by Joyce Porter
MacGregor could appreciate that this section might indeed cause difficulty.
‘What you’ve got to remember,’ said Dover, reaching for another cheese sandwich, ‘is that these people aren’t interested in the past. Last week’s ancient history to them. It’s what’s happening here and now that impresses them. That’s why I want to go out on a winning streak.’
‘You mean this case we’re going to investigate at Frenchy Botham, sir.’
‘Precisely!’ Dover regarded MacGregor with an almost benevolent eye and made a mental note to try and work it in somewhere in that questionnaire that he was something of a wizard when it came to selecting and training bright young men. ‘I want a really spectacular success, and I want it fast. With the maximum publicity, of course. My past record can naturally stand on its own feet but it’s my handling of this case that’s going to count with those Pomeroy Chemical boys.’ Dover glanced suspiciously at his sergeant. ‘I hope I can rely on your co-operation.’
MacGregor was a reticent person. Otherwise he might have been tempted to assure Dover that, to get him that plum job at Pomeroy Chemicals, he (MacGregor) would willingly face any dangers, brave any hazards (up to and including walking on red-hot coals), work any hours and solve any problems. In short, Sergeant MacGregor could place his hand on his heart and proclaim with all sincerity that there was nothing he wouldn’t do to get rid of Dover.
But Dover wasn’t even listening to the much more muted declaration of loyalty which MacGregor eventually produced. He was looking for his cheese and pickle sandwiches.
(But you’ve eaten them all, sir!’
Dover’s National Health dentures bared in an ugly snarl. ‘Rubbish!’
‘You did, honestly, sir!’
‘Well, in that case, laddie,’ said Dover, leaning back and folding his arms, ‘you’d better get me some more, hadn’t you? You can’t expect me to work at top pressure on a bloody empty stomach. And fetch me a piece of cake while you’re at it!’
But the time always comes when the eating has to stop and eventually Dover and MacGregor arrived in Frenchy Botham. They were welcomed by an impassive Inspector Walters who explained he had given orders that nothing be moved until their arrival and, under his guidance, they duly inspected the body which was still lying where it had been found. They made a cursory inspection of the surroundings and listened to a succinct account from Inspector Walters of the progress so far. All in all a good five minutes was spent at the scene of the crime before Dover’s patience and his feet gave out at pretty much the same time.
‘’Strewth, it’s a bit nippy out here!’ said Dover, breaking into Inspector Walters’s dissertation on the murder’s apparent lack of sexual connotations.
Inspector Walters just wasn’t quick enough. Before he had time to switch his mind to this new topic of conversation, he found he’d lost his audience. Dover was already three-quarters of the way back to the waiting police car and Sergeant MacGregor was hot-footing it after him. Inspector Walters paused only to tell the ambulance men that the body could now be removed before joining in the chase. He caught up with his main quarry just as it was depositing seventeen and a quarter stone of unlovely fat with a deep sigh of relief on the back seat of the car.
‘We’ve established the Murder Headquarters in the Village Hall, sir,’ panted Inspector Walters, naively confident that this information would be of interest.
Dover’s lip curled and his little black moustache (of the style made so unpopular by Adolf Hitler forty years ago) twitched contemptuously. He had yet to meet either a Murder Headquarters or a village hall which came anywhere near his standards of comfort. ‘Stuff that for a lark! I’ll be directing operations from this room you’re supposed to have booked for me.’
‘At The Laughing Dog, sir?’ Inspector Walters was already beginning to crack.
Luckily his foolish question provided Dover with an early opportunity to display the rapier-like wit for which he was so well known. ‘Unless you’ve managed to get me a bed at Buckingham Palace!’
‘But . . .’
Dover ceased sniggering at his own cleverness and spelt it out. ‘I’m going back to my room in this boozer place to have a quiet think,’ he said, slowly and clearly. ‘And I don’t want to be disturbed.’ He noticed that Inspector Walters was opening and closing his mouth like a drowning goldfish and graciously condescended to explain his methods a little more fully. ‘It’s brains that make a great detective, laddie,’ he announced, solemnly tapping the side of his forehead with a grubby finger. ‘You don’t find real experts like me rushing around like a scalded cat on hot bricks. Take it from me, laddie – my “quiet thinks” have solved more murders than you’ve had hot bloody dinners.’
MacGregor, who was installed next to Dover on the back seat, stared unblinkingly straight ahead.
But Inspector Walters still hovered. ‘Er – what do you want me to do then, sir?’
‘How about just buggering off, eh?’ demanded Dover, discarding his philosophical role somewhat abruptly.
‘But what about Mr Plum, sir?’
‘Mr Plum? Who the hell’s Mr Plum when he’s at home?’
‘He’s the landlord of The Laughing Dog, sir. That’s the village pub you and Sergeant MacGregor will be staying in. Mr Plum apparently has some information about the girl.’
Dover frowned. ‘What girl?’
‘The dead one, sir.’ Inspector Walters glanced at MacGregor but there was no help coming from that quarter. ‘I’ve had all my chaps out making house-to-house enquiries round the village, and this is the only lead they’ve come up with.’
Dover thought of Pomeroy Chemicals Limited. ‘Oh, all right,’ he growled irritably, ‘let’s be having it!’
Inspector Walters was embarrassed. ‘Well, that’s the trouble, sir. He wouldn’t tell us. Not my constable, that is. He said he’d got some important information about the girl and he was blowed if he was going to divulge it to some baby-faced copper who wasn’t dry behind the ears yet. My constable attempted to remonstrate with him, of course, but Mr Plum was adamant. It was Scotland Yard or nothing, he said.’
All things considered, Dover took the news surprisingly well. Usually the very idea of work was anathema to him, but he reflected that landlords of public houses are not as other men. And, who knows? A little friendly interview at this stage in the game might well develop into a truly lasting and profitable association. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll see to What’s-his-name. Meantime, you just carry on!’
Inspector Walters tried to hold the car back by brute force. ‘But, sir,’ he bleated, having failed to achieve his initial object and now being forced to run alongside with his head stuck through the open window, ‘the Chief Constable . . .’
‘Oh, stuff the Chief Constable!’ retorted Dover and, unexpectedly bestirring himself, attempted to wind up the window fast enough to trap Inspector Walters by the throat. He missed by no more than the tip of a nose. ‘We’re going to have to watch that joker,’ he gasped as he sank back exhausted in his seat.
‘I thought he seemed quite a decent sort of chap, sir.’
Dover regarded MacGregor sourly. ‘Did you? Well, just see you keep him out of my hair, that’s all. I don’t want him messing things up.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘And I don’t want you messing things up, either!’ added Dover viciously. ‘This is my bloody case and I’m going to solve it in my own bloody way. Savee?’
These days MacGregor didn’t even permit himself the luxury of irony in his thoughts. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said meekly. ‘I understand perfectly.’
2
Both Mr Plum, landlord of The Laughing Dog, and Dover were in the habit of taking a nap in the afternoon (though in deference to his new and dynamic persona, Dover this time kept his boots on when he stretched out on the eiderdown), so it was getting on for five o’clock before their encounter took place. Mr Plum, much refreshed, presented himself in Dover’s bedroom with a loaded tea tr
ay and thus acquired the great detective’s instant and whole-hearted attention.
MacGregor, armed with a notebook and a newly sharpened pencil, resigned himself to conducting the interview and duly raised his voice to cover the sounds of Dover’s uninhibited mastication. ‘I understand, Mr Plum, that you’ve got some information for us about this young woman who’s been found dead?’
Mr Plum, a well-padded man with whiskers that looked as though they’d been tended by a topiarian, settled himself more securely in the other easy chair. He was there to enjoy himself and had no intention of being hurried. ‘That’s right, sergeant,’ he agreed easily. ‘And, going by what I’ve heard about this murder, I reckon my evidence is going to be vital. That’s why I decided to save it for Scotland Yard. I’m sure our local policemen are wonderful when it comes to motoring offences and enforcing the licensing laws, but – murder? No, I fancy they might find themselves a touch out of their depth there.’
Dover, being post a sardine sandwich and ante a cream horn, was free to ask a question. ‘Where,’ he demanded indignantly, ‘is the bloody sugar?’
‘Under the plate of scones, squire!’ Mr Plum leaned across to assist. ‘See?’
MacGregor knew – none better – to what unspeakable depths these interviews could sink if Dover was allowed to keep interrupting, and he lost no time in bringing Mr Plum back to heel. ‘You say that you’ve already heard some details about this incident, sir. May one ask where?’
‘Over the bar counter, old son!’ said Mr Plum with amiable frankness. ‘Soon as we opened at half past ten we had an endless queue of your coppers coming in on the sly for a quick one.’
‘And they talked about the murder?’ MacGregor pursed his lips disapprovingly.
‘Good thing they did!’ rejoined Mr Plum. ‘Otherwise it might have been days before you lot got around to questioning me. Correct me if I’m wrong, squire, but aren’t you up a bit of a gum tree with this one?’
‘In what way?’ asked MacGregor cautiously.
‘Well, like your colleagues calling the girl “Miss X”. I mean, that speaks for itself, doesn’t it? You obviously know damn all about her. Right? Not her name or where she comes from or even – if it comes to that – how long she’s been lying dead in old Sir Percy’s front garden.’
‘We’re only just beginning our investigations,’ protested MacGregor. ‘Still, if you can help us in . . .’
‘I don’t know who she is or where she lives,’ said Mr Plum, ‘but I do know when she arrived in Frenchy Botham.’
‘You do?’ In his excitement MacGregor underlined Mr Plum’s name twice in his notebook. ‘When?’
‘Here, hold your horses!’ Mr Plum had got his story all worked out and the last thing he wanted was a lot of questions confusing him. ‘I’ll tell it in my own way, right? Then you can ask me anything I’ve left out at the end. Now, it was about seven o’clock, as I recall, and I was just having one of my periodic strolls round the bars to check that everything was ship-shape and Bristol fashion before the evening rush got under way. That’s how I happened to be in the Public when this girl came in. Real white trash, she was. Blue jeans, a denim jacket, one of those bag things like old sacks slung over her shoulder. Skinny as a rabbit. Long hair all over the place and a good wash wouldn’t have come amiss, either.’
‘Age?’ asked MacGregor, feeling that in spite of Mr Plum’s injunction it was time he asserted himself.
Mr Plum paused, more for dramatic effect than because he didn’t know the answer. ‘Eighteen,’ he said. ‘Nineteen at the most. And you can take my word for it. My licence depends on me being able to spot how old these dratted teenagers are. Well, normally I wouldn’t have bothered with this kid but Toby – he’s my barman in the Public – was busy stacking crates of brown so, since I was there, I wished her my usual hospitable good-evening and asked her what she wanted. By the way,’ – Mr Plum frowned behind his whiskers. Trying to remember every blessed detail was proving trickier than he’d thought – ‘did I mention that she was wet? Not too wet, of course.’
‘And what the hell’s that supposed to mean?’ Not all of Dover’s attention was being given to squeezing the last cup out of the pot.
Mr Plum was more than delighted to explain. ‘Well, since I heard she’d been found murdered, I naturally got to thinking about her,’ he said. ‘And wondering how she’d got to Frenchy Botham. We don’t have any trains, you see, since they closed the line ten years ago, and hardly any buses. None that’d get her here at that time of night, anyhow. On the other hand, if she’d come in her own car, even the police would have found it by now, wouldn’t they? A strange car, parked all this time in a small village . . . Well, that’s when I started thinking about walking.’
‘I wish you would!’ growled Dover in an aside pitched to be heard.
‘And that's why I mentioned her being wet, but not too wet.’ Mr Plum seemed to be expecting some kind of response and was obviously disappointed when it didn’t come. ‘It was raining cats and dogs that night, you see,’ he continued sullenly. ‘If she’d done the three miles from Chapminster, say, on foot, she’d have been soaked to the skin. But, like I said, she was just wet.’ MacGregor didn’t like being rude to people. ‘And what’s your explanation, sir?’ he asked out of the kindness of his heart.
‘I came to the conclusion that she’d been hitch-hiking. She probably got to Chapminster by train or coach and then got a lift from a passing motorist or lorry driver as far as Frenchy Botham.’
Dover proceeded to wipe the smile of quiet satisfaction right off Plum’s face. ‘’Strewth,’ he said disgustedly, ‘she could have hitch-hiked from Timbuktu for all you know. Or landed from a bloody flying saucer. Or been driven here by her murderer who knocked her on the head and drove away again. There could be a thousand explanations. Look,’ – having eaten and drunk everything in sight, Dover was beginning to get bored — ‘speed it up, will you? Stick to the facts and leave the clever stuff to us.’ MacGregor hastened to smooth things over as Mr Plum seemed to be turning a rather appropriate colour. ‘You asked the girl what she wanted,’ he prompted.
‘That’s right,’ agreed Mr Plum sourly. He was taking a good hard look at Dover, as if seeing for the first time what an ill-natured, scruffy old devil he really was. ‘Yes, I asked her what she wanted – meaning to drink, of course – and she says can I tell her where The Grove is. No “please” mind you. Kids, these days! Well, to cut a long story short, I told her. Simple enough. Out of the pub, turn right and The Grove’s the second road on the left. Five minutes walk and you can’t miss it. She thanked me, turned on her heel and walked out.’
MacGregor studied his notes. ‘Did you see her again?’
‘No. But it is her, isn’t it? I mean, the description fits and everything, doesn’t it? I know,’ explained Mr Plum a trifle obscurely, ‘one of the sergeants who saw the body.’
It is not a detective’s job to answer questions, and MacGregor ignored those from Mr Plum. ‘And she definitely had a handbag?’
‘Definitely.’
‘And when was it exactly that you saw this girl?’
‘Ten days ago,’ said Mr Plum without hesitation. ‘Wednesday, the twelfth.’
Dover stuck his oar in again. Although he was always complaining about witnesses who could never remember anything, he got highly suspicious about those who did. ‘You must get thousands of people in your boozer,’ he said accusingly. ‘How come you’ve got this girl so clear in your mind?’
Mr Plum could almost feel the noose being slipped over his head. ‘I don’t quite know,’ he admitted uneasily. ‘Of course, we don’t see that many unaccompanied young girls of her age coming in. More’s the pity, eh?’ This feeble attempt at humour fell on four very stony ears. Mr Plum hurried on. ‘I think it must have been her asking about The Grove that made me remember her. I mean, The Grove’s very posh. All good solid houses standing in their own grounds. Not her style at all. I did keep my ears open for the next couple of
days or so, in case there was any gossip going around. But there wasn’t. Then I forgot all about her until this body turned up.’
MacGregor looked across at Dover to see if he’d had enough. If the scowl and the protruding bottom lip were anything to go by, he had. ‘Well, thank you very much, Mr Plum. You’ve been a great . . .’
But Mr Plum couldn’t afford to be brushed off like that. He’d got his customers to think of. They’d expect him to be hand-inglove with these Scotland Yard detectives and in a position to retail all the news straight from the horse’s mouth. ‘You do see what this means, don’t you?’ he asked anxiously. ‘It’s not just accidental that her body was found in The Grove. She was visiting somebody there and, if you ask me, whoever that somebody was, they’re the ones who killed her. It narrows your investigation down to no more than five houses! You don’t have to go looking over the entire country for your murderer. He’s right here, in this village. In one road in this village! Why, there can’t be more than a dozen people who . . .’
‘What time’s supper in this dump?’ If there was one thing Dover couldn’t stand it was amateur detectives trying to muscle in on the act.
It took Mr Plum a second or two to get his bearings again. ‘Well, whenever you like, squire. Likewise with all your meals. Inspector Walters warned us when he booked your rooms that food would be a problem, what with you keeping such irregular hours. He said you’d be working so hard that you’d just have to snatch your meals as and when you could.’
Dover’s face crumpled in a grimace of shock and horror. ‘With my stomach?’ he howled indignantly. ‘What are you trying to do? Finish me off? Now, listen, mate,’ – he addressed Mr Plum with more concern and involvement than he’d shown throughout the entire interview – ‘and get this straight! I don’t want any messing about with my meals. Savee? I want ’em hot, nourishing, on the dot – and plenty of’em.’Strewth, it’s the only thing that keeps me going, is food! You wouldn’t believe what a sensitive stomach I’ve got. I’ve had Harley Street specialists weeping over it – and I’m damned if I’m going to have you buggering it up!’
