Dover and the Claret Tappers Page 4

  MacGregor’s pencil paused in its mad rush over the paper. ‘A cupboard, sir?’

  ‘No, not a cupboard!’ said Dover tartly. ‘A small room. And now,’ – he folded his arms resolutely – ‘you’d better nip outside and organise some coffee because you’re not going to get another cheep out of me till I’ve wet my whistle. It’s blooming dry work, all this talking/

  It took MacGregor longer than he would have believed to bribe and cajole a pot of coffee and a few biscuits out of a most uncooperative hospital staff. In the end, more by good luck than judgement, he chanced upon a blackleg who was prepared to sacrifice her most deeply held principles for hard cash. ‘And you want to think yourself lucky,’ she informed MacGregor as she shoved a tray swimming with spilt coffee into his hands, ‘that it isn’t laced with arsenic!’

  MacGregor managed to direct the stream of coffee away from his trousers. ‘Oh, come now,’ he chided his benefactress, ‘things can’t be as bad as all that, surely? He’s only been here a few hours.’

  ‘And, if he’s here for many more, sonnie,’ – the tea-lady’s curlers wobbled menacingly under her headscarf – ‘there’ll be ructions that’ll leave your head ringing!’

  MacGregor woke Dover up again, plumped his pillows for him, poured out his coffee and sugared it, and finally lit another cigarette for him. In return Dover grudgingly consented to answer a few questions.

  ‘These kidnappers, sir,’ began MacGregor, consulting his notes without much hope. ‘Can you tell me a bit more about them? What age were they, for example?’

  Dover thought about it. ‘Mid-twenties, p’raps. Like I told you, I barely clapped eyes on ‘em.’

  Tall? Short? Fat? Thin?’

  ‘Medium,’ said Dover firmly.

  ‘All of them, sir?’

  Dover nodded his head and gave most of his attention to spooning some soggy biscuit out of the depths of his coffee cup.

  MacGregor was past sighing. ‘What about their voices, sir?

  ‘Nobody said more than half a dozen words to me the whole time.’

  ‘But the man who invited you into the taxi, sir? Had he got an accent of any sort? Was it a cultured voice or . . .?’

  ‘Ordinary,’ said Dover. The soggy biscuit was now sliding gently down the front of his pyjama jacket and his efforts to scoop it up were being hampered by the cigarette smoke that kept getting in his eyes.

  MacGregor abandoned the voices. ‘This taxi ride, sir, – how long would you say it was?’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ said Dover, always ready with the quick repartee. ‘I could hardly consult my bloody watch, could I? Not with my eyes blindfolded.’

  ‘Couldn’t you make a guess, sir?’

  ‘I dozed off, didn’t I?’ demanded Dover, getting cross. ‘I’d had a hard day and it was dark and what with that bag thing pulled over my head . . . The journey could have lasted five minutes or five hours for all I know.’

  MacGregor had got a whole batch of questions about turning corners and stopping for traffic lights and speeding in a straight line down motorways. He now proceeded to forget about them and moved on to other topics. ‘When you finally stopped, sir, did you get the impression that you were in a town or in the country?’

  Dover looked at him in astonishment. ‘How the hell should I know?’

  ‘Didn’t you hear anything, sir?’

  ‘Such as what?’

  ‘Well, cars and lorries going past, sir. Or owls hooting or cows mooing. Anything like that.’

  Dover gazed blankly round the room. ‘They ought to be bringing me my dinner soon.’

  But MacGregor was not to be deflected from his purpose – and men have been given medals for less. ‘Now, this “building” you say you were taken into, sir . . .’

  ‘Frog-marched!’ Dover corrected him indignantly. ‘My arms are black and blue!’

  ‘Was it a house, sir?’

  ‘What else could it have been, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Well, it could have been a disused factory or a barn or a cricket pavilion or. . .’

  Dover blew unpleasantly down his nose. ‘You’ve been seeing too many of these television thrillers, sonnie,’ he observed scathingly. ‘It was a house. And we went down a bit of a hall before we got to the stairs.’

  That was better! MacGregor struck while the iron was tepid. ‘Carpeted, sir?’

  Dover pondered long and hard over this one. Finally he shook his head. ‘Bare boards!’ he announced with somewhat unjustified pride. ‘Stairs and hall!’

  ‘Did you hear any aeroplanes living overhead, sir?’

  Dover, not having seen the him in which this clue led to the capture of a whole clutch of kidnappers, was puzzled. ‘Fat chance I had of hearing anything with that bloody row going on,’ he grunted.

  ‘What row, sir?’

  ‘The wireless, of course! Bloody pop music from morning till night. You must be tone deaf to listen to that sort of muck.’

  MacGregor felt that he ought to cherish this unsolicited snippet of information so he wrote it down in full in his notebook. What did it mean, though? That Dover’s abductors were a bunch of raving teeny-boppers? Or were the Claret Tappers merely seeking for an effective way of drowning their victim’s cries for help?

  ‘’Strewth,’ said Dover, smacking his lips, ‘but this is thirsty work!’

  MacGregor didn’t fancy bearding the tea-lady again but he had at least to make the offer. ‘Do you want some more coffee, sir?’

  ‘I was thinking more of a drop of the hard stuff,’ said Dover with a grin.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ – MacGregor managed to look as though he was speaking the honest-to-God truth – ‘but the doctor made a special point about that. Alcohol in any form would be absolutely fatal for you. It’s something to do,’ he added, shamelessly, ‘with the drugs they’ve given you. Now,’ – he ruffled the pages of his notebook – ‘can you give me a few more details about this small room you were shut up in? How big was it, do you think? As big as this room? Half as big?’

  ‘About that,’ allowed Dover sulkily. He was still staggering from the body blow about the booze.

  ‘Had it got a carpet?’

  ‘No. The floor was covered with those square plastic tile things. Speckled brown.’

  ‘What was the furniture like?’

  Dover wriggled uneasily. ‘There wasn’t any. Well, apart from a pile of old army blankets on the floor where I was expected to sleep.’

  ‘Were the walls papered or distempered?’

  ‘’Strewth!’ Dover’s fidgeting increased. ‘Painted, I think. Cream.’

  ‘I see,’ said MacGregor encouragingly. ‘Now, what about the fittings?’

  ‘What fittings?’ demanded Dover. ‘Here,’ – he put the kidnapping out of his mind and began excavating frantically under the bedclothes – ‘where’s my bloody bell?’

  ‘Is this it, sir?’ MacGregor hauled in a length of flex which had dropped down behind Dover’s locker. ‘Do you want me to ring it for you?’

  ‘Three times!’ gasped Dover. ‘Quick, man!’

  ‘Three times, sir?’

  ‘For a bed-pan! Oh, get a bloody move on!’ he howled as MacGregor’s fingers seemed to falter. ‘Don’t be all day about it!’

  Somewhat to Dover’s surprise, MacGregor declined an invitation to remain and carry on with the interview. He covered his squeamishness by saying that he would take advantage of the short break to put in a phone call to the Yard and see if there were any fresh developments. There weren’t, of course, and MacGregor arrived back at the door of Dover’s room as a boot-faced nurse emerged with a towel-draped utensil in her hand.

  ‘All right for me to go back in now?’ asked MacGregor brightly, keeping his eyes tirmly fixed on the nurse’s face.

  The nurse responded with an indignant sniff. ‘I suppose you know there is absolutely nothing to prevent that disgusting old brute in there from getting up and using the toilet at the end of the corridor?’

  ‘Well,�
� said MacGregor somewhat uncertainly.

  But the nurse wasn’t waiting for an answer. Turning on her heel she marched furiously away.

  MacGregor took up his role of inquisitor again. ‘Have you remembered why the taxi looked wrong when you got in it, sir?’

  Dover was trapped by the sharpness of the question into making a helpful answer. ‘There was no chart thing stuck up by the meter telling you how much the bloody fare’s gone up since last week. Bloody inflation!’ He forestalled MacGregor’s attempt to put another query. ‘And the whole thing looked a bit battered and scruffy. Old, you know.’

  MacGregor nodded. ‘Sounds like a second-hand one, doesn’t it, sir? Students, perhaps? There was quite a vogue for university students to drive around in old taxis a few years go. You didn’t notice the registration number, did you, sir?’

  ‘You must be joking!’

  MacGregor would have liked to point out that he’d very little sense of humour left these days, but he didn’t. Instead he returned to Dover’s imprisonment in the house with the small room and the uncarpeted stairs. ‘Now, the kidnappers held you, sir, from some time late on Tuesday night to early Thursday morning.’

  Dover grunted his agreement. ‘And it was a traumatic experience, laddie!’

  ‘Were you kept in the same room all the time?’

  ‘Never left it!’ declared Dover proudly.

  ‘When did they take your warrant card off you?’

  Dover frowned. ‘I didn’t know they had.’

  ‘They sent it with the ransom note, sir, as proof that they’d got you.’

  Dover shrugged his shoulders. ‘Must have dropped out of my pocket in the struggle,’ he said indifferently. ‘Cheeky devils!’

  ‘What about food, sir?’

  Dover perked up. ‘Is it lunch-time already?’

  MacGregor gritted his teeth. ‘I meant when you were in the Claret Tappers’ hands, sir.’

  ‘Oh,’ – Dover slumped back amongst his pillows – ‘well, it was pretty lousy on the whole and there wasn’t much of it.’

  ‘They fed you in the room, did they, sir?’

  ‘Two of ’em. One unlocked the door and held the gun on me while the other shoved a tray in on the floor. Like feeding time at the bloody zoo! And it’s no good asking me If I saw their faces because they’d got scarves or balaclavas or something over their heads. And they went through the same sort of routine when they collected the tray.’

  ‘Did they speak?’

  Dover shook his head. ‘Just growled “Get back!” at me or something like that.’

  ‘What about when they released you, sir? Didn’t they explain then what was happening?’

  Dover sighed. He was getting bored with all this talk. ‘No! They just came in, woke me up and said, “Come on!” – so I did. And so would you if you’d got a bloody gun pointing at your guts!’

  ‘They put the bag on your head, sir, and tied you up?’

  ‘Yes, and gagged me.’ Dover straightened his top sheet and yawned. ‘I’ll make them rue the day they were born when I catch up with ’em.’

  ‘Were you transported in the taxi again, sir?’

  ‘Suppose so. Couldn’t see, could I?’

  ‘And you’ve no idea how long this journey took, either?’

  From under dandruff-flecked eyebrows Dover glanced suspiciously at MacGregor. The young whippersnapper wasn’t bloody well presuming to criticise, was he? ‘I happened to be suffering from nervous exhaustion,’ he said with some dignity.

  ‘It must have been a very trying experience, sir,’ said MacGregor, anxious to keep on the right side of the old fool for a bit longer. ‘Did they put you in the big plastic bag in the taxi?’

  ‘They made me climb into it out on the pavement,’ answered Dover, quivering indignantly at the memory. ‘Then they tied it tight round my neck. Trussed me up like a bloody chicken.’

  ‘You didn’t know you were dumped outside the Old Bailey, sir?’

  ‘Think I’m flipping clairvoyant or something?’ demanded Dover irritably. ‘And now, that’s enough! If you’ve got any more bleeding questions you’ll have to keep ’em till this afternoon. Late this afternoon! The doctor said I had to have a nap after my lunch,’

  ‘I’ve only got a couple more, sir,’ said MacGregor. ‘It you could just bear with me I needn’t trouble you at all this afternoon.’

  MacGregor decided to take the surly grunt as a sign of acquiescence. ‘Now, this room you slept in . . . this room you were kept in – it had an electric light switch? What shape was it? Round, flat? And the colour? What colour . . .’

  ‘It was square and white,’ said Dover.

  ‘And the electric light fitting, itself, sir?’

  ‘God help us!’ snarled Dover. ‘A sort of shallow white bowl flat up on the ceiling.’

  MacGregor could see that Dover’s tolerance was wearing thin. ‘What did you do about washing, sir?’ he asked hurriedly. ‘Did they take you to a bathroom or. . .?

  ‘No,’ said Dover.

  ‘No, sir?’

  ‘Strewth,’ rumbled Dover. ‘I was only there thirty-six hours. It doesn’t do you any harm, you know, to go without a bloody bath for thirty-six hours.’

  ‘But sir,’ objected MacGregor with a silly laugh, ‘they must have let you go to the – er – the toilet. What. . .?’

  ‘You’ve had your quota!’ roared Dover, plunging beneath the bedclothes and dragging the sheets up over his head. ‘You said a couple of questions and you’ve asked about three hundred!’

  Even MacGregor could see that Dover was trying to hide something. Greatly daring he pulled the sheet back from the chief inspector’s face. ‘Sir, you might be able to go thirty-six hours without washing but you can’t go thirty-six hours without. . .’ He caught Dover’s irate and bloodshot gaze. ‘Well, can you, sir?’ he concluded weakly.

  Dover suspected that if he didn’t produce a satisfactory answer he wasn’t going to be left alone in peace and quiet. Being a man of limited imagination he was often forced to fall back on the truth and that was the situation in which he found himself now. He glared miserably at his sergeant. ‘I was in the lavatory, you bloody fool!’ he hissed. ‘That’s where they kept me.’

  ‘Oh,’ said MacGregor, inadequately. ‘Oh, I see.’ He kept his voice nice and steady. It would never do to let Dover think that you found his predicament even remotely funny. ‘Yes, well, quite a good idea really, sir. When you come to think about it. That’s why there was no window, I suppose. Was there by any chance a ventilator?’

  ‘Listen,’ said Dover hoarsely. He leaned forward and gripped MacGregor by the lapels, pulling him too close for comfort. ‘Listen! If you breathe a word about me being locked in the lavatory to anybody at the Yard – or anywhere else for that matter – I’ll break every bleeding bone in your miserable body! Got it, laddie?’

  MacGregor unhooked the clutching fingers. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said meekly. ‘I’ve got it.’

  Four

  IT WAS ON THE FOLLOWING MORNING THAT CHIEF Inspector Dover got his first taste of what it was like to be a celebrity. It happened just as he was being extricated by the combined efforts of MacGregor and the driver from the police car which had brought him to Paddington Station. A young woman, festooned with cockle-shells and draped in a horse-blanket, came rushing up. ‘Ooooh!’ she shrieked in wild delight. ‘Ooooh, I know you!’

  Dover was trying to get his breath back. ‘Shove off!’ he advised.

  It is doubtful if the young woman even heard him. ‘I know that face!’ she squealed. ‘I know it as well as my own! She patted Dover’s cheek affectionately. “Little chubby chops, eh?’

  Dover turned to MacGregor. ‘Get rid of her!’

  The young woman appealed to Paddington Station at large. ‘Isn’t he a scream?’ She examined Dover more closely. ‘I’ve seen you on the telly, haven’t I? Now, what was it you were in? No, no,’ – she gesticulated frantically in an effort to forestall assistance that was not act
ually forthcoming – ‘don’t tell me! It’s on the tip of my tongue.’

  ‘Don’t just stand there, you damned fool!’ howled Dover, venting his wrath as usual on his sergeant. ‘Call a policeman!’ The young woman clung to Dover’s arm. ‘Was it “Dad’s Army”?’ she queried, creasing her forehead in what might have been thought. ‘Or “My Old Man”?’

  ‘Get your hands off me!’ bawled Dover, attempting to get away but only succeeding in dragging the girl along with him. ‘Leg go!’

  ‘Here,’ the young woman was having second – and nastier – thoughts ‘you’re not one of them politicians, are you?’

  Dover and MacGregor were both big men and their combined strength finally broke the young woman’s hold, though not her spirit. While MacGregor restrained her she tired one last shot in the direction of Dover’s rapidly retreating back. ‘You’re the new Archbishop of Canterbury, aren’t you? You see, I told you I’d get it – given time!’

  ‘Silly cow,’ said Dover when, a few minutes later, a somewhat dishevelled MacGregor joined him on the platform. ‘Have you bought all the newspapers?’

  Silently MacGregor displayed his bundle.

  ‘Come on, then!’ urged Dover impatiently. ‘Let’s find a seat. All this bloody standing around’s doing me no good at all. I should be in bed by rights, you know. Or at least on a couple of weeks’ sick leave. They’ve no business sending me off all over the country on a wild goose chase.’