‘Well, Knapper more or less picked himself. Even with a rather unhelpful photograph of the corpse, it was pretty clear which one of you it was. Then we got in touch with Mrs Knapper and she clinched the identification.’
‘Easy when you know how, eh?’ Osmond leaned forward until his mouth was only an inch or so from MacGregor’s ear. ‘And then you decided your murderer must be a member of the Dockwra Society as well?’
‘The evidence does appear to be pointing in that direction,’ agreed MacGregor cautiously. ‘Of course, we’re keeping an open mind.’
‘Of course.’
MacGregor felt it was his turn to ask a question. ‘Did Pettitt ring you up and warn you that we were coming?’
‘I’d have had his guts for garters if he hadn’t.’
‘And Mrs Hall, too?’
‘She guessed I was probably the next on your list and gave me a tinkle to let me know what I was in for.’ Osmond refrained from further comment and, sitting back, slipped a hand into an inside pocket. ‘Do you smoke, sarge?’
‘Not while I’m driving, thanks.’
‘You can give me one!’
Dover, showering dandruff like a bride showers confetti, came out of his catnap as though summoned by the Last Trump. His dictum – that there’s some good in everybody – had once again proved correct. Even this sadistic, trigger-happy, stinking young punk had got cigarettes to hand round. And what nice big fat ones!
Dover’s greedy fingers inadvertently fumbled not one but two cigarettes out of the proffered packet, but he had a solution for every social solecism. With an easy grin he stuck the extra fag behind his ear. ‘I’ll keep that for later!’ he quipped.
It is not everybody who would contemplate with equanimity the prospect of placing something in his mouth which had been behind Dover’s ear, but Dover wasn’t quite so fussy.
Osmond could find no response to all this and had to content himself with getting out his lighter and flipping it as close as he dared under Dover’s nose.
Nothing happened.
Dover sniggered.
Osmond flicked the lighter again. Sparks flew and the wick seemed to singe a little, but that was all.
‘Damn!’ said Osmond. ‘I was just going to fill it when you two arrived,’ he explained, making excuses like a naughty schoolboy. ‘That’s the trouble with this model. Mechanically they’re very simple and they’re totally reliable, but they do use a hell of a lot of petrol.’
Dover chalked this up as one to himself and appealed to the rest of the company. ‘Anybody got a bloody match?’
The afternoon was already drawing in when they finally arrived at their destination. MacGregor judged that they were at a spot roughly equidistant from Osmond’s bed-sitter in one direction and London in the other. For all Dover knew, on the other hand, they might have landed on the moon – and Elvira’s bump of location wasn’t much better. However, even this unobservant duo did realise that the car had been halted in the darkest and most remote corner of an enormous car park.
On the distant horizon a huge rectangular slab of a building hunched upwards into the sky, many of its multitude of windows already glowing bright against the encroaching gloom. Osmond marched them towards this Mecca at a spanking pace which did little to endear him further to Dover. Elvira had removed her cap and covered up her uniform with a civilian raincoat. She now looked as normal and unobtrusive as any other girl blessed with long blonde hair, a 39:21:38 figure, and a wiggle.
Dover, with MacGregor in frustrated attendance, dropped further and further behind on this long march across the ruts and puddles and boulders of the car park. ‘Where the hell are we?’ he demanded as he picked his way fretfully round one of the bigger potholes.
MacGregor gave him his best guess on that subject.
‘But what’s this dump?’ Dover flapped an exhausted hand at the twenty-storey building which, true to the nature of its kind, was getting no bloody nearer.
The building was adorned with a simply colossal illuminated sign which, in the circumstances, MacGregor felt he could do no better than read out to his lord and master. ‘It’s a Houston Hostelry, sir. One of that new chain of American-style hotels they’ve been opening up and down the country.’
‘’Strewth!’ said Dover for no particular reason. ‘What the hell are we doing here?’
‘I suppose this is where we’re going to have our meeting with
Osmond’s boss, sir.’
Dover stopped to have a little rest. ‘Who’s Osmond?’ he asked.
The Houston Hostelries were the latest word in do-it-yourself hotel keeping. The only human being that guests had any contact with was the young lady receptionist who accepted the payments in advance for the rooms, and she didn’t encourage the development of any more meaningful relationship. Everything else was pre-packed, obtained from a slot-machine, and sanforised. Still, on the plus side, there was no tipping and the hotel was not ungenerous when it came to providing tea bags, instant coffee, powdered milk and strips of paper for cleaning your shoes with.
Osmond didn’t even bother going to the reception desk. Instead, he moved over to a large board on which were displayed letters and messages for the clientele. He found an envelope marked ‘Mr Trill’ and ripped it open. Written on the inside of the envelope were two numbers. Osmond carefully added seventeen to each number in his head, checked his calculations twice, memorised the results and, only then, tore the envelope into tiny fragments and slipped them into his pocket.
Dover, MacGregor and Elvira watched in awe.
‘Follow me!’ ordered Osmond crisply and led the way over to the lifts. They were whisked up to the seventh floor where, with only a couple of furtive but penetrating glances over his shoulder, Osmond conducted them down the length of a long corridor and tapped elaborately upon a bedroom door.
It must have been a pre-determined code. The door opened, though whoever opened it was careful to remain out of sight. Osmond stood back so that Elvira could go in first.
