Dover and the Claret Tappers

accepted the criticism with his customary meekness. CI think maybe we ought to try at night, sir.’
Dover’s jaws missed a beat. ‘You can stuff that for a lark!’
‘It does make sense though, sir. You see, assuming that the girl is employed here in the Yard, she was obviously on late afternoon or evening duty, wasn’t she? She came into your room about half-past four so she could have been on the normal day shift, but she must have been hanging around till eight to ring you on the phone and then tip off the gang. Now . . .’
Dover reached for a cornish pasty. ‘She could have rung me up from the north of Scotland,’ he pointed out.
‘I don’t think that’s really very likely, sir,’ said MacGregor, dabbing at his lips with a real silk handkerchief. ‘I was wondering if it would be a good idea for me to go along to Personnel and check through the time sheets and things. It must be possible to sort out the women who were supposed to be working here on Tuesday evening. I mean, if we could narrow it down to perhaps a couple of dozen, we could go and have a proper look at them. This way’ – he dismissed two hours’ hard slog with a wave of his hand – ‘does seem a little pointless.’
‘Now he tells me!’ grunted Dover.
After this, the conversation lapsed and the two detectives sat on in the comparative silence of a busy cafeteria. Dover was mopping up the crumbs on his plate with a damp finger when MacGregor gave a chuckle.
‘What’s up with you?’
‘I was just thinking about that young man in the typing pool, sir. Oh, dear! His face when you pointed your finger at him and yelled, “That’s her!”’
Dover glanced at his sergeant without affection. ‘He should have got his hair cut, shouldn’t he? Puking little pansy! No wonder people are always mistaking these long-haired louts for girls.’
MacGregor had got a fit of the giggles. He took his silk handkerchief out again and mopped at his eyes. ‘I thought he was going to have a tit, sir! I did, honestly. He went as white as a sheet. And he’d only popped into the typing pool to deliver a box of carbons!’
With cold calculation Dover proceeded to wipe the smile off MacGregor’s silly face. ‘My girl could have been a man,’ he said. ‘Now I come to think of it. In drag. Some of ’em can look very lifelike when they put their minds to it.’
The prospect of widening the held of search to include every living soul in the Yard was more than MacGregor could bear ‘You’re not serious, sir?’
Dover’s mind had grasshopped onto another topic. ‘There can’t be all that many women hanging about here after six in the evening,’ he mused. ‘Clerks and typists don’t work that late and the men go on the switchboard, don’t they?’
‘True,’ agreed MacGregor warily – well, you never knew with Dover. ‘Of course, there’d be plenty of policewomen, in and out of uniform, knocking around still. And office cleaners too, probably. I’ll check what time they come on.’
‘Canteen stall’.’
MacGregor stared at Dover in frank amazement. That was the most sensible remark the old buffer had made for years. ‘Certainly canteen stall’, sir! I wonder.’ He looked around. Yes, it must be the hand of God! ‘Can you hang on here for a couple of secs, sir, while I have a word with the manageress? It’s a frightfully long shot, but. . .’
Dover good-naturedly indicated his complete willingness to go on sitting at his little plastic table until the cows came home, though there was of course a price to be paid. ‘Fetch us another cup of coffee and a doughnut first, laddie!’ he leered.
The canteen was doing a roaring trade as the ravenous denizens of the law came rampaging in for their mid-morning break. The queue at the counter stretched further than the eye could see and the ladies whose duty and pleasure it was to replenish the dishes and dispense the tea were already beginning to glow with their efforts.
MacGregor hesitated. It was not, perhaps, the best moment for bearding the canteen’s manageress but he didn’t want to return to Dover empty handed. Screwing up his courage he eventually managed to attract the attention of a harassed looking girl who was endeavouring to equalise supply and demand in the sausage roll department.
‘Mrs Fish, dear:’’ The harassed girl licked her lingers in a distraught way before turning to unload another tray.
‘If that’s her name!’ shouted MacGregor, trying to project his personality through the intervening barrier of stolid young policemen shuffling down the length of the counter.
The harassed girl pushed back a lock of greasy hair. ‘In her office, dear! Back of the cash register!’
Mrs Fish was not best pleased at being disturbed in the middle of her own coffee break but she was the sort of woman who would give a lot of leeway to a handsome face. ‘Well, come in then, lovie, and shut that door, for God’s sake! Ooh’ – she shivered fastidiously and patted the corrugated waves of her pink hair – ‘it’s worse than feeding time at the zoo!’
MacGregor accepted the seat to which Mrs Fish’s heavily bejewelled and scarlet-tipped hand wafted him and prepared to explain the reason for his intrusion. He had barely got a couple of words out when he was interrupted.
‘Coffee, lovie?’
MacGregor shook his head. ‘I’ve just had a cup, thank you.’
‘Not that muck we serve out there?’ Mrs Fish tut-tutted briefly over such foolhardiness and raised her silver coffee pot invitingly. ‘I think you’ll find this rests more easily on the stomach, my dear.’ The dark brown liquid streamed into the bone china. ‘Cream? Sugar? Chocky bickie?’
When the social niceties were out of the way, MacGregor managed another half sentence before Mrs Fish chipped in again.
‘I thought you couldn’t be here about the thieving!’ she proclaimed triumphantly. ‘I couldn’t see even the ninnies who’re supposed to