Dover and the Claret Tappers

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 actually 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