Dead Easy for Dover

dead girl’s photograph all round the area, sir, in the most likely localities. This chap at the railway station recognized her. He can’t remember the exact day, unfortunately, but she came of! the London train late one afternoon a week or so ago. He probably wouldn’t have noticed her, except that she was hanging around after all the other passengers had gone, waiting to get into the telephone kiosk. Somebody else was using it at the time, it seems. Well, she got in eventually and Mr Brewer – he’s the ticket collector – thinks he remembers seeing her leafing through the telephone directory.’
MacGregor’s eyes narrowed. ‘The directory would contain Frenchy Botham numbers, I take it, sir?’
Inspector Walters agreed that it would. It was comforting to know that there was somebody who appreciated the import of what he was saying. ‘Mr Brewer can’t actually recall whether the girl made a phone call or not, but he thinks not because, a minute or two later, she was back asking him how to get to Frenchy Botham. He suggested her best bet was a taxi, but we’re pretty certain she didn’t actually take one. We’ve had a word with most of the local men. My guess is that she hitch-hiked. There’s a bit of a snack bar opposite the station and she may have found somebody to give her a lift round there. All this, by the way, more or less fits in with the time Mr Plum saw her at The Laughing Dog.’
MacGregor glanced at Dover to see if the great man felt like taking an intelligent interest in the proceedings. Apparently not. He was still wide awake though, if the malevolent glare he was directing at Inspector Walters was anything to go by. ‘The train she arrived on had come from London?’
‘That’s right, sergeant. Non-stop apart from Bottlebury and that’s little more than a commuters’ halt, really. In any case, she didn’t get on there because we’ve checked.’
MacGregor sighed. ‘London’s a big place. Still, we’ll have what enquiries we can made there.’
Inspector Walters was even less sanguine. ‘It’ll take a blooming miracle to pick up her trail, if you ask me,’ he said. ‘There was nothing special about her. She looked like thousands of other scruffy kids of her age. Her clothes were all cheap and nasty, too. We’ve got the forensic team giving ’em the once over, but I don’t think they’re going to come up with any clue as to where she came from. I’d be happier if we could find that sling bag she’s supposed to have been carrying. If there is any evidence of identity, I imagine it was in there.’
Dover shivered elaborately and turned up the collar of his overcoat. ‘It’s getting bloody cold!’ he complained crossly.
It took Inspector Walters a moment or two to work out that he was being held responsible for the temperature. ‘Do you want to interview the ticket collector yourself, sir? I can easily . . .’
But the police driver had received a sharp jab in the back of the neck and Dover was gone, leaving Inspector Walters wondering if perhaps there was something wrong with him. He stood in the middle of The Grove and watched the police car drive out of sight in a smelly puff of exhaust and reached a conclusion which many had reached before him. Namely, that Dover was a great, fat, ill-natured, thick-as-two-planks slob!
But, thanks to Pomeroy Chemicals Limited, Dover was really trying. By half past three he was back on the trail again, raring to go.
‘Where now?’ he demanded, breathless from his exertions at a luncheon which had consisted of two helpings of everything.
MacGregor duly consulted his list. ‘We’ve done Les Chenes and Ilfracombe, haven’t we, sir? That’s the house where the girl’s body was found,’ he explained for the benefit of those who weren’t as quick on the up-take as they might have been and who needed to be told everything at least three times before it stuck, ‘and the one next door. Miss Henty-Harris and the Esmond Goughs,’ he added, just to make absolutely sure. ‘I suggest we go to Otterly House next, sir.’
‘No skin off my nose,’ grunted Dover with practised graciousness. He didn’t bother to ask who lived at Otterly House but MacGregor told him anyhow.
‘It’s where a man called Peter Bones lives, sir. With his wife. There are several children, too. Peter Bones is listed here as a Sales Manager. I suppose that could involve him in travelling and being away from home a lot. He might have met up with our Miss X somewhere and got involved with her.’
‘And pigs might fly,’ observed Dover, the strain of digesting all that food making him even more mulish than usual. ‘This it?’ The police car had come to a halt in the roadway opposite yet another of The Grove’s spacious residences. Dover eyed the driveway and the flight of steps up to the front door moodily. Why the hell couldn’t the silly buggers live in ordinary houses like everybody else?
Mr Peter Bone was at home, having been warned like the others by Inspector Walters to keep himself available. He had been taking advantage of the opportunity to catch up with some work, but he broke off amiably enough and ushered Dover and MacGregor into a comfortably untidy sitting room. He immediately got himself enrolled in Dover’s good books by offering his visitors afternoon tea.
‘Now, then,’ he said when he came back after having popped out into the kitchen to give the necessary instructions, ‘do you want to see me and my wife separately – or can we be given the third degree together?’
No doubt Mr Bones was feeling a trifle nervous, but potential suspects should never make jokes about the police. The police have remarkably little sense of humour where their own methods and activities are concerned.
Somewhat boot-faced, MacGregor indicated that a joint interview would be in order.
‘Oh, jolly good!’ At forty Mr Bones still hadn’t quite found his style