bill.’
Seven
‘He was a bloody cold fish,’ grumbled Dover in whom the milk of human kindness had curdled beyond recall. ‘Callous.’
‘He did explain that he’d never actually met any of them before, sir.’ MacGregor was not unaware that the tendency to contradict everything Dover said was becoming a reflex action. ‘They weren’t personal friends and he claims to have hardly exchanged more than half-a-dozen words with Knapper.’
‘Shifty-looking devil, too,’ muttered Dover. ‘Got a touch of the Crippen about him. Sadistic.’ He contemplated his left foot which was propped up on a convenient chair. ‘I’ll lay you odds he did it.’
It was not unusual for Dover to make these premature judgements about people to whom he had taken a dislike. Most of his cases were littered with suspects upon whom he had pinned guilt or innocence in much the same spirit as blindfolded children pin the tail on the donkey. MacGregor wasn’t, therefore, unduly worried when Dover pointed the grubby finger of accusation at Mr Pettitt. If previous experience was anything to go by he would only be the first of a dozen before the chief inspector lost all interest and threw in the towel.
Our two heroes had retired to a nearby hostelry to discuss these latest developments. Since they were in London, it might have been expected that they would have repaired to their office in Scotland Yard but, at that particular moment in time, Dover was somewhat persona non grata with his colleagues. One would have thought that, after all these years, they’d have got used to having him hanging around – dandruff, constipation, dyspepsia, foot rot and all – but they hadn’t. Some hot-tempered spirits had been so carried away by their professional pride that they’d even threatened to boot Dover from one end of Victoria Street to the other if he showed his face round the Murder Squad again. It would all blow over in time, of course. Old Bailey judges are always making scathing remarks about the criminal incompetence of the police.
‘Actually, sir,’ said MacGregor, steeling himself to look on the bright side, ‘I think we’re beginning to make a little progress.’
Dover sank his face into his beer. ‘Ugh.’
‘Our next move is obviously to investigate this Knapper
man.’
‘Ugh, ugh.’
‘It’s a pity, though,’ MacGregor continued grimly in the face of considerable discouragement, ‘that Mr Pettitt couldn’t provide us with a bit more information. Still’ we’ve got enough to make a start.’
‘Lying in his teeth!’ proclaimed Dover, emerging from his tankard with a gratified belch. ‘I wouldn’t believe a word that butcher said even if it was true. ’Strewth, did you see the way he drove that spike thing into me? And enjoyed doing it!’
MacGregor was checking assiduously through his notes. This was partly because he was a conscientious detective and partly because it was getting to the end of the month and he didn’t want to have to notice that Dover’s glass was empty. ‘Mr Pettitt says he saw Knapper alive and well on the Sunday morning, sir. The Dockwra Society finished off their meeting before lunch on Sunday and most people, including Pettitt himself and Knapper, left almost immediately. Pettitt had a car but he thinks Knapper was travelling by train.’ MacGregor frowned and glanced up. Occasionally it was convenient to take advantage of the fact that Dover was as thick as two planks to bounce a few ideas off him. ‘That’s rather odd, isn’t it, sir?’
Dover chose to be facetious. ‘Millions of people travel by train, laddie! Every day.’
‘I mean, odd that Mr Pettitt didn’t offer Knapper a lift, sir. They both live in London.’
‘Return ticket,’ grunted Dover.
‘You can easily get a refund, sir.’
‘Maybe Pettitt couldn’t stand the sight of him.’
‘I still think it’s rather odd, sir.’
Dover was now intent on scraping noisy figures-of-eight on the table with his tankard. ‘He could have offered,’ he pointed out impatiently, ‘and it was Knapper who said no.’
‘Meaning that he wasn’t returning home directly to London after the weekend at Bowerville, sir?’ MacGregor seized eagerly on the idea. ‘Yes, that’s a very interesting speculation. I must get onto the Holiday Ranch and see if they can remember if they provided Knapper with transport to the station.’
Dover could see that the subtle approach wasn’t getting him anywhere. ‘Got a fag, laddie?’ he asked. He waited until MacGregor had got his cigarettes and lighter out before delivering the coup de grace. ‘And I’ll have a refill, too, while you’re at it.’
There was something of a hiatus before they got Dover back in the rhythm of dragging cigarette smoke into his lungs and pouring best bitter down his gullet. When all was sweetness and light once more, MacGregor broached a new topic of conversation: matrimony.
‘I suppose Mr Knapper must be a bachelor, sir. Or, at least, not living with his wife.’
‘Why?’
‘A wife would surely have reported her husband’s disappearance to the authorities by now, wouldn’t she, sir?!
The beer must be having a mellowing effect. ‘Like a shot!’ agreed Dover. ‘Any threat to their meal ticket and you can’t see ’em for dust. Like leeches,’ he added with the grim resignation of one who was required to hand over his pay cheque intact every month. He made an effort and switched his mind to happier themes. ‘Did that foot chap say anything about any rows or punch-ups on this blooming weekend?’
MacGregor could only assume that it had been anxiety about his corn that had stopped Dover from listening to what Mr Pettitt had said. ‘No, it all seems to have been very amicable, sir. Actually, there hardly seems to have been time for any violent passions to develop, especially as nobody had ever met anybody before. They didn’t arrive at the Holiday Ranch until the Friday evening and, by the time they’d got settled in, had a meal and a drink or two, it was time for bed. They started having their meeting or whatever it was at ten o’clock
