Dover and the Claret Tappers

think she’s some kind of gangster’s moll, sir?’ asked MacGregor, being careful to keep the smirk off his face. ‘One – or all, perhaps – of the Claret Tappers wanted her released on account of her – er – physical charms?’
Dover’s face settled into a sullen pout. ‘You got a better suggestion?’
Support for his theory came from an unexpected quarter. Miss Whittacker, it turned out, was for it one hundred per cent. Most of her day-dreams so far had been concerned with extremely large amounts of money, but she wasn’t a complete stranger to sexual fantasies. After all, it wasn’t such a big change as all that. She could still have the white sports cars and the jewels and the posh food and everything. The thought that somewhere there was a Master Criminal nursing an unrequited passion for her was heady stuff. She sat up straight, moistened her lips and threw her chest out.
MacGregor looked at her dubiously. ‘Can you think of any of your boy friends who would go to such lengths?’ he asked.
Miss Whittacker let her breath out. A requited passion? That was a possibility which had not crossed her mind. ‘Maybe,’ she said.
MacGregor glanced at Dover to see if he was expected to play this silly farce out to the bitter end. He was. With a suppressed sigh he turned to a clean page in his notebook. ‘Perhaps you could let me have a few names?’
Miss Whittacker looked vacant. ‘Names?’
‘Of your boy friends. So that we can check them out and see if any of them could be involved in this kidnapping business.’
‘Oh.’ Miss Whittacker sagged a little. All that sort of thing seemed such a long time ago. Seemed? Jesus, it was a long time ago! ‘Well,’ – she groped about in the rag-bag of her memory – ‘there was Sid and . . . and Peter. Oh, and Black George. I shan’t forget him in a bleeding hurry. Rotten swine! And he nicked my bloody rent money when he went! Sod him. Then there was Freddie – not that he was much better. And Tony.’ She broke off to consult MacGregor on a technical point. ‘Do you count ’em if they couldn’t quite bring it off, dear? I mean, you had to give Tony full marks for trying but. . .’
‘Let’s forget about Tony,’ said MacGregor hurriedly. ‘What I would like, though, are a few names. We can’t really start looking for people if all we know about them is that they’re called Sid, can we?’
Miss Whittacker’s face fell. ‘Surnames?’
MacGregor could see what was coming. ‘Even one or two would be a help.’
Miss Whittacker shook her head. ‘I’ve got a shocking memory, you see.’ She reached under the table and retrieved her chewing gum. ‘Tony was called Jenkins – that I do know. But you say you’re not interested in him.’
MacGregor sighed. ‘Could he be one of the kidnappers, do you think?’
Miss Whittacker masticated slowly. ‘Shouldn’t think so, lovey. He went to Australia with his mum and dad three years ago and, as far as I know, he’s still there.’
Dover was already on his feet. ‘We’re wasting our bloody time here,’ he announced, giving the door a savage kick.
MacGregor closed his notebook and stood up, too. He smiled at Miss Whittacker. ‘Well, thanks very much, anyhow. If you do think of anything that might help . . .’
‘Oh, I’ll let you know all right, dear,’ she promised as she sorted out her funereal draperies preparatory to taking her own departure.
‘These any good to you?’
Miss Whittacker accepted the cigarettes gratefully. ‘I can always do with a bit of extra snout. Ta!’ The packet of cigarettes disappeared under a quantity of hand-knitted tatt that she was festooning round her shoulders. ‘There’s something else you could do for us.’
‘What?’ As a precautionary measure MacGregor moved nearer to the door through which Dover had already disappeared. Well, twelve months is a long time for a nubile young woman to be shut up in . . . Much to his relief the female prison officer appeared in the doorway and rattled her keys. ‘What do you want?’
Miss Whittacker sidled closer. ‘These kidnappers,’ she whispered. ‘You might let us know who they are if you ever find ’em.’
‘Come on, Whittacker!’ bawled the screw.
Miss Whittacker smiled up at MacGregor and even laid a provocative hand on his arm as she went past him. He decided later that this must have been when she pinched his cigarette lighter. ‘I’d just like to know who he is – see? I mean, he must be pretty bloody hot stuff to go to all this trouble, mustn’t he?’ She drooped one mascara loaded eyelid. ‘And Les doesn’t stand for Lesbian, you know!’
It was MacGregor’s day for receiving irrelevant confidences. Even the female wardress opened her heart to him, bending down so that she could whisper in his ear.
‘Is your Mr Dover doing anything about his dandruff’, sergeant? I happen to have a really most effective formula that I’m sure would clear it up for him in no time. If I sent it to you, care of Scotland Yard, would you undertake to see that he . . .’
* * *
Having transported two cups of tea, a plate of sandwiches, a plate of cakes and a plate containing two sausage rolls and a pie from the cafe counter to the table, MacGregor pocketed the few coppers which had been handed to him in change and sat down.
‘Sugar!’
MacGregor pushed the plastic sugar dispenser across the table and stared dejectedly into the depths of his own cup of tea. On the other side of the table Dover was shovelling food into his mouth with considerable gusto. Talk about feeding time at the zoo! ‘Well, that didn’t get us very far, did it, sir?’
‘Could’ve told you that!’
MacGregor picked up his spoon and began to dredge out the flakes of sausage roll pastry which Dover’s ejaculation had blown into his tea. ‘So where do we go from here, sir?’
‘Dunno about