“We do, Inspector Ingram, won’t you come in, Mr. Tompkins, we think what we’ve found will interest you.”
Tompkins smiled to himself and raised his eyebrows, what did the police think they’d found at Spinky’s pad? He moved past Dexter, patting him on the shoulder as he did so, as if thanking him for trying to warn him about the police. Dexter still felt as though a large weight had fallen off the roof and landed on him, such was the force of Tompkins’s hand.
“Come this way,” said Ingram, walking along the hallway, “we have something you should see,” and he indicated Tompkins should enter the drawing room where two pieces of paper were lying on a table.
“So, what do you think you have found, Constable Ingram?” asked Tompkins trying not to look too closely at the papers on the table.
“Well,” replied Sergeant Evans, warming to his task as witty sidekick to a superior officer, “we seem to have found plans and routes and your initials are on them.”
“Really? Well, cripes, that’s me sentenced then isn’t it?” replied Tompkins stoutly, “because obviously I am the only person in the whole country who has the initials CAT, Clifford Antrobus Tompkins.”
Evans looked at Ingram who smiled and thought about things for a few seconds.
“Clifford Antrobus?” said Ingram, “that’s a mouthful.”
“Well, Ingram old chap, I had precious little say in the matter, if you think about it, just a few screams and yowls. Can you show me where the word CAT appears on those papers? Is it possible the person had a feline pet who needed litter and food, perhaps?”
“CAT doesn’t appear, but TT does and FT, what is your wife’s name again?”
“Phyllida Susannah, so PST, not FT, Ingram. Perhaps someone was going to buy the Financial Times?”