Dover fished out another cigarette and lit it in a shower of sparks from the stub of the first. ‘The leak doesn’t have to have come from Special Branch.’
‘But there’s nobody else, sir.’
‘There’s Punchard,’ said Dover, trying to yawn without taking the cigarette out of his mouth first.
‘Commander Punchard, sir?’ MacGregor bent down to prevent too big a hole being burnt in the car carpet. ‘I don’t think he’s very likely to be trying to do the Special Branch a good turn, do you?’ He pushed the cigarette back between Dover’s stubby fingers. ‘You said yourself that there’s no love lost between him and Commander Croft-Fisher.’
‘He wouldn’t give Croft-Fisher the dirt from under his fingernails,’ agreed Dover sleepily. ‘But who said it’d be Special Branch he was trying to help?’
MacGregor pulled back as far as he could so as to get a proper look at Dover. Surely the old fool wasn’t suggesting . . ? And with that damned police driver drinking in every word! ‘Sir, you don’t think Mr Punchard might be . . .’
Dover grinned evilly through another yawn. ‘A member of the Steel Band himself, laddie? Why the hell not?’
MacGregor got his handkerchief out and dabbed helplessly at his lips. Why not, indeed?
Fifteen
Thanks to a touch of Dover’s old trouble, which involved a lengthy halt at a public convenience, the police car came in a bad second to Mr Weemys’s taxi and the lawyer was already comfortably ensconced in Mr Braithwaite’s office by the time our two detectives were shown in.
Except for the more luxurious surroundings, the proceedings were irritatingly similar to those in Mike Ruscoe’s miserable hovel. Under Mr Weemys’s discreet and deferential guidance, Freddie Braithwaite – as he’d been known all those years ago in the Navy – admitted just so much. Yes, indeed, old chap, that smelly little Yid had been found guilty of betraying the Steel Band’s most cherished ideals and traditions, and he had been duly expelled from the movement. Good riddance to bad rubbish – what? But – murdered? Good God, no!
‘Personally,’ said Freddie Braithwaite with an unpleasant chuckle, ‘I wouldn’t have risked getting my hands infected by touching the miserable runt – and I don’t think any of my associates would, either. Besides, mindless violence is simply not the Steel Band’s way of doing things. Definitely not our style. On the contrary, it’s precisely the sort of thing we’re continually campaigning against. You’ve only got to look at our literature to see that. Remind me to give you a few of our pamphlets before you leave.’
MacGregor looked up from his notebook. The room in which they were sitting – Mr Braithwaite’s office – was warm and comfortably furnished. Mr Braithwaite was an architect and, as he was careful to let fall early on, a local government councillor with friends in all the right places. His allegiance to the Steel Band was evident but unstressed. There was a signed photograph of Sir Bartholomew Grice looking statesmanlike, and a small reproduction of the movement’s badge in solid silver which was doing duty as a paperweight. Nothing that couldn’t have been removed easily, should it prove necessary.
‘Are you suggesting, sir,’ asked MacGregor, ‘that Mr Knapper’s death so soon after his mock-trial was just a coincidence?’
‘Mr Braithwaite,’ Mr Weemys chipped in quickly, ‘doesn’t have to suggest anything, sergeant. Speculation about the circumstances of Knapper’s murder is a matter purely for the
police.’
But Mr Braithwaite was wearing his generous hat. ‘Oh, I don’t mind chancing my arm, Weemys,’ he said confidently. ‘And, yes, sergeant, I do happen to think that Knapper’s demise was a pure coincidence. As far as our disciplinary hearing is concerned, the murder was simply post hoc and not propter hoc, if you follow me.’
Fortunately MacGregor had received a classical education at his very minor public school, and Dover wasn’t listening anyhow. The chief inspector, while still trusting that all those bottles on the side table weren’t just for show, was giving most of his attention to the tricky task of extracting another of the cigarettes from MacGregor’s packet and looking around gormlessly for a light.
MacGregor, conscious of the expensive carpeting and the real leather arm-chairs, started looking around for an ashtray.
Mr Braithwaite produced one – cut glass and the size of a soup plate – and then stared unhappily at the battered cigarette now dangling damply from Dover’s bottom lip. Insignificant though it was, it somehow seemed to lower the tone of the whole room. In desperation, Mr Braithwaite picked up the cigar box and offered it to Dover. ‘Perhaps you’d care to try one of these, old chap? I don’t indulge myself but I’m told they’re pretty first class.’
Dover’s pallid features broke into the artless smile of an infant glutton who has been told there are two Christmases this year. He reached out with both hands. ‘And I’ll take one for the wife!’ he joshed.
MacGregor, relaxing only when he saw that the cigar cutter was too big for even Dover to think of pocketing, went on with his questions. He eventually managed to think up one or two new ones and began asking Mr Braithwaite about the make, registration number and colour of his car, and also whether he had any connections with Muncaster.
While Mr
