by Joyce Porter
‘Yes. The cheeky buggers phoned the London Library this time. If there’s one thing I can’t stand,’ said Commander Brockhurst with considerable venom, ‘it’s crooks with a sense of humour. Anyhow, we got a detailed description of the baby’s bootees to prove that we’re dealing with the real McCoy. They’re very’ sharp this lot, you know. I wouldn’t be surprised if we weren’t dealing with a bunch of smart-alec, left-wing university students after all. Anyhow, they reiterated their demand for half a million pounds ransom and added the release of no less than six child murderers from Broadmoor. How sick can you get, eh?’
‘Six child murderers from Broadmoor?’ echoed MacGregor in tones of horror.
‘Loonies?’ queried Dover. ‘’Strewth, you can’t release a bunch of criminal nutcases, can you? Specially not when they’ve been locked up for killing kids. The general public’ll go berserk.’
‘And what do you think the Prime Minister’s going to do if we don’t get that kid back?’ demanded Commander Brockhurst sourly. ‘The way I hear it, he’s prepared to hand over the crown jewels, never mind release a few social misfits. What I can’t fathom is why in God’s name the Claret Tappers should want six homicidal maniacs let loose in the first place.’
‘As a distraction, sir?’ suggested MacGregor. ‘On the grounds that we’ll be so busy trying to recapture the Broadmoor lot that we’ll not have time to go chasing after the kidnappers?’
‘Could be,’ said Commander Brockhurst. He was looking very tired. ‘They’ve laid down another condition. The ransom money is to be paid over by Chief Inspector Dover.’
Dover’s interest in the proceedings, which had been wandering just a little, came snapping back. ‘Me?’ he yelled indignantly. ‘Why me, for God’s sake? Look, I’ve done my whack and more! This kidnapping’s damn all to do with me. Besides, I’m not fit. I’ve only been struggling on this long just to oblige. By rights I ought to be lying on a sick bed and . . .’
‘Listen, Dover!’ Commander Brockhurst slashed through the cackle with head-reeling brutality. ‘If the Claret Tappers want you to hand over the ransom money, then that’s it and no bloody argument! Understand? They’re calling the tune at the moment and we’ve no choice but to dance to it. None of us like it, but some of us are just going to have to make a few sacrifices.’
Dover’s jowls wobbled. ‘I don’t remember anybody making any bloody sacrifices for me when I was the kidnap victim!’ he pointed out with considerable justice. ‘Sink or swim – that’s what they told me. Hard luck, mate – that’s all the help I got. ‘Strewth, I can’t remember anybody raising so much as a finger to save my bloody skin!’
This was getting far too close to home for Commander Brockhurst’s comfort. He turned to MacGregor. ‘Get him down to Salisbury on the first available train. You go with him. When you get to Salisbury you’re to put up at an hotel called The Bishop’s Crozier and wait for further instructions. You’ll liaise with a Superintendent Trevelyan of the local police. Got it?’
MacGregor nodded. ‘I take it that this move to Salisbury is in compliance with the kidnappers’ instructions, sir?’
‘Well, you don’t think I bloody well made it up, do you?’
MacGregor generously overlooked this tetchy outburst. ‘Is somebody going on television again, sir, to tell the Claret Tappers that we’re accepting their demands?’
Commander Brockhurst shook his head. ‘The joker who rang up the London Library just now said that acceptance of their terms was a foregone conclusion and there was no need to make any arrangements for letting them know our answer.’ He sighed. ‘He was right, of course. Until we get that kid back, when the Claret Tappers say jump, we are going to jump. I suppose you didn’t come up with any new leads about Chief Inspector Dover’s kidnapping? No, I thought not. Well, there it is. For the time being we’ve no choice but to play it the Claret Tappers’ way.’
Dover rested his weight on the edge of Commander Brockhurst’s desk. ‘Are we really going to hand over half a million quid?’ he asked, looking happier as he got seventeen and a quarter stone off his feet. ‘And whose money is it, if it comes to that? The bloody taxpayers’, I suppose. Me,’ – he settled down for a cosy chat – ‘I can’t see what all the fuss is about. I mean – the Prime Minister’s daughter’s still a young woman, isn’t she?’
‘What,’ interrupted Commander Brockhurst fiercely, ‘the hell has that to do with anything?’
Dover looked mildly surprised at the question. ‘Only that she’s got bags of time to have a dozen more brats if she wants ’em,’ he explained. ‘I mean,’ – he chuckled a man-to-man sort of chuckle – ‘it’s not all that difficult, is it?’
The jaws of Commander Brockhurst came together like a vice and it was clear that he didn’t trust himself to speak.
Luckily Dover wasn’t in the least bit sensitive to atmospheres. He made himself even more comfortable on the desk ‘Still, you know me! A hundred per cent effort no matter what I think of the personalities involved. And, provided I get a bit of decent support from my so-called colleagues, I don’t doubt we’ll bring the whole thing to a successful conclusion. Sooner or later.’
Commander Brockhurst’s face went a very peculiar shade of red. Those iron laws unclamped and his head turned slightly in MacGregor’s direction. ‘Get him out of here!’
The Bishop’s Crozier was not the worst hotel in Salisbury. The Old Ram had a much more fearsome reputation and it was rather surprising that the Claret Tappers hadn’t condemned Dover to await their summons there. Maybe it was the unique location of The Bishop’s Crozier which had tipped the scales as there are not many provincial hotels which share a noisy cul-de-sac with an all-night fish and chip shop, a small glue factory and a house of ill repute.
‘’Strewth!’ said Dover, looking round the double room which he was condemned to share with MacGregor. ‘What a dump!’
MacGregor was even more distressed at the prospect which lay before them and had, indeed, only bowed to the inevitable after a long argument with mine host about the impossibility of providing a second room. If there was one thing MacGregor did like, it was his privacy. ‘Which bed do you want, sir?’
‘I’ll have the one by the door,’ said Dover, predictably. ‘Just in case I get taken short during the night.’ He continued with his unpacking, putting his tin of stomach powder on the shelf over the wash-basin. ‘How long are we supposed to be stopping here?’
MacGregor shook his head. ‘Nobody knows, sir. Until the Claret Tappers get in touch again with the next set of instructions, I suppose. I shouldn’t think it would be very long.’
Dover sullenly dropped his spare pair of socks in the dressing-table drawer. They were the only spare clothes he’d brought with him and he didn’t want them to come to any harm. ‘It could be bloody weeks,’ he said, feeling in an argumentative mood.
‘Oh, I don’t think so, sir.’ MacGregor smoothed his blue suit lovingly under its plastic cover and hung it carefully in the wardrobe. ‘Every minute this goes on makes it more dangerous for the kidnappers. A three-month-old baby takes a lot of looking after and the sooner they can get rid of it, the happier they’ll be.’
‘Always provided they haven’t already knocked it on the head,’ said Dover.
‘Even if they have, sir, they still won’t want to drag things out. They’ll want that money in their hands and then a quick get-away.’
‘Haifa million?’ said Dover incredulously. ‘They’ve a hope.’
MacGregor didn’t like to be continually correcting Dover, but he didn’t often have much choice. ‘Actually, sir, it’s already here and waiting.’
‘What is?’
MacGregor reduced his voice to a whisper. ‘The money, sir. The five hundred thousand pounds.’
‘Get off!’ Dover’s piggy little eyes grew round with greed. ‘Where is it? Have you got it?’ He looked hopefully round the bedroom. MacGregor always carted such a load of clobber round with him that he might well have half a million
nicker tucked away in the odd . . .
‘It’s in one of the cellars, sir. Under armed guard. Commander Brockhurst reckons that, when the Claret Tappers do get in touch, we shall have to respond to their instructions very quickly. They’ll only give us the bare minimum of time so that we can’t organise a trap for them.’
‘What’s all this “we” business?’ demanded Dover crossly. ‘I’m the poor devil that’s going to be out there in the firing line, laddie, and don’t you forget it. Here,’ – what little colour there was drained from his podgy face – ‘you don’t think they’ll grab me again and hold me as hostage, do you?’
MacGregor couldn’t imagine anybody being that masochistic and his attempts to reassure the craven Dover had the ring of truth about them.
Dover was quick to cash in on his sergeant’s sympathy. ‘Let’s go downstairs and have a drink,’ he suggested, swinging his feet off the eiderdown and planting them heavily on the floor But MacGregor had to knock this bright idea on the head as Commander Brockhurst had given strict instructions that Dover was to maintain a low profile and keep out of sight. The press and television boys were now on to the kidnapping and the Home Secretary himself had held a briefing during which he had appealed for discretion and restraint. Only the barest facts had been revealed, just that the baby grandson of the Prime Minister had been kidnapped and that the au pair girl looking after him had been killed. Nothing was said about the release of the child murderers from Broadmoor, the demand for half a million pounds, or that the Claret Tappers were claiming responsibility for the baby’s abduction. Nothing had been said, either, about the involvement of Chief Inspector Dover in the handing over of the money. As Commander Brockhurst had observed unkindly – there was enough misery in this world without needlessly adding to it.
‘I’ll pop down and fetch you a drink up, sir,’ said MacGregor when he’d finished explaining why Dover couldn’t make a personal appearance in the bar of The Bishop’s Crozier.
Dover flopped back on the bed, his filthy boots once more sinking into the long-suffering eiderdown. ‘All right,’ he agreed in a disconsolate whine, ‘but it’s not the same, you know.’
At six o’clock in the morning, the Claret Tappers struck. They phoned their orders through to the switchboard of the local maternity’ hospital and there was some delay before the message was relayed to the police. Superintendent Trevelyan,- a large placid man who could see his pension and country cottage at the end of the tunnel, woke MacGregor and readily acquiesced to his suggestion that they should let the sleeping Dover lie until they had worked out their strategy.
‘Not that he’s going to get much more than an extra twenty minutes,’ said Superintendent Trevelyan as they made their way quietly down the stairs. ‘We’ve got to get him to the foot of Fish Down by half past seven. Still, that shouldn’t take us more than twenty minutes at this time in the morning.’
They settled down in the chilly saloon bar. It reeked of stale tobacco smoke and spilt beer. MacGregor wrapped his vicuna dressing-gown more closely round him as he studied the sheet of paper which the superintendent had handed him. ‘Well, it looks straightforward enough, sir. We’ve just got to get Mr Dover to the bottom of Fish Down with the money at seven thirty. There, he’ll find further instructions. If the police attempt to interfere or follow the collectors of the money in any way, the kidnapped child will be killed. “We are not fooling, pigs. Signed: The Claret Tappers.’” MacGregor stifled a yawn. ‘Pretty much what we expected, sir.’
Superintendent Trevelyan agreed. ‘We shall try and follow ‘em, of course. We’ve had orders from on high about that. It’s going to be tricky, though.’ He unfolded a large-scale Ordnance Survey map. ‘Fish Down’s right in the middle of the Plain, you see. No cover. And I don’t see how we can make any form of transport look inconspicuous at that time in the morning.’ He tapped the map with his finger. ‘There are half a dozen roads we ought to cover, in both directions.’
MacGregor stared. ‘Fish Down looks like the centre of quite a little complex of roads, sir. I suppose that’s why they chose it. A car could come along from any direction and pick up the money and clear off in almost any direction again.’ He scratched his head. ‘An army helicopter, sir?’
‘Well, we’ve always got them buzzing around over the Plain, of course, but I think one over Fish Down this morning would look jolly suspicious. As a matter of fact, ‘I’ve already sent a request to the Army to keep clear till midday.’ The superintendent felt obliged to justify his decision. ‘We’ve got to remember that child’s safety, you know. The Claret Tappers’ threats are quite clear. If they spot any police involvement, they’ll kill.’
‘The way you’re talking, sir,’ said MacGregor rather highhandedly, ‘it sounds as though you think we shouldn’t be maintaining any surveillance at all.’
‘I don’t think we should,’ said Superintendent Trevelyan flatly. ‘I reckon we’re putting that baby’s life in jeopardy by even sitting here discussing it. However, I’m only an executive officer in this operation, chosen for my local knowledge. The orders are coming from London.’
MacGregor looked at the map again. ‘How do you propose to tackle the problem, sir?’
Superintendent Trevelyan consulted the sheet of paper he’d taken out of his briefcase. ‘Well, it’s been a bit of a rush job, as you can imagine, but I propose sticking one chap in mufti up here on Caper Hill with a pair of binoculars and a radio. We’re lucky that the only other hill in the area besides Fish Down covers this same complex of roads. My chap should be able to spot the pick-up with no trouble at all.’
‘And he’ll then radio a description of the kidnappers’ vehicle and the direction they’re taking?’
‘That’s about it. I’ll have cars concealed along these roads where I can. There’s a couple of farmyards we can use and this little coppice here might provide a bit of shelter. Always providing the Claret Tappers themselves aren’t using it,’ the superintendent added despondently. ‘If the pick-up doesn’t take place immediately, though, we stand a bit better chance because there’ll be more traffic about as the morning draws on. Ill be able to infiltrate a few more of my lads without arousing too much suspicion.’
‘Not in police cars, sir, I hope?’ MacGregor didn’t really trust the intelligence of people who lived in the country from choice.
‘No, sergeant,’ said Superintendent Trevelyan heavily, ‘not in police cars.’
MacGregor hurriedly found a new topic of conversation. ‘How do you envisage the hand-over of the money, sir? Do you think Mr Dover will just have to dump it by the side of the road and then drive off, leaving the Claret Tappers to come along and pick it up at their leisure? Or will there be an actual, physical hand-over, with the chief inspector having to hang about until they turn up?’ MacGregor sighed. ‘He won’t like that, I’m afraid.’
Superintendent Trevelyan looked at his watch. ‘Time’s getting on,’ he warned. ‘I think we should be waking your boss pretty soon. I’ve asked the landlord if he can’t lay on a bit of breakfast before we set out. It’s pretty parky outside. The hand-over?’ The superintendent ran a hand over his stubbly chin ‘Have you considered the possibility that the contact might already be in position? There’s a bit of cover on Fish Down – bushes and what-not. One of the Claret Tappers could well have concealed himself there before they even sent the telephone message.’
‘Ready to jump out when Mr Dover arrives?’ MacGregor looked very unhappy. ‘He’ll have a heart attack.’
‘Or they might shoot him,’ said Superintendent Trevelyan, obviously one of nature’s optimists.
‘Why on earth should they?’ asked MacGregor in a rather hoarse voice. ‘I mean, surely they don’t think they’re in any danger from him?’
You could see that Superintendent Trevelyan wasn’t the sort of man who lay awake at nights worrying. ‘They might think Chief Inspector Dover has a two-way radio on him,’ he observed stolidly, ‘and was going to use it to communicate wi
th a police net spread over the countryside to shadow the kidnappers to their lair.’
MacGregor picked up the piece of paper containing the plan of operations and tried to match the superintendent’s detached approach. ‘But I thought it had been agreed that Mr Dover would be carrying a two-way radio concealed about his person, sir?’
‘That’s right, sergeant.’
Fourteen
THE BEST LAID PLANS OF MICE AND MEN CAN rarely stand up to the Dovers of this world. At first glance it looked as though the Claret Tappers had allowed for every eventuality. Chief Inspector Dover was to drive to the foot of Fish Down, arriving there at exactly half-past seven. He was to be alone in the car and was to be carrying the ransom money (in used notes, of course) in two large canvas bags of the kind used by postmen. When he arrived at Fish Down, Dover was to keep his eyes skinned for further instructions. Nobody was to accompany Dover or to follow him or, indeed, attempt to meddle in the operation in any way. Failure to comply with this instruction would mean the death of the kidnapped child.
It was all brutally simple and direct.
Apart from Dover’s natural reluctance to expose himself to exertion and danger, there was however one major snag.
Superintendent Trevelyan – a novice where Dover was concerned – looked as though he couldn’t believe his ears. ‘You can’t drive?’
Dover was looking happier than he had since they woke him up. ‘Reckon I might as well go back to bed, eh?’
It soon became apparent that such a withdrawal was only going to be achieved over the combined dead bodies of MacGregor and Superintendent Trevelyan, and Dover sulkily sat down again and finished off the toast and marmalade. There was by now very little time to spare and solutions to this latest problem began being scattered around like leaves in an autumn gale.
Once Dover had accepted the fact that he wasn’t going to be allowed to take the easy way out, he too joined in the fun. His most sensible suggestion came out in a spray of toast crumbs. ‘MacGregor can go disguised as me! If he wears my bowler and overcoat, his own mother wouldn’t recognise him!’