situ on the Muncaster rubbish tip and passed it across. ‘Not very nice, I’m afraid, sir, but can you recognise him?’
Mr Pettitt shook his head.
‘But the description would fit one of your members?’
Mr Pettitt gestured at the photograph with his free hand. ‘You’re not suggesting that this . . .’
‘It’s a strong possibility, sir. Now, there were seven of you all told at the Holiday Ranch, I believe? If we could just go through them and if you could let me have their names and addresses at the same time . . .’
Mr Pettitt had to fetch the relevant papers from his private quarters but he was back in the surgery before Dover had found anything worth pocketing. ‘Well, let’s get the people who definitely can’t be the person in your snapshot out of the way first, shall we, sergeant? There’s me, of couse.’ Mr Pettitt’s lips parted in a death’s head grin. ‘I am obviously not the dead man. Nor, I imagine, is Mrs Hall. Mrs Norah Hall.’
‘You have lady members, then?’ asked MacGregor as he took down the address.
‘Only the one,’ said Mr Pettitt. ‘But she’s most keen and very knowledgeable, especially about French colonials.’
‘And the next, sir?’
‘I don’t think it can be young Keith Osmond,’ Mr Pettitt went on thoughfully. ‘He’s a tall, big-boned chap in his late twenties so he doesn’t fit at all. Nor, I fancy, does Mr Michael Ruscoe. He’s middle-aged, I suppose, but he’s rather small and
wiry.’
‘Could I have the addresses, sir?’
Mr Pettitt read out the information at dictation speed and obligingly spelt out any proper names he thought might cause
difficulty.
MacGregor did his mental arithmetic. ‘That leaves three
more.’
‘Mr Braithwaite would be too old, I imagine. He must be nearly sixty. He has a beard, too.’
‘We’re pretty certain our chap was clean shaven, sir.’
‘Then there’s Gordon Valentine, but I had a letter from him only this morning.’
‘That would seem to eliminate him, sir,’ agreed MacGregor, ‘but I’ll still need to take down his particulars, if you don’t
mind.’
Mr Pettitt remained silent for several moments after MacGregor’s pen stopped moving over the page. ‘That leaves us with Mr Knapper, sergeant,’ he said at last. ‘Mr George Arthur Knapper. He, 1 am very much afraid,
