Dover and the Claret Tappers

by Joyce Porter

  American readers, having faced a number of lean years deprived of the company of Chief Inspector Wilfred Dover, will rejoice (so to speak) in this reappearance of the “most idle and avaricious policeman in the United Kingdom (and, possibly, the world). But be warned: this case is something of a departure—and the very first to depart is none other than Dover himself.

  The detective’s sudden disappearance from Scotland Yard one evening is followed by an ultimatum from a gang of kidnappers calling themselves the Claret Tippers. Demanded in exchange for the hostage are not only a stout ransom, but also the release of two prisoners—one turning out to be a multiple bigamist, the other a sharp-tongued nymphomaniacal shoplifter.

  How Dover gets out of this one, though, is only the beginning. For just as the case is getting cold, the Claret Tippers strike again. And once more Dover is brought into the center of the action in a most unexpected way, one that will prove a trial not only to his hapless assistant, Sergeant MacGregor, but to all of Scotland Yard as well.

  Joyce Porter was born in Marple, Cheshire, and educated at King’s College, University of London. In addition to the Dover mysteries, she is the author of a series featuring secret agent Eddie Brown, and another about the “Hon-Con,” a gentlewoman/detective. She lives at present in Wiltshire, England.

  Dover and the

  Claret Tappers

  A Detective Chief Inspector

  Wilfred Dover Novel

  By Joyce Porter

  A Foul Play Press Book

  The Countryman Press, Inc.

  Woodstock, Vermont

  DOVER AND THE CLARET TAPPERS. Copyright © 1976 by Joyce Porter. All rights reserved.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Porter, Joyce.

  Dover and the Claret Tappers: a detective chief inspector Wilfred Dover novel by Joyce Porter. — 1st U.S. ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 0-88150-148-4

  I. Title.

  PRS066.072D69 1989 89-15784

  823’.914— CIP

  To Bunty Giddens,

  With all best wishes and much affection.

  One

  THE NEWS SPREAD THROUGH SCOTLAND YARD LIKE wildfire. Ordinary constables had heard the rumours by ten o’clock and by the end of the mid-morning coffee break the sergeants were au fait with the situation. From then on the pace accelerated and by lunch-time even the superintendents had caught a whiff of the most amazing development in the fight against crime since they got rid of the How Street Runners.

  The last person to be told was, of course, the Assistant Commissioner (Crime), the man upon whose desk this particular baby was destined to come home to roost. It was a little after two o’clock when the news was broken to him.

  He listened in silence.

  ‘So that’s how things stand as of at this particular moment in time, sir,’ concluded Commander Brockhurst, head of the Yard’s Murder Squad. ‘Of course, we’re still pursuing our enquiries but I think you’ll find that we’ve got the broad outline more or less accurately drawn.’

  The Assistant Commissioner (Crime) peered over the top of his reading glasses at his rock-solid subordinate. ‘Now pull the other one, Tom!’ he advised jocularly.

  ‘No joke, sir. My lads in the Murder Squad opened a bottle of champagne to celebrate with, and you know they’re not the ones to go chucking their money around without good cause.’ The Assistant Commissioner (Crime) was an innate pessimist. ‘It’s some sort of a hoax, then.’

  ‘That’s always a possibility, sir, but I don’t think so.’ Commander Brockhurst half rose from his chair as he handed a typewritten letter, carefully backed with cardboard and enclosed in a transparent plastic envelope, across the desk. ‘In any event, Detective Chief Inspector Dover hasn’t been seen since he left the Yard at eight o’clock last night.’

  The Assistant Commissioner (Crime) accepted the proffered missive and resumed his nit-picking. ‘Well, that sounds as phoney as all hell for a start! What in God’s name was Dover supposed to be doing here at eight o’clock at night? And don’t tell me he was working!’

  Commander Brockhurst allowed himself a grin. ‘The popular theory, sir, is that he overslept.’

  ‘What about Mrs Dover?’ The Assistant Commissioner (Crime) was running a sceptical eye down the typewritten letter.

  ‘Mrs Dover, sir?’

  The Assistant Commissioner (Crime) looked up. ‘Well, didn’t she notice her beloved Wilf was missing?’

  Commander Brockhurst placidly crossed one leg over the other ‘Mrs Dover’s not the sort to look a gift horse in the mouth, sir.’ he replied a trifle enigmatically. ‘She said she just assumed he’d been sent off on a job somewhere when he didn’t turn up. He doesn’t always bother to phone, I understand.’

  ‘That I can well believe!’ sniffed the Assistant Commissioner (Crime). ‘Consideration-for-others is not Dover’s middle name!’ He dropped the letter onto his desk. ‘It must be a hoax, Tom! I mean, this ransom note or whatever you call it – it’s ludicrous. A hundred thousand pounds in used one-pound notes! The release of political prisoners! A manifesto to be read out at peak-viewing hour on the telly! God help us, it reads like something a bunch of school kids would dream up.’

  ‘They did send Dover’s warrant card with the letter, sir. As proof that they’d actually got him.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me that!’ The Assistant Commissioner scowled at his subordinate and then prepared to defend his prejudices to the death. ‘Well, somebody could have found it somewhere. It wouldn’t be the first time Dover’s lost his blooming warrant card.’

  ‘Nor the twenty-first.’

  ‘And look at the signature!’ The Assistant Commissioner flicked the letter along his desk with a disdainful forefinger. ‘ “The Claret Tappers”! I ask you!’

  ‘I was wondering if that could be a lead,’ said Commander Brockhurst thoughtfully.

  ‘A lead?’

  ‘It’s an old boxing term, sir. They used to talk about “tapping the claret” when they’d made a man’s nose bleed.’

  ‘I am well aware of the sanguinary connotations of the expression “claret tapping”, Tom!’ snapped the Assistant Commissioner (Crime). ‘But, if you think we may be looking for a bunch of anarchistical pugilists. I’m afraid I don’t.’

  Commander Brockhurst was a great one for taking both life and his superior officers philosophically. ‘No, sir,’ he said placidly.

  The Assistant Commissioner picked up the letter again. ‘Well, what do we do now, Tom?’

  ‘I don’t think there’s much we can do at the moment, sir From the point of view of further investigations, I mean. In my estimation, we’ve done about all we can.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘We’ve checked that letter for fingerprints, sir, and there aren’t any. Dover’s warrant card and the envelope are still down in the lab but I doubt if they’ll get anything much off’ them. The envelope was posted in this part of London between seven-thirty and nine last night and just addressed to “New Scotland Yard”. Paper and envelope – cheap, mass-produced stuff you can buy anywhere. Sent first-class post and the stamp moistened with a sponge so we can’t even come up with somebody’s blood group. These lads aren’t making any stupid mistakes, sir.’

  ‘It’s all these damned detective stories and cops and robbers on the telly,’ grumbled the Assistant Commissioner (Crime). ‘The way I see it, you might as well damned well publish a handbook of do’s and don’ts for villains.’

  Commander Brockhurst knew better than to let his boss climb into the saddle of that particular hobby-horse. ‘And I’ve had a word with Special Branch, sir.’

  ‘Special Branch?’ The Assistant Commissioner
(Crime) buried his face in his hands. ‘Don’t tell me you think Dover’s been snatched by the agents of some foreign power!’

  ‘I just thought Special Branch might have come across these “Claret Tappers”, sir, though I must admit they sound more like one of these pop groups than a subversive political organisation.’

  ‘And had they?’

  Commander Brockhurst shook a leonine head. ‘Never heard of them, sir. Not that that means anything, apparently. These political groups come and go like mushrooms in a wet field.’ Commander Brockhurst’s farming antecedents were slightly more remote than he realised. ‘The chap in Special Branch was quite intrigued, though. Seems it’s the first time anybody’s tried to snatch a copper. He reckoned it might start a fashion. The commander grinned ruefully. ‘There’s not so much public sympathy for the victim, you see, sir, if they have to bump him off.’

  The Assistant Commissioner (Crime) spurned the red herring of police/public relations. ‘They’re sure it’s political?’

  ‘What else can it be, sir?’ asked Commander Brockhurst, shrugging a pair of very ample shoulders. ‘The policeman’s a symbol of law and order, a pillar of the Establishment, a willing lackey of the capitalist system. Tailor-made for a job like this, if you ask me.’

  The Assistant Commissioner (Crime) was trying to give up smoking. Pie got his bag of boiled sweets out. ‘It could be criminal. D’you want one, Tom? Money the main object, of course, but a touch of revenge mixed in as well.’ He selected a pineapple drop and unwrapped it slowly. ‘Somebody with a grudge, eh? The underworld’ – he perked up visibly as the telling phrase sprang to his lips – ‘getting its own back!’

  Commander Brockhurst managed to keep his astonishment within bounds. ‘On Wilf Dover, sir? To the best of my knowledge, he’s been the best friend the underworld’s had this century! The man’s a crying disgrace to the entire Metropolitan Police Force and the fact that my Murder Squad’s had to put up with him all these years is little short of scandalous. I’ve. . .’

  ‘Yes, yes!’ The Assistant Commissioner (Crime) had heard all these gripes about Detective Chief Inspector Dover a thousand times before and, if there had been anything to be done about it, he would have done it years ago. The snag was that Dover knew just how far he could go. He was lazy, inefficient, stupid, prone to bullying and probably dishonest, but it is notoriously difficult to get rid of a policeman without some pretty solid proof. It was just this solid proof that Dover, so far, had been canny enough not to provide. In spite of being obscenely overweight, he had elevated the craft of skating on thin ice to a tine art. A thousand times his eager superiors thought they had got him, but a thousand times he emerged, thanks to good luck and low cunning, smelling of roses. The Assistant Commissioner (Crime) sighed. ‘You can’t tell me anything about Dover that I don’t already know. Still, keep your fingers crossed, Tom!’ Rather unexpectedly the Assistant Commissioner screwed his face up into a broad wink. ‘All may not yet be lost.’

  ‘Sir?’

  The Assistant Commissioner suppressed an unworthy thought about none being so blind as those who won’t see. ‘The mortality rate amongst kidnap victims is extraordinarily high.’

  ‘Ah!’ The commander’s rubicund face cleared and he returned the Assistant Commissioner’s wink. ‘All the more reason, if I may say so, sir, for leaving no stone unturned. Just in case our actions are subjected to scrutiny at some later date.’

  ‘Quite.’ The Assistant Commissioner frowned and jammed the brakes on his imagination. Alluring as a future without that slob Dover might be, Tom Brockhurst was right – all the motions must be gone through meticulously. ‘Now, how do you suggest we handle this reply they want on the telly?’ Commander Brockhurst picked up the typewritten letter again. ‘They want a spokesman to appear in the Nine O’Clock News to announce acceptance of their terms for the return of Dover. Hm. That’s BBC 1, isn’t it? Well, I think we’ll have to comply with the demand, sir, if only to give us more time. Er – you’ll be the spokesman, will you, sir?’

  The Assistant Commissioner (Crime) was very proud of his profile. ‘Who else?’ He smirked modestly and smoothed his hair down. ‘By the way, how’s Sergeant MacGregor taking all this?’

  ‘I hear they’ve had to give him a sedative, sir He’s over the moon. He’s had his bellyfull of working with Dover all these years. He puts in an application for transfer at least once a week.’

  ‘Application for transfer to what?’ asked the Assistant Commissioner curiously.

  ‘To anything, sir. Last time he wanted to join the Bomb Disposal Squad, if I remember correctly. And before that it was a course for Dog Handlers. You can’t really blame him. It can’t be any picnic running in double harness with Dover.’

  ‘It’s character building!’ asserted the Assistant Commissioner who was a hard man. ‘The sooner these kids learn that life isn’t a bowl of cherries, the better. Now, anything else?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so, sir.’ Commander Brockhurst collected the plastic-covered letter from the desk where he’d returned it. ‘You’ll be able to identify the typewriter at any rate.’

  ‘Oh, we’ve done that already, sir. It’s a Parnassus TR 8 and it’s taken a fair old battering in its time. We’ll know it all right – when we find it.’

  ‘What about the typist?’

  ‘A two-finger job, sir. Fairly nippy but not trained.’

  One of the six telephones on the Assistant Commissioner (Crime)’s desk rang imperiously. The Assistant Commissioner lunged for the receiver, motioning Commander Brockhurst to stay where he was. ‘The Big White Chief!’ he hissed.

  The telephone conversation which ensued was lengthy but one-sided. The Assistant Commissioner’s part – and it was definitely not type-casting – was restricted to a string of obsequious ‘yes-sirs’ and ‘no-sirs’. Commander Brockhurst passed the time trying to guess what was being said at the other end of the crackling wire.

  There was a final ‘yes-sir-very-good-sir-at-once-sir’ and a ragged Assistant Commissioner dropped the receiver back in its cradle. ‘Bloody hell!’ he gasped.

  ‘Trouble, sir?’

  ‘With a capital T, Tom. Somebody’s tipped the bloody press off. The Commissioner’s up there, blowing his top off. Besieged in his office – or so he says – by a horde of hungry newspaper men.’

  Commander Brockhurst rose to his feet again. ‘It was only a matter of time, sir. The whole world’s going to know what’s happened when you make your broadcast this evening. Besides, the publicity may help us. After all, somebody may have seen something.’

  The Assistant Commissioner (Crime) stood up, too, and retrieved his boiled sweetie from the ashtray. ‘It’s not really the fact that somebody’s let the cat out of the bag that’s got him wetting his pants. The Home Secretary’s been on the blower. He wants us both round to the Home Office for a conference. It seems that Dover’s kidnapping has become a political issue.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Commander Brockhurst with a grimace, ‘Mrs Dover might as well start ordering her widow’s weeds now. Old Wilf’s chances of coming out of this with a whole skin were pretty dim right from the beginning, but if the bloody politicians are going to start meddling he hasn’t got a snowball’s.’

  The Assistant Commissioner (Crime) crunched his boiled sweet. ‘It’s an ill wind,’ he remarked as he went to get his overcoat off the stand. ‘You’d better stand by at eight o’clock tonight, Tom, to give me a briefing before I go on the air. There may be some last-minute development I should know about.’

  ‘Right you are, sir!’ Commander Brockhurst opened the door and the Assistant Commissioner (Crime) swept through it with all the panache of a man on his way to higher things.

  * * *

  At exactly nine o’clock the merry jingle which heralds the news on BBC television rang out in countless sitting-rooms. The countless viewers reacted to the arrival of their daily dose of gloom and misery in several ways. Some leapt as though shot from their fireside c
hairs and rushed off’ to make a cup of tea or pay a visit to the toilet. Others bestirred themselves only to the extent of stretching out an arm and switching smartly to the other channel. The rest – the optimists, the masochists and the fast asleep – sat it out and so had the thrill of hearing that some as yet unidentified terrorist group had kidnapped a detective chief inspector from New Scotland Yard. A photograph of Dover that was well-nigh actionable Hashed up on the screen and a middle-aged housewife in South Shields summed up the majority verdict: ‘Cripes, if he looks like that, they’re welcome to him!’

  The newscaster chattered on. He was looking quite excited as he prepared to play his small part in a piece of television history.

  ‘In a letter setting out their demands,’ he said, ‘the kidnappers gave instructions on the method to be used for getting in touch with them. A senior police officer was to appear on the Nine O’Clock News and publicly accept their terms. The BBC is pleased to offer the hospitality of its studios to the Assistant Commissioner for Crime at New Scotland Yard!’

  The scene changed and the watching world was treated to the spectacle of a very spruced up Assistant Commissioner leering happily down the cleavage of the young lady who had been specially selected to interview him. The young lady picked up her cue and turned smoothly to smile at the camera.

  ‘Assistant Commissioner, you and your colleagues at New Scotland Yard must have been very shocked and distressed when you realised that Detective Chief Inspector Dover had been kidnapped by a gang of urban guerillas?’

  The Assistant Commissioner tore his eyes away and, in something of a panic, tried to remember his lines. Damn and blast the little harpy, why couldn’t she have warned him they were going on the air! ‘Er – yes,’ he spluttered. ‘Quite.’

  ‘As a member of Scotland Yard’s famous Murder Squad, Chief Inspector Dover must have made many enemies amongst the criminal classes. Do you think that this could be an attempt to pay off an old score?’