‘Ah, Italy!’ Inspector Telford clutched hopefully at one straw before it floated past him on the stream of WPC Kubersky’s eloquence. ‘These beads are used in Italian holiday camps, are they?’
‘And Spanish ones,’ said WPC Kubersky who was a much travelled girl. ‘French, too, I shouldn’t wonder. Lots of places.’
‘But, abroad?’
‘Oh, no’ – WPC Kubersky got hold of the blue bead and examined it without the aid of the magnifying glass – ‘in England, too. Like I bet this is English Funny Money. RHR – that could stand for Rankin’s Holiday Ranches, couldn’t it?’
‘And what about the numbers?’ asked Inspector Telford, anxious that this hitherto unsuspected luminary in their midst should be given every chance to shine.
‘That’ll be the value, sir. Phis blue bead is worth twenty-five of whatever.’
‘Pence?’ prompted Inspector Telford hopefully.
WPC Kubersky shook her head. These senior officers – they just hadn’t got it, had they? ‘More like other beads, sir,’ she said. ‘Green like, or red, or yellow. Are you ready for your coffee now, sir?’
The question had been addressed to Inspector Telford, but it was Dover who answered. ‘Yes,’ he said without a moment’s hesitation. ‘And see if you can rustle up a bite to eat, there’s a good girl.’
Luckily MacGregor was capable of keeping his mind on higher things. ‘Rankin’s Holiday Ranches?’ he mused. ‘Well, it’s a start. But what was the bead doing in the dead man’s stomach? It’s too big to have been swallowed accidentally, isn’t it?’ He turned to Dr Hone-Hitchcock. ‘I suppose you didn’t find any other foreign bodies inside him?’
‘No, just this blue bead thing. It was all mixed up with the remains of the last meal he’d eaten. Venison, chips, baked beans and sprouts, followed by rice pudding and all washed down with about half a pint of beer. He’d consumed that lot about six or seven hours before he was killed. Maybe longer.’
‘Venison?’ said MacGregor. ‘That’s a bit unusual, isn’t it? Could this bead thing have been connected with the venison?’
‘How do you mean?’
MacGregor was really scraping the barrel. ‘Well, suppose the young lady’s wrong and it isn’t this Funny Money stuff. It could be part of a cartridge, perhaps, or some sort of plastic tag on a carcase or a joint of meat.’
Dr Hone-Hitchcock looked at his watch and saw that he should have been somewhere else twenty minutes ago. Oh, well, he might as well be hung for a sheep and stay on for a cup of coffee. However, the spectacle of Dover perking up quite disgustingly as the coffee tray approached gave him pause. And when, in response to the stimulus of a plate of sticky cream cakes, Dover’s animation became positively nauseating, Dr Hone-Hitchcock decided to cut his losses. He had been a Home Office pathologist for nigh on thirty years but there were some things even he couldn’t stomach. He looked round for his hat.
Before he left, though, Dr Hone-Hitchcock did spare a moment to put young MacGregor on the right lines. ‘That, sergeant,’ he said, jabbing the blue bead with a magisterial finger, ‘is a clue. In my considered opinion it could not have been swallowed accidentally nor was it consumed for nutritional purposes or because the deceased liked the taste. Ergo – it was ingested for some other reason, and that other reason was to provide a clue. The sort of thing I have in mind is a kidnapping, say. The victim knows he’s going to be killed and he takes the only means available to him to provide some kind of a pointer to his murderer. It is the only explanation for the presence of that bead in the dead man’s stomach.’
‘You may be right, sir.’
Dr Hone-Hitchcock drew himself up. ‘I am, sergeant,’ he said confidently and took his leave.
Space in the caravan was at a premium and, as soon as the pathologist had gone, another of Inspector Telford’s minions came bustling forward to take his place.
The minion handed MacGregor a sheet of paper. ‘Here’s the address of the Head Office of Rankin’s Holiday Ranches, sarge,’ he announced, modestly confident that this example of local initiative and efficiency would not pass unnoticed. ‘We’ve already given ’em a buzz and warned ’em you’re on your way. ‘Seems,’ he added with the easy camaraderie of one professional to another, ‘as though this blue-bead business might be going to open up a whole new ball game.’
Three
Sir Egbert Rankin was one of those people who preach delegation but who know that, if you want something done properly, you have to do it yourself.
When Dover and MacGregor came knocking at his door, figuratively speaking, he insisted upon seeing them himself, though a greatly daring confidential aide had been so bold as to suggest that it wasn’t really necessary for the chairman and managing director of a multi-million corporation to . . . Sir Egbert, however, was adamant. He hadn’t built up Rankin’s Holiday Ranches by the sweat of his brow and the spectacular proceeds of five years as a war time army quartermaster-sergeant to see it all fall apart now.
‘Won’t you at least have one of the company lawyers on hand, sir?’
Sir Egbert shot the cuffs of his silk shirt so that the diamond cuff links came into sight, and speared the button on his intercom.
His secretary flinched in panic at the other end.
‘Them flat-feet still there?’
‘Er – yes, sir.’
Then what the ’ell are you waiting for? Wheel ’em in!’
Dover, at least, entered Sir Egbert’s palatial office with the highest hopes. After the insalubrious environment of the Muncaster municipal rubbish dump almost anything would, of course, be an improvement, but it wasn’t every day that rock-bottom brass like Dover was
