by Joyce Porter
“. . . the chuckles are nonstop, and the presence of Dover is bracing. Long live the irascible (even if he overeats) Chief Inspector.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“More humor with a twist of bitter lemon for series fans.”
—Library Journal
“Chief Inspector Dover is the antithesis of Sherlock Holmes.”
—Mostly Murder
“Joyce Porter has created a character almost (literally) larger than life or at least in girth. The sidesplitting but elaborately plotted mysteries embroiling Dover and MacGregor start with Dover One, Dover Two, and Dover Three. Don’t miss any of them.”
—Mystery Scene
“ . . . Dover is the flip side of Nero Wolfe: uncouth, inept, totally gross-and totally hilarious.”
—Drood Review of Mystery
“You can’t like Dover, but you will be fascinated by his sheer, dazzling incompetence. Miss Porter makes adroit use of this; she has a keen eye, a wicked sense of comedy, and a delightfully low mind.”
—John Dickson Carr, Harper’s
Having survived a kidnapping and various other indignities in Dover and the Claret Tappers, Chief Inspector Dover, Scotland Yard’s “most unwanted man,” is called to action (!) once again, along with his ever-unwilling assistant, MacGregor. The naked, burned, and mutilated body of a middle-aged man has been found. When the autopsy reveals a very peculiar clue in the victim’s stomach, the detectives set off on a trail that leads them to a squalid resort—Rankin’s Holiday Ranch at Bowerville-by-the-sea. A mysterious organization, they learn, convened there recently, and its members must dutifully be checked out.
What begins with routine inquiries, however, brings Dover and MacGregor smack into the midst of an undercover, Special Branch investigation of a demented, right-wing, secret society called the Steel Band. Never before has Dover been in such an equivocal spot. Though a vicious murder cries out to be solved, one does not tamper lightly with the delicate and risky operations of State Security. The problem is, one doesn’t readily tamper with Dover’s legendary inertia either.
JOYCE PORTER (1924-1990) was born in Marple, Cheshire, and educated at King’s College, University of London. In addition to the Dover mysteries, she was the author of a series featuring secret agent Eddie Brown, and another about the “Hon-Con,” a gentlewoman/detective. She lived in Wiltshire, England.
Other Chief Inspector Wilfred Dover Novels
From Foul Play Press
Dover One
Dover Two
Dover Three
Dover and the Unkindest Cut of All
Dover Goes to Pott
First U.S. Edition. 1991
Copyright © 1976 by Joyce Porter
First published in Great Britain by Redwood Burn Limited
Library’ of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Porter, Joyce.
Dover beats the band / by Joyce Porter,
p. cm.
ISBN 0-88150-195-6
I. Title.
PR6066.072D7 1991
823’.914–dc20
90–26779
CIP
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by
any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and
retrieval systems without permission in writing from the publisher,
except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages.
Printed in the United States of America
A Foul Play Press Book
The Countryman Press, Inc.
Woodstock, Vermont
05091
For Donna Bradbrooke,
with kindest regards
One
‘And I’ll tell you something else for free,’ growled Detective Chief Inspector Dover, speaking straight from his stomach. ‘I can do without looking at nasty messes like this right after my bloody lunch!’
The small group of men, gum-booted and with their coat collars turned up against the biting wind, exchanged glances. They could hardly quarrel with the sentiment expressed; it was just that it sounded rather odd coming from the lips of a member of Scotland Yard’s Murder Squad.
‘It is a bit unpleasant, sir,’ agreed Inspector Telford after a pause.
‘Unpleasant?’ sneered Dover through the grubby handkerchief he had clamped over his mouth and nose. ‘It’s bloody horrible! I could throw up right now without thinking twice about it.’
‘Well, if you’ve seen all you want to, sir, we might as well go over to the Operations Room we’ve set up in that caravan over there. . .’
Detective Chief Inspector Dover was already under way. Although a man of considerable – not to say excessive – bulk, he was extremely nippy where his own personal convenience and comfort were concerned. He plunged ahead now, slipping and stumbling across the unsavoury expanse of Muncaster’s municipal rubbish dump, parts of which were still smoking obscenely in the icy drizzle. Inspector Telford strode along more athletically in the rear. He was the representative of the local police force who had been detailed to act as liaison officer to the two bigwigs who’d come down from London to take over the investigation. Inspector Telford had already spent several hours on and around the huge rubbish dump – ever since the two labourers from the Sanitary Department had first reported finding the body, in fact – and he wasn’t at all sorry to be getting away from the stink himself for a bit.
The third member of this little retreating group was Detective Sergeant MacGregor, Chief Inspector Dover’s assistant, dog’s-body and general whipping boy. Being a conscientious police officer as well as a handsome and personable young man, he was the only one who regretted having to leave the scene of the crime. The naked body of the dead man with its blackened and disfigured head and shoulders was not a pretty sight, but it warranted more than the cursory glare it had got from Dover. Without a doubt, murder had been committed and it was the duty of every detective to knuckle down and bring the perpetrator to justice. Still, for the time being MacGregor had no choice but to follow his lord and master so he salved his conscience by bestowing an encouraging smile on the bunch of uniformed constables who were left poking sullenly around in the steaming rubbish for clues.
As they approached the edge of the dump, which was luckily not more than a dozen or so yards away, Inspector Telford put a spurt on and caught Dover up.
‘This is where they must have broken through, sir,’ he said helpfully, indicating a stretch of the barbed-wire fencing which had been carefully roped off. ‘They cut the wire there, you see, and then, when they left, they must have carefully stretched it back into place. From a distance you wouldn’t really notice it had been cut. It was only because they started working down at this end of the dump this morning that the workmen spotted the damage and began . . .’
But Dover wasn’t lending more than a quarter of an ear. He had got the large caravan in which the local police had established their mobile Serious Incidents Room firmly in his sights and was surging relentlessly towards it. Not until he was safely inside, ensconced in the most comfortable chair available and with a lavish supply of tea and cakes in front of him, would anything be able to wrench his butterfly mind back to the grim business in hand.
Eventually Inspector Telford took up his tale again. In spite of some pretty strong evidence to the contrary, he still couldn’t quite bring himself to believe that Dover simply didn’t want to know. A senior Scotland Yard detective not interested in the mysterious discovery of a dead body? It wasn’t possible . . . was it? ‘We made a preliminary examination as best we could, sir, without disturbing the body. Of course, we’ll know more of what we’re up against when we get the post morten results and the various lab reports. Meanwhile, w
e’ve got a few basic facts to go on. The dead body is that of a man . . .’
‘Any fool could see that!’ sniggered Dover through a mouthful of chocolate eclair.
‘The body is completely naked, sir,’ Inspector Elford continued stiffly. ‘As far as we have been able to ascertain all the clothing has been removed and there is no sign of any personal possessions whatsoever. We haven’t been able to search underneath the body as yet, but I doubt if we’ll find anything. Whoever deposited chummy out there didn’t intend him to be identified easily, even if he was found. The damage inflicted on the head and shoulders proves that.’
Sergeant MacGregor was busy taking notes. Of course, he and Dover should have been out there, in the field, discovering all this for themselves. It was galling to have to rely upon the half-baked theories of this country bumpkin. ‘What was the cause of death?’
‘I was just coming to that, sergeant.’ Inspector Telford wasn’t over-enamoured at being barked at by prissy young sergeants from London. ‘It looks as though he was strangled. Judging by the marks round his neck, he was garotted by a cord or a thin rope.’
‘There’s nothing still tied round the neck?’
‘No. Whatever it was has been removed.’
MacGregor turned to a fresh page in his notebook. ‘And this damage to the head and shoulders, sir?’ he prompted.
‘It looks as though he’s been burnt. Nothing very deep. Just enough to singe off the hair and blacken the skin. What it adds up to, of course, is that we’re not going to be able to produce a recognisable photograph of the dead man for identification purposes.’
‘Have you any idea yet what caused it?’
Inspector Telford shrugged his’ shoulders. ‘Not at the moment. I’d guess something like petrol or paraffin poured over his head and set alight.’
‘After death, do you think?’
Inspector Telford grimaced. ‘Jesus, I hope so!’
‘They might have used acid,’ said MacGregor thoughtfully. ‘How about a blowlamp?’ Dover made his contribution with much hilarity as he reached across to forcibly abduct the last cake. ‘A blowlamp’d give anybody a short-back-and-sides, eh?’ The arrival of a despatch rider with a large envelope spared Inspector Telford the embarrassment of finding a rejoinder to this grisly suggestion. The envelope contained, the photographs which had been taken earlier of the dead man as he lay on his side in his shallow grave amongst the rubbish.
MacGregor studied the photographs as Inspector Telford passed them across. ‘There wasn’t much of an effort made at concealment,’ he said accusingly. ‘Whoever dumped him there didn’t do more than scrape a bit of a hole. I wonder if they were disturbed.’
Inspector Telford didn’t think so. ‘I know the spot we found him isn’t all that far in distance from the road, but it’s a road that doesn’t go anywhere much. And it’s hardly a scenic route, either, is it? My guess is that our joker had simply had enough. Look, he brings the body by car, right? Well, it’s then got to be lugged over the fence, the barbed wire’s got to be cut, and the body’s got to be man-handled as far into the tip as possible. After that you’ve got to start digging a hole deep enough to bury it in – and with your bare hands. Look at those photographs. There’s no sign that a spade was used. My bet is our laddie did the bare minimum and hoped for the best. And why not? It was pure chance that those workmen just happened to spot the body before somebody buried it for ever under a few tons of household rubbish.’
MacGregor reckoned that Inspector Telford had probably got it about right but he saw no point in telling him so. He changed the subject. ‘You’re assuming that the murder was committed elsewhere?’
Inspector Telford stared. ‘Aren’t you?’
‘It’s a possibility.’
‘It’s a dead cert, surely? You can’t go killing somebody when you’re both up to your knees in smelly tin cans and old potato peelings, even if your victim does happen to be starkers at the time. Besides, that’s why the chief constable called you lot in. This job’s not our pigeon. We just happen to be the dumping ground. The murder was definitely committed somewhere else, not in our bailiwick.’
MacGregor tapped his teeth with his pencil, a gesture designed to indicate deep thought. ‘The choice of the rubbish tip indicates some local knowledge. You said yourself it was a bit off the beaten track. How would a stranger have known about it?’
‘Oh, anybody could have known it was there,’ insisted Inspector Telford, who had no intention of receiving this baby back again. ‘It isn’t a state secret and some days you can smell it for miles.’
MacGregor remained unconvinced but he knew better than to linger overlong on any one aspect, it being no distance at all to the end of Dover’s tether. He contented himself with making an important looking note in his notebook and went on with his questions.
‘Car tracks?’ Inspector Telford shook his head. ‘No, nothing like that. We had a good search round where the barbed wire fencing was cut, but we didn’t find anything. No footprints or tire marks or bits of cloth that’d got snagged there. Mind you, we’re only guessing anyhow that that’s where the body was brought onto the dump.’
MacGregor permitted himself a little sigh. It was going to be one of those cases. Come to think of it, most of Chief Inspector Dover’s were. ‘Have we any idea yet how long the chap’s been dead?’
‘The doctor thought probably a long time. Weeks rather than days, he said. Months, maybe.’
‘Years?’
‘I don’t think so.’
MacGregor closed his notebook. ‘Well, I suppose we’ll have a better idea after the P.M. There doesn’t seem much we can do until then. You’ve been in touch with Missing Persons, have you? Just in case there’s somebody who fits.’
‘Yes, we’ve got all the routine checks in hand.’ Inspector Telford leaned back in his chair and stretched himself. ‘Mind you, I don’t think they’ll lead to much. If we’re going to be able to identify the body as easily as that, why go to the trouble of disfiguring him?’
‘The damage to the head and face could have been accidental.’
‘And pigs might fly!’
‘It could have been revenge.’
‘Look, sergeant, the body was stripped of all its clothing. Even the teeth were removed. That chap had a complete set of dentures, top and bottom. Now, why take them out unless you want to stop us tracing him?’
‘Fingerprints!’
There was a moment’s panic and confusion before Inspector Telford realised that this was Dover now joining in the discussion. He’d been sitting there so long – slumped, silent and stuffed to the gills with cake – that everybody had forgotten about him.
‘Er – fingerprints, sir? Er – fingerprints on what, exactly?’
‘On the bloody corpse!’ snarled Dover, who didn’t suffer fools gladly.
Inspector Telford felt himself going red. ‘Round the neck, you mean, sir? Well, I don’t think there’s much chance of us getting. . .’
‘Not round the neck, you loony!’ rumbled Dover with mounting irritation. ‘On his hands!’
‘On his hands, sir?’
‘You are checking ’em, aren’t you?’ demanded Dover.
‘The corpse’s fingerprints? Oh, yes, of course, sir.’
‘Thank God for small mercies!’ observed Dover with that charm of manner which made so many people long to take a blunt instrument to him. He picked up his bowler hat from a nearby chair and screwed it back lovingly on his head. ‘I’ll want to see the report the minute it comes in but don’t disturb me. I’ve got a bit of quiet thinking to do. About the case!’ he added savagely as he fancied he caught a look flickering across his sergeant’s face. ‘Now, what’s this hotel you’re supposed to have booked us into?’
‘The Muncaster Arms, sir,’ said Inspector Telford, trying to put an unworthy suspicion out of his mind. ‘Er – there is just one small thing before you go, sir.’
‘What?’
‘We understand there
’s a go-slow on in the Fingerprint Bureau, sir. Something about the over-time rates. It’s causing long delays. It may be weeks before we get a report on the dead man’s fingerprints.’
‘’Strewth!’ exploded Dover who always got very angry when he heard about other people downing tools and getting away with it. ‘Some people want a bloody bomb putting under ’em!’ He pulled himself to his feet and the caravan lurched unhappily as seventeen and a quarter stone of badly packaged fat slopped around in its interior. ‘Oh, well, let me know when something breaks.’ Dover was not unaware that some clouds have silver linings and he was more than willing to stay sitting on his backside and twiddling his thumbs for just as long as it took. And longer.’
The manager of the Muncaster Arms, an unpretentious hostelry, had been well briefed by the local police. The pressures of a full-scale murder investigation being what they are, it was extremely unlikely that the two high-powered detectives from London would do more than use their rooms for a quick shave and a change of shirt. The manager was quite looking forward to all the excitement and it came as something of a disappointment to be confronted by a fat, bad-tempered slob in a filthy overcoat and a disgusting bowler hat demanding a DO NOT DISTURB notice for his door.
The manger of the Muncaster Arms never felt quite the same about policemen after that.
Dover remained in his bedroom for the rest of the day, emerging only every hour to belabour the sanitary arrangements and for one trip downstairs to the dining room where he partook of a hearty dinner. The following morning, however, revealed a much more animated scene. The chief inspector, refreshed (if not thoroughly bored) by some fifteen hours sleep, was almost up and raring to go.
‘Does no harm to show your face once in a while,’ he informed his long-suffering sergeant who was privileged to be in attendance at the levée. ‘Keeps the idle beggars on their toes!’
