by Joyce Porter
It was at this stage in the proceedings that the Purseglove family moved unexpectedly into the attack. Mrs Purseglove expressed herself freely and at length on the question of unfounded accusations, with particular reference to her only child, but it was Rex’s father who put the cat amongst the pigeons. Joining in hesitantly to support his wife (he knew what reproaches he would have to face afterwards if he didn’t), he brought up the question of the gun with which Isobel Slatcher had been shot.
‘I don’t know why you don’t go and ask a few of your blooming questions off them as owned that,’ he grumbled, ‘’stead of bothering a decent lad like our Rex what’s serving his queen and country in the Raf.’
‘RAF, Dad!’ said his son crossly. ‘I’ve told you before not to call it Raf!’
‘The gun can’t be traced,’ snapped Dover equally crossly.
‘Oh, can’t it?’ retorted Mr Purseglove sarcastically. ‘Well, there’s none so blind as them as won’t see, is there?’
‘And what do you mean by that?’ demanded Dover.
‘Only,’ said Mr Purseglove calmly, ‘that well nigh everybody in Curdley knows that them young hooligans in the Pie Gang had a Luger revolver round about Christmas last year. And,’ he added significantly, ‘they haven’t got it now.’
‘And who the devil are the Pie Gang?’
‘They’re a bunch of young Catholic layabouts on the other side of town,’ explained Rex. ‘ Hey, Dad, I’d forgotten all about them! You see, Inspector, when Isobel was shot last February there was a lot of talk that the Catholics were at the back of it – Isobel had quite a reputation for letting fly at them, you know, whenever she got the chance.’
‘And there was that young girl who was raped, too,’ said Mrs Purseglove.
‘That’s right, Mum, so there was. It was about three or four days before Isobel was shot. There was a girl, Inspector, one of the Daughters of Mary, who was raped. She was only about fourteen and there was the devil of a row about it. Of course, all the Catholics said it was a Protestant who’d done it and there was lots of talk about reprisals. When Isobel got shot a lot of people thought that this was the Holy Romans getting their own back, especially, as Dad says, as plenty of people knew these Pie Gang kids had somehow got hold of a Luger.’
‘Of course,’ said Mrs Purseglove with a sniff, ‘ nothing was ever done about it. You wouldn’t catch our police running another Catholic in for parking his car in the wrong place, never mind committing murder.’
‘Not them,’ agreed Mr Purseglove, ‘they’d get the priest along and give ’em absolution, they would.’
‘More likely give’em a medal,’ observed Mrs Purseglove spitefully, ‘’specially if it was some Protestant girl they’d killed.’ She turned to Dover. ‘P’raps you’d do as well to have a look at these Pie Gang boys,’ she suggested, ‘and leave our Rex alone. That is, unless you’re tarred with the same brush as the rest of the bobbies in this town.’
It was at this point that Dover took his leave with as much dignity as he could muster. Not only had he been most unfairly deprived of his rightful prey – Rex – but he had also gathered a piece of information from the general public which should have been imparted to him by his brother officers in the local police. His temper was not improved by this hint of unprofessional conduct.
It was MacGregor who bore the brunt of his chief inspector’s displeasure, after all that is partly what detective sergeants are there for. The long cold walk back to the Station Hotel did nothing to lighten Dover’s mood. His feet were killing him and he blamed MacGregor for that, too. He sulked massively all through dinner and reduced the waitress to tears because the Lancashire hot-pot (which he didn’t want, anyway) was off.
It was only afterwards in the bar that he began to calm down a little. Dover enjoyed his pint of beer, but only if somebody else was paying for it. There was a widely held, though erroneous belief amongst the junior ranks at Scotland Yard that only unmarried detective sergeants with private incomes were assigned to Dover because the expenses of providing him with free beer and cigarettes were so heavy. MacGregor, who had been chafing in double yoke with Dover for some time now, had often considered becoming both a teetotaller and a non-smoker, but had come to the conclusion that money wasn’t everything. It was well worth a few bob to keep the chief inspector in a fairly reasonable state of mind.
Dover was half-way through his third pint before MacGregor judged that it was safe to mention the progress (for want of a better word) of the Isobel Slatcher case.
‘What’s our next move to be, sir?’ he asked.
Dover stared despondently into the depths of his tankard. ‘God only knows!’ he said gloomily.
‘I suppose we’d better check with Nurse Horncastle about young Purseglove’s alibi, hadn’t we?’
‘I suppose so,’ grunted Dover without much interest.
‘You’d better go round by yourself to the hospital first thing tomorrow morning and have a word with her. I reckon I’ll have to go and see Colonel Muckle.’ He brightened up at the thought. ‘He’s going to have a bit of explaining to do, he is! I suppose there wasn’t a word in the file about this Pie Gang, was there?’
‘No, sir. There was just a note that they hadn’t been able to trace the Luger. It looks as though it was a war souvenir that somebody had brought back from Germany. Must have been hundreds of ’ em smuggled in by Servicemen after the war.’
‘Hm.’ Dover took a thoughtful pull at his beer. ‘Still, it doesn’t alter the fact – does it? – that the local boys must have known about this Pie Gang tie-up, and yet they haven’t put a single blooming word about it in the report. Very naughty. The Chief Constable and I are going to have a very interesting chat, very interesting indeed.’
‘You don’t want me to come with you, sir?’
‘Not bloody likely!’ snorted Dover with a fruity chuckle. ‘I shan’t want any witnesses – and I’m damned well sure old Muckle won’t!’
‘If Nurse Horncastle bears out Rex Purseglove’s story, sir, I suppose that means we’ll have to cross him off the list completely, doesn’t it?’
‘What list?’ asked Dover sourly. ‘He’s the only flipping one we’ve had on it so far. But if he can prove he didn’t do the suffocating with the pillow, then I reckon he’s in the clear. Pity, he was measuring up nicely. Still’ – he made a half-hearted attempt at optimism – ‘we’ve hardly started yet. Somebody else’ll turn up, no doubt. Tomorrow afternoon we’d better go and have a look at where the girl was shot. That might give us a few ideas. There’s one thing, you know, MacGregor – assuming that young Purseglove is innocent and is therefore telling the truth, it’s funny that if he heard the shots, he didn’t hear anybody running off, or see ’ em, either.’
‘Well, they may have cleared off in the opposite direction,’ MacGregor pointed out, ‘or hopped over a wall, or anything. In any case, neither Purseglove nor the Vicar seems to have thought of looking round for the attacker, do they? For all they bothered about him, he could have been standing in the shadows watching ’em. He may never have even tried to run away at all.’
‘Yes, you may be right,’ said Dover indifferently. ‘Well, I’m going to bed.’ He yawned widely. ‘ I’ve had a long day and I’m tired. You’d better write your report up before you turn in. Don’t mention this gun business till we find out what Colonel Muckle’s side of the story is. See you at breakfast.’
Although Dover came down next morning prepared to tackle his bacon and eggs in a fairly reasonable frame of mind, this benign mood didn’t last for long. MacGregor had thoughtfully ordered a selection of Sunday papers and, at the sight of their screaming headlines, Dover’s brow rapidly clouded over. Bigamous Bertie was in the news once again and, behind him, he dragged Superintendent Roderick to a bit more unsolicited publicity. Now that Bigamous Bertie had gone with a jerk through the pearly gates, the Sunday newspapers were in a position to reveal all. Only one, of course, had managed to get Bigamous Bertie’s own story. They’d bought it l
ong before he was even brought to trial and, what with hung juries, appeals and pleas for mercy, they’d had it on ice for a long time. Now they were going to get their money’s worth.
The other newspapers did the best they could. One had got the life story of a ‘wife’ who had been spared the holocaust, and another had ghosted a sister’s account of one of the four victims. There was even an article by an old man who had worked as a gardener in one of Bertie’s bigamous establishments. Whichever paper one opened – even the ‘serious’ ones dragged Bertie’s name in under the guise of a discussion on capital punishment – the sensational story of Cuthbert Boys was there for all to see. And, of course, you couldn’t mention Bigamous Bertie without the name of Super Percy cropping up as well There were nearly as many pictures of the ‘most famous detective since Sherlock Holmes’, as one paper put it, as there were of his victim.
Dover’s breakfast was completely ruined. He told MacGregor to summon a taxi for him and he set off in a fine old temper for the Chief Constable’s residence. He caught that gentleman just as he was setting off for Mass, and the two men retired back inside the house for what was no doubt a very spirited exchange of views.
By eleven o’clock Dover was back in the lounge of the Station Hotel, feeling much more cheerful. He had imperilled the Chief Constable’s immortal soul by making him too late for church, he had received an abject apology for the prevarication of the local police in respect of the Pie Gang, and the Luger had been handed over to him. On the whole, a most satisfactory morning.
He was surprised to find that Sergeant MacGregor had got back before him.
‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘How did you get on?’
‘Piece of cake, sir,’ said MacGregor. ‘Nurse Horncastle supported Rex’s story up to the hilt and begged me not to let Matron get a whiff of it, otherwise, I gather, the poor girl will be dissected alive. Her story that she was busy with an emergency case was just a bit of fiction made up for Matron’s benefit. The truth is, I suspect, that she was too busy flirting with the gallant Purseglove to remember that she was supposed to be keeping an eye on poor Isobel. There doesn’t seem a hope that Rex could have got into Isobel Slatcher’s room after he’d just peeped in. Nurse Horncastle very kindly entertained me to a cup of tea in the same slop-place room that she’d taken Rex to. It’s just a little sort of cupboard place on the other side of the main ward. Even if Rex had been left alone for a few minutes, and Nurse Horncastle says he wasn’t, he’d have had to go back through the main ward to get to Isobel’s room. He was in uniform, sir. He could never have slipped through without somebody noticing it. The patients in there are rather lively. I got greeted with a chorus of wolf whistles myself when I passed through, both times. Nurse Horncastle said that the, er, ladies gave Rex the same ovation.’
Dover wrinkled his nose. ‘Oh well,’ he said, ‘that’s that. Exit Rex Purseglove as Suspect Number One.’
‘Did you have any luck with the Chief Constable, sir?’
Dover permitted himself a complacent grin. ‘Not too bad,’ he admitted modestly. ‘Colonel Muckle was good enough to clear one or two little points up for me.’ He smirked broadly. ‘Seems a very co-operative chap, really. Helpful, you know. Anyhow, I’ve got the Luger.’ Dover dragged the gun out of his overcoat pocket and plonked it down on the table. ‘They knew all about the Pie Gang, of course. It was pretty common knowledge that one of the young devils had got hold of a Luger and had been swanking about it all over town. I’ve no doubt that this one here is the same one. Colonel Muckle says his chaps went and asked them about it after Isobel was shot, but they all played the innocent and denied that they’d ever had a gun of any sort. Muckle says that’s as far as his men could get but, as I told him, if his coppers don’t know how to bash the truth out of a lot of crummy teenagers, it’s about time they learned! I don’t think’ – Dover lovingly regarded his clenched and meaty right fist – ‘that I shall have much trouble with ’em.’
‘Do you think they shot Isobel Slatcher then, sir?’
‘No.’ Dover shook his head. ‘They’ve got a cast-iron alibi, unfortunately. They were actually in police custody at eight o’clock that Saturday night. You remember about the Daughter of Mary who got raped – well, according to the Chief Constable, that was just her version of what actually happened – anyhow, there was a great to-do about it and the Pie Gang evidently felt it was up to them to avenge the honour of Catholic maidenhood. A leading Protestant bigwig – a mason, too, apparently – had been buried that afternoon so these bright boys decided to take a trip out to the cemetery and dig him up again. What a town, eh? Well, the local police had been keeping a pretty close eye on the Pie Gang and they got wind of what the young devils were planning. They went out to the cemetery and waited for ’ em. They copped the lot before a sod of earth was turned, and hauled ’ em all off to the police station. There’s no doubt about it, even if this is their gun they certainly didn’t shoot Isobel Slatcher.
‘Anyhow’ – Dover picked up the Luger – ‘you and me are going to have a word with ’em now. Seems they can’t lie in bed on Sunday mornings because they’ve got to go to Mass, but they sit around afterwards all morning in a café until their mums have got their Sunday dinners cooked. The station sergeant told me where to find ’em.’
‘Shall I get a taxi, sir?’
‘No need to bother,’ said Dover grandly. ‘The Chief Constable has most kindly allocated us a car and a driver for the rest of our time here. Decent of him, wasn’t it?’
Chapter Six
The Police car dropped the two detectives at the end of the street in which Elsie’s Café, their destination, was situated.
‘Freddie Gash, he’s the one you want,’ the police driver had told Dover. ‘You’ll find him in there all right. You can’t miss him. He’ll be the one with blackheads all over his face.’
Elsie’s Café was to be found in one of the less salubrious quarters of Curdley and it was, as Dover had been warned, a somewhat greasy looking dump. Dover and MacGregor walked resolutely down the street to the near hysterical delight of the neighbourhood kids, whose ability to spot a copper at a hundred yards on a foggy day was innate. Dover strode magnificently through them, scattering snotty-nosed toddlers in all directions. MacGregor, who was a bit soft-hearted where children were concerned, tried pushing them gently out of the way with his hands. One angelic-faced little girl bit him severely on the thumb.
‘I reckon that’ll turn septic,’ said Dover unsympathetically as he pushed open the café door. The door-bell pinged a cracked warning and three leather-jacketed youths sitting at one of the four wooden tables looked up. From the back a large fat woman in a grubby flowered overall shuffled sullenly in and rested her ample bosom on the linoleum-covered counter.
‘Two coffees, please, miss!’ ordered Dover, and moved across to sit down at one of the vacant tables. He inspected the top of the table he had chosen, decided that even he couldn’t stomach it and moved off to another. It was better, but not much. Dover pulled out a wooden fold-flat chair, wiped it with his handkerchief and gently lowered his not inconsiderable bulk on to it. For a minute the issue was in doubt, but the chair was stronger than it looked and, creaking ominously, it successfully took the strain.
MacGregor came over to join him with two cups of coffee.
Dover took one look. ‘Ugh!’ he said.
MacGregor sat down opposite him.
‘I suppose that’s them, is it?’ he asked, glancing at the only other customers. The three youths had their heads together and were whispering amongst themselves.
‘I reckon so,’ said Dover. ‘That looks like what’s-his-name – Gash – with the blackheads. God, they look a right bunch of layabouts, don’t they?’
The three lads decided to play it up a bit.
‘Cor!’ exclaimed the one with the blackheads loudly. ‘Ain’t there a pong in ’ere all of a sudden? Smells like rotten old socks, dunnit, Skip?’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Skip, tipp
ing his chair back nonchalantly on two legs. ‘ Y’d think Elsie’d be a bit more particular about who she served in ’ere, won’t yer?’
The third member of the trio, who was cleaning the dirt from under his finger-nails with a flick knife, contributed his mite. ‘ If yer arsk me, Elsie’s pies have got enough bluebottles on ’em already without bringing any more in.’
‘This none-too-sharp witticism brought loud guffaws of laughter and the gang glanced sideways to see how the victims of their barbs were taking it. Both Dover and MacGregor sat boot-faced and unresponsive, their coffee untouched before them. Still propped up behind the counter, Elsie watched the proceedings with mild interest.
‘’Ere.’ Gash, the leader, dragged, with some effort, a coin out of the pocket of his jeans and flipped it grandly on to the table. ‘Let’s’ave some music, Pegtop!’
Pegtop shook his long blond hair out of his eyes and rose languidly to his feet. He leaned over a battered-looking juke box standing just by the far side of the table, put the coin in and hunted among the buttons for the air of his choice.
That was enough for Dover. He propelled himself across the room and clamped a hand like a vice on Pegtop’s arm before the fatal finger could descend and let loose the sounds of hell.
Pegtop yelped with surprise and pain.
‘Sit down!’ snarled Dover, enforcing his behest with a well-directed thump between the teenager’s thin shoulders. Pegtop staggered in the right direction and, coughing pitifully, collapsed back on his chair. But Dover, who was not inexperienced in these matters, hadn’t finished. Just before the two bottoms, or seats, made contact Dover’s left foot shot out and jerked the chair aside. Pegtop crashed to the floor in an ignominious and painful heap.
His two friends, blessed with a primitive sense of humour, sniggered disloyally before raising their newly-broken voices in protest.
‘Shut up!’ barked Dover, and grabbed the remaining chair. Expertly he swung it round and sat down astride it, his arms resting crossed on its back. Teenagers weren’t the only ones who watched cowboy films/ on the telly. MacGregor caught the idea and with his hands poised just above his hips (ready for the draw) he sauntered across the café and leaned, relaxed but alert, against the juke box.