Dover Beats the Band

by Joyce Porter

  Sven was bouncing about gently on the balls of his feet. He liked to give the impression that he was a man who kept himself physically pretty fit.

  MacGregor broke in to try and clarify the situation. ‘I think the chief inspector means Sir Bartholomew Grice and the Steel Band mob, sir.’

  Sven looked pained at this blatant breach of security. The choice of the hotel room had been completely random and Sven himself had checked for unauthorised bugging devices but, even so, junior detectives from the Murder Squad shouldn’t presume.

  ‘The Steel Band organisation,’ said Sven loftily, ‘is just the tip of the iceberg. What you might call the base of a pyramid whose sharp end is hidden in clouds of deception and fraud.’ He hurried on so as not to give anyone time to try and work this out. ‘It exists merely as a propaganda exercise, just to let the people of this country know that there is a neo-fascist organisation in our midst, and to attract recruits.’

  ‘What you call a “front”,’ said MacGregor, anxious to show that he had mastered the jargon.

  Sven’s smile was condescending. ‘Quite,’ he agreed. ‘Now, they vet all their new-comers very carefully and those they consider have real potential are invited to step – as it were – behind the scenes. Only when they’ve proved themselves reliable and dedicated at this level are they permitted to advance higher, to where the real power and nerve centre of the organisation is located. It can take years and you don’t need me to tell you how difficult it is to penetrate a movement as cautious and security conscious as that. The people behind the Steel Band – and behind Sir Bartholomew because he’s merely a figure-head – are shrewd and cunning. They make very few mistakes and, when they do slip up, they correct the error with total ruthlessness. That’s why we considered it a great feather in our caps when we managed to get young Trill here right inside. It’s taken no less than three years of hard and delicate work to do that and you may as well realise here and now that I have no intention of allowing anybody to bugger it up.’

  Oh, well, we all have our problems.

  Dover certainly did. With a sigh he dumped his whisky glass on the bed-side table and began heaving himself to his feet. Since he gave quite a passable imitation of a stranded whale in its death throes, he caught and held everybody’s hushed attention.

  ‘Mind if I just use your toilet?’ Being Dover, he couldn’t just leave it at that. ‘I’ve got this stomach,’ he explained as he waddled at something of a lick across the room. ‘Anything upsets or disturbs me when I’m eating, like’ – he broke off to glower at Osmond – ‘having bloody guns pointed at me, and it gets me right in the guts. Shan’t be a sec!’ He banged the bathroom door behind him.

  It was a long wait. MacGregor drifted off into a lovely daydream about this smashing detective chief superintendent with piercing blue eyes and a lantern jaw and who took such a really keen fatherly interest in . . .

  Osmond, who – heaven only knows – had got more than enough urgent problems to be thinking about, was wasting his time in idle and lickerish speculation about the fair Elvira. Gosh, what wouldn’t he have given to have been the one detailed to de-brief her . . .

  Sven, on the other hand, was staring in pathetic disbelief at the counterpane which still bore the marks (and probably always would) of Dover’s presence. There was the mud from his boots at one end and a nauseating melange of scurf and grease where his head had rested at the other. Sven couldn’t repress a shudder. No computer write-out or even a portrait-parle could prepare one for this sort of thing! And those appalling clothes! The bowler hat that looked as though it had been used for pig swill and the overcoat that any down-and-out worth the name would have jibbed at wearing. Sven simply couldn’t understand it. The Murder Squad was reputed to be full of bushy-tailed whizz kids so why on earth had they let this over-weight, ill-mannered lout loose on the poor, unsuspecting public? Sven tried to close his ears to the unspeakable sounds emanating from the bathroom and sought for a silver lining. Well, maybe this Dover slob was actually a better bet than one of the bright boys. He wouldn’t be worried about furthering his career or chalking up yet another brilliant success. No, – Sven began to cheer up – Dover would opt for the easy way out every time. He’d be more than happy to soft-pedal the whole Knapper business and let it slide quietly into oblivion.

  ‘Thing is,’ grunted Dover as he flopped back on the bed again, ‘I still can’t fathom why you’re getting in such a sweat over the Steel Band. They’re just a bunch of nutters, if you ask me.’ Dover had slipped into a gregarious, unbuttoned mood – and MacGregor wondered if he should draw attention to the fact by mentioning it.

  Sven naturally didn’t agree with Dover’s assessment. ‘The Steel Band is potentially a very dangerous and subversive element,’ he insisted. ‘Surely you’ve read their hand-outs? They want to restore flogging and hanging, reintroduce conscription, send all the blacks back home, expel the Jews, restore censorship, outlaw strikes, abolish trade unions, make homosexual activities of any kind a criminal offence and repeal all legislation dealing with equal rights for women.’

  ‘’Strewth,’ said Dover, bestirring himself to accept another glass of whisky, ‘don’t we all?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ agreed Sven reluctantly, ‘but we don’t go shouting the odds about it, do we? Besides, I told you – that sort of thing is just a sugar coating for public consumption. Their real aims are a good bit nastier.’

  ‘Give me a for instance!’

  ‘Well, elimination of the mentally unfit, the abolition of parliamentary democracy, forced labour camps, imprisonment without trial, suspension of habeas corpus and so forth. They’re all set to introduce a Nazi style regime into this country with all the additional advantages that modern technology can give them. Good God, man, think what a chap like Hitler could have done with computers and television!’

  Dover sniffed and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. This might not have been the most cultured behaviour, but it was a lot more hygienic than using the filthy rag he called his handkerchief. ‘And old Sir What’s-his-name’s going to be the new fuhrer, is he?’

  ‘We think they may have somebody else up their sleeve, actually. Somebody more charismatic and less squeamish than Sir Bartholomew.’

  ‘I don’t see,’ said Dover, going off into an enormous yawn, ‘what’ – his dentures clicked audibly back into place – ‘all this’s got to do with my murder. It’s no skin off my nose whether the suspects are a bunch of blackshirts or a gaggle of Girl Guides.’

  Sven wasn’t the first man to find Dover heavy going. ‘That’s what I’m trying to explain to you. You see, young Trill here may be able to help, but only on condition, that we have your absolute guarantee that in no way and at no time will you place his undercover activities in jeopardy.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Dover. Or it might have been a belch.

  Sven struggled on. ‘We could just deny all knowledge of Knapper’s murder,’ he pointed out, ‘and leave you to get on with it as best you could.’

  ‘Withholding information from the police?’ Dover leered happily. ‘You’d not know what hit you, mate!’

  ‘We’re well aware of our obligations, Chief Inspector, and we want to help if we can. But I must insist first on your total discretion. Trill’s position in the inner councils of the Steel Band must be protected and preserved, come what may.’

  Dover rolled over onto his back and clasped his hands across his ample paunch. All this talk was boring the bloody pants off him. ‘All right,’ he said suddenly, ‘provided your Little Lord Fauntleroy coughs up the beans, I’ll see he’s kept out of the limelight.’

  It was a capitulation so slick, so total and so artless that MacGregor came out in a cold sweat. Surely even on so short an acquaintance Sven could see that Dover wasn’t to be trusted as far as you could throw him?

  But Sven, like the rest of us, saw only what he wanted to see. He beamed across at Dover.

  ‘Mind you,’ Dover went on, ‘all bets are off if he’
s the one who croaked Knapper. You can’t expect me to risk my blooming career to let somebody get away with murder, even if he is a copper.’

  If, thought MacGregor sourly, all the people the old fool had allowed to get away with murder were laid end to end they’d stretch to . . .

  ‘Oh, that goes without saying!’ laughed Sven, much enjoying Dover’s little joke. ‘Well, I’m delighted we’ve been able to reach a mutually beneficial accommodation.’ He nodded at Osmond and indicated that a fresh round of drinks wouldn’t come amiss. ‘Now, there’s just one snippet of bureaucratic nonsense to deal with before we hear Trill’s story – the Official Secrets Act. It’s a frightful bore,’ he apologised as he took a couple of sheets of closely printed, buff-coloured paper out of his briefcase, ‘but it would keep my masters happy if I could just have a signature. I expect you’ve both signed the thing a dozen times before . . . Here, do use my pen!’

  Dover, who held much the same views about the Official Secrets Act as the Kaiser is reputed to have done about the bit of paper which guaranteed Belgian neutrality, signed without a qualm and nearly got away with Sven’s ballpoint into the bargain. MacGregor appended his signature, too, though, since he prided himself on his integrity, there was less excuse for him. He was well aware that he might be faced with a conflict of loyalties in the not too distant future when his obligations as a policeman came up against the needs of state security, but he was in the grip of the eighth deadly sin – burning curiosity. If Osmond had any information bearing on the murder of Arthur Knapper, MacGregor was constitutionally incapable of refusing to hear it.

  Sven returned the forms to his brief-case. He felt happier now. Even if these two morons from the Murder Squad did somehow bugger things up, they’d pay for it. Fifteen years apiece he’d get them, especially that fat one.

  Sven nodded at Osmond, ‘I think you can go ahead now, Trill, old chap, and put your friends here in the picture. Afterwards,’ – he directed a toothy smile round the room – ‘perhaps they’ll reciprocate by telling us how far they’ve got with their enquiries.’

  Dover signified his assent to this proposal with an evil smirk. ’Strewth, what a right gormless long drink of cold water this

  joker was!

  Osmond prefaced his story with an impassioned plea for understanding and restraint. ‘You won’t forget it’s my head on the chopping block, will you? The Steel Band lot don’t mess about – and I should know. They . . .’

  Dover stirred impatiently on his bed. ‘Oh, get on with it!’ he snarled.

  Osmond looked hurt, but he took the hint. ‘I joined my local group of the Steel Band as an ordinary member a couple of years ago,’ he began. ‘I was working under cover, of course, with the object of penetrating the organisation. I naturally don’t share their views. Well, these local groups are called Base Battalions and the members really don’t do much more than turn up at meetings and rallies and beef up demonstrations and all that sort of thing. They’re run by leaders called Base Battalion Chiefs, assisted by a couple of adjutants. There are also several jobs at what you might call NCO level – all with elaborate-sounding titles and distinguishing insignia. Well, I just bided my time. I was keen, but not too keen – if you follow me. Well, before long, I was invited to become what they call a section leader. It was a fairly speedy promotion but not all that unusual. The membership of my Base Battalion was heavily weighted on the elderly and feminine side so any fit young chap like me was bound to be singled out. Well, I just carried on as before. I was conscientious and interested, but not pushy and definitely not nosey. Well, it paid off. One fine day, the Base Battalion Chief sent for me – right out of the blue – and began sounding me out as to whether . . .’

  ‘And,’ interrupted Dover, having exhausted the possibilities of loud yawns and the mimed winding up of a watch, ‘to cut a bloody long story short . . .’

  Osmond flushed. His was, perforce, lonely work and he got little opportunity to talk about it. He’d been quite enjoying having three stalwart colleagues hanging on his every word. ‘I was eventually appointed Deputy National Youth Controller,’ he muttered sulkily.

  Sven moved in to ease the atmosphere. ‘Another cigarette, Chief Inspector? And a light? Good! Yes, we were rather bucked with young Trill when we heard the news. Deputy National Youth Controller isn’t quite at the hub of the movement, but it’s getting there and is not to be sniffed at. Oh, dear me, no! Naturally they investigated him with the utmost thoroughness and we were delighted that his cover story stood up to it all perfectly.’

  ‘Touch wood!’ said Osmond, piously patting the plastic top of the built-in dressing table.

  But Dover was getting bored. ‘All right, laddie,’ he growled, ‘we’ve got the picture. You got yourself accepted as a top level, fully paid up, card bearing thug by this bunch of nutters. Congratulations! Now, let’s get on to the murder bit!’

  Osmond risked a glance of pure hatred at his tormentor and followed it up with a glare at Sven. Well, if your own boss couldn’t protect you from fat old fools, who could?

  ‘Did you attend the weekend meeting at Bowerville-by-the-sea in accordance with some sort of instructions?’ asked MacGregor, only trying to be helpful and getting a scowl for his pains.

  ‘Yes,’ said Osmond. He would like to have limited his answer to this one curt monosyllable, but the temptation to talk was too strong. ‘Mr Pettitt sent me an invitation – well, a summons, really – about a week before it was due to take place. Certain code words were used to activate me.’

  ‘Did you know Pettitt?’

  ‘Not personally, no. I knew he was the Southern Regional Leader and Chief Judiciary Officer for the Movement, of course. That put him at least a couple of steps above me in the hierarchy.’

  ‘What about the others at the Holiday Ranch?’

  ‘I’d never met any of them before, and I’m pretty certain they were all strangers to each other as well. I did manage to run their names through the computer, though, before I went to Bowerville. There was nothing particularly remarkable about any of them. They’d all got five or six years’ service with the Steel Band, but apart from that they were clean. Except for Mike Ruscoe, that is. He’d got a couple of convictions for drunk and disorderly, but not recently. Oh, and I think Mrs Hall had collected a parking fine in Winchester once.’

  ‘Pettitt sent you the names of the other people who were going to be there?’

  Osmond bit his lip. ‘Well, no, he didn’t, actually.’

  ‘I thought is was a bit unlikely,’ said MacGregor, highly gratified to have spotted this. ‘So how did you know who to run your computer check on?’

  ‘Well, actually, we’ve infiltrated Pettitt’s chiropody practice,’ said Osmond uncomfortably. He carefully avoided catching Sven’s eye. ‘One of his part-time receptionists, if you must know. She got hold of the list of names for us.’

  ‘Including Knapper’s?’

  ‘Of course. There was nothing to single him out in any way at this stage. He was just one of the seven.’

  ‘I see.’ Since Dover was now breathing deeply and regularly with his eyes closed and his mouth open, MacGregor felt he could take Osmond through his story at a fairly leisurely pace. ‘How did you travel to Bowerville, by the way?’

  ‘By car. As per instructions.’

  ‘And when you arrived?’

  ‘I told them I was a member of the Dockwra Society and I was directed to a bedroom in Hut No. Eleven. Pettitt himself was in the other bedroom in that hut. Well, when we’d all arrived, we had a sort of little get-together in one of the other huts – Number Twelve – when we were all sort of introduced to each other. It was a purely social occasion. We were told that we were to get down to the real business – whatever that might be – on the following morning. That was the Saturday, of course.’

  ‘You met everybody else at this session? Including Knapper?’

  ‘Yes. There was Knapper, Mrs Hall, Braithwaite, the strong-arm laddie called Mike Ruscoe w
hom I’ve already mentioned, and another chap called Valentine. Oh, and Pettitt himself, of course.’

  ‘Pettitt was in charge?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Well, we had supper and a few drinks and then went to bed. To be perfectly honest, there wasn’t much else to do. Nobody seemed to know what we were there for. Pettitt obviously did, of course, but nobody had the nerve to ask him. They place rather a lot of emphasis on blind obedience in the Steel Band.’ MacGregor nodded. He could well believe it. ‘And on the Saturday morning?’

  ‘We all gathered in the common room in Hut Twelve again. Mike Ruscoe and I carried out the routine security checks and then we all settled down to listen to what Pettitt had to say to us.’ Osmond paused and, getting his handkerchief out, wiped his forehead and then the palms of his hands. ‘It came as something of a bombshell, I can tell you.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘He said that there was a traitor in our midst.’

  Twelve

  Even Dover opened his eyes. He hadn’t really been asleep, of course, though that bed was comfortable enough to . . .

  MacGregor was nodding understanding^. ‘And you thought it was you he was talking about?’

  ‘Not half!’ Osmond looked quite sick. Talk about time standing still! And then the relief when I cottoned on it was this Knapper fellow they were putting the black on – poor sod.’

  ‘But, in that case, why were you there?’

  Osmond looked across at MacGregor in surprise. ‘Well, I was part of the court, wasn’t I? That’s what we’d all been got together for – to try Knapper for betraying the movement.’

  ‘In a bloody holiday camp?’ That was Dover making one of his rare but penetrating contributions to the discussion.

  Osmond swung round. ‘Why not? It was a damned good choice, if you ask me. The place was virtually empty at that time of year and our little collection of huts or chalets or whatever was quite isolated. Nobody came near us the whole weekend because we were on the cheapest rates and so we didn’t get any service. We had to make our own beds and, if we wanted any cleaning done, we had to do it ourselves. Meals, of course, we took in the main restaurant which was at least half a mile off. No, I take my hat off to whoever thought that place up. It was brilliant. There weren’t even any telephones so Knapper couldn’t have phoned for help, even if he’d got the chance. He’d been instructed to travel by train to Bowerville- by-the-sea so that he’d no hope of making a getaway by car and that Holiday Ranch was too far from everywhere to try running for it on foot.’