Sir Egbert turned his eyes piously in the general direction of that Great Travel Agent in the sky. Dear God, make it one of those really nasty, sordid, sexy murders . . . please!
Meanwhile there were still things needing to be done down here in this vale of tears. Sir Egbert, diamond cuff links flashing, dived for his intercom button again.
Four
Thus alerted by his head office, the manager and herd boss of Rankin’s Bowerville-by-the-sea Holiday Ranch had ample time to take the usual precautions. A few account books were hidden, a few faces warned to stay out of sight, a few skeletons popped back into their cupboards. It was the routine stuff. After all, if it wasn’t Customs and Excise poking around, it was somebody from Health and Social Security or a factory inspector or a busybody about the VAT. Establishment snoopers never sleep and this new lot were exceptional only in that they were travelling by train and not in their own chauffeur-driven limousine.
When Dover and MacGregor finally emerged from the gritty embrace of British Rail they found a mini-bus from the Ranch waiting for them. MacGregor, blessed with ideas above his station, would have preferred transport which was not plastered with vulgar and garish advertisements, but naturally Dover didn’t give a damn. His feet were killing him and, as long as he didn’t have to walk, he was easy.
‘I don’t know,’ he confided to MacGregor as they bowled along by the side of a sullen, steel-gray sea, ‘how much longer I’m going to be able to carry on.’
MacGregor had heard all this a thousand times before. ‘Really, sir?’
‘I’m not at all well, you know,’ said Dover, aiming for a pathetic note. ‘It’s my stomach. It’s playing me up something cruel. Well, you saw that for yourself. In and out of that toilet like a bloody jack-in-the-box.’
MacGregor had not forgotten. Nor, he suspected, had the other passengers in their compartment who had been privileged to share in Dover’s running commentary on his troubles. ‘Perhaps it was all those railway pies you had, sir. Or the sausage rolls. They did look rather greasy.’
‘I reckon I’ve caught a chill,’ said Dover miserably.
‘Pastry can be rather indigestible at times, sir.’
‘Indigestible?’ snarled Dover. ‘I’m not talking about a bit of belly-ache or a touch of the wind, laddie!’ He flinched slightly as a sudden flurry of sleet rattled the windows of the minibus. ‘It’s the bloody trots I’ve got, and don’t you forget it.’
‘No, sir.’
‘I’ll tell you something else too,’ said Dover on the principle that a trouble shared is a trouble halved. ‘If we don’t get to wherever it is we’re going pretty damn quick, we’ll be in trouble. Get it?’
MacGregor got it all right. He stared out at the bleak, mist-enshrouded sea-scape and tried to think pf something to distract Dover’s mind. ‘It’s decent of the Holiday Ranch to offer us accommodation for the night, isn’t it, sir? I hadn’t appreciated how far away from everywhere it is. Quite isolated, really.’
‘Bloody concentration camp!’ muttered Dover morosely. ‘Waste of time, too. That blue bead thing isn’t going to lead us anywhere. Stands to reason.’
‘It’s the only clue we have, sir.’
A fat lot Dover cared. ‘Somebody’ll turn up sooner or later and report him missing,’ he said. ‘Until then,’ – he brightened up at the prospect – ‘there’s nothing we can do except sit back and bloody wait.’
‘There we are, gents!’ The driver of the minibus gesticulated ahead into the gloom and the spray. ‘There’s Rankin’s!’
MacGregor, who had exceptionally keen eyesight, could just make out a miserable collection of huts huddled together on the very edge of the beach. Once they must have been brightly painted but now their colours had faded to a dispirited pastel. Here and there the smooth surface of a concrete roadway gleamed through the driving rain.
It was another five minutes before Dover and MacGregor reached their destination and debussed in front of a larger than average hut. It’s walls were covered in notices – clear, stark and aggressive, NO PARKING, they said, and PRIVATE, RANCH STAFF ONLY, they snarled, NO ADMITTANCE, STRICTLY OUTOF BOUNDS. ALL PASSES TO BE SHOWN. ADMINISTRATION BUILDING.
‘Through there, gents!’ The minibus driver helpfully indicated a door labelled KEEP OUT! THIS MEANS YOU!!
Dover and MacGregor, any reluctance to intrude where they might not be welcome being overcome by the way the wind was sand-blasting the skin off their faces, went inside. They found themselves in a small corridor along which, thanks to a cunning arrangement of steel filing cabinets, they were obliged to progress in single file. Captain Maguire had been manager for six years, and nobody lasts that long by taking chances. If he’d thought he could get away with it, he’d have installed man-traps, too, and hung buckets of boiling oil from the ceiling.
‘Ha, ha!’ Captain Maguire hailed them when they’d finally penetrated his defences. ‘I’ve been expecting you!’ He dropped his life-preserver back in the desk drawer. ‘Take a pew! And shut up, Attila!’ The snarling Doberman Pinscher eased back fractionally on the heavy chain which held him riveted to the wall. ‘Now, then,’ – Captain Maguire swung back to his visitors – ‘how do you take it?’
‘Hr – take it, sir?’ MacGregor was more concerned with getting Dover settled in a chair which looked as though it might stand his weight. ‘Take what?’
‘The usquebaugh, old son!’ said Captain Maguire, vexed at having to explain the facts of life to a grown man. ‘The poteen! The fire-water! The cup that inebriates!’ He flourished a
