He spoke defiantly.
"I'm pleased to hear it," said Pascoe. "Look, it's probably best we see her down at the hall, when Mr. Dalziel's back. Get back in there and tell her we'll need to see her down there in, say, two hours. That should give us time to get hold of the super."
"I'll ask her, sir."
"You tell her," said Pascoe fiercely. "Middle of an investigation like this is no time for personal feelings, Sergeant."
Was Clark going to turn out to be a liability? he wondered. It was what he was coming to think of as the Dendale effect. Bit like Gulf War syndrome; hard to define, but impossible to deny once you'd met a few of those suffering from it. Including perhaps the Fat Man himself.
He would prefer to believe Dendale was irrelevant, but all roads seemed to lead back there, and till he saw a signpost pointing definitely in another direction, perhaps he ought to follow, if only to confirm a dead end.
He said, "Sergeant."
Clark, moving slowly back to the farmhouse, turned to show an unhappy face and said, "Sir?"
"This fellow Benny Lightfoot, who was he close to?"
"No bugger," said Clark. "A right loner."
"So if he did come back, there's nowhere special he'd head?"
"Only Dendale, and there's nowt there for him now, not even with the drought. All the buildings got 'dozed down before they flooded the dale, including Neb Cottage, where he lived with his gran."
"His gran. What happened to her?" asked Pascoe.
"She dug her heels in, said they'd have to carry her out of her cottage, and that's what they had to do," said Clark. "She barricaded herself in, then had a stroke. I went up there to try to talk some sense into her and I saw her through the window. Another few hours, I reckon she'd have snuffed it."
"Lucky you were so conscientious," said Pascoe.
"I'm not sure she saw it that way," said Clark. "I went to see her in hospital and she didn't exactly seem grateful."
"Did she recover?"
"Depends who was talking to her," said Clark with a reminiscent grin. "Any official questions about Benny and she'd lost the power of speech and memory. She was certainly a bit confused and had trouble with finding the right words, but she was soon well enough to be a right trouble to the nurses. They'd have discharged her a lot sooner, only they had to find a place for her to go. She couldn't look after herself, you see. Even after she got most of her speech back, she was partially paralyzed down one side. So it had to be nursing home, and she led the Social Services a merry dance when they started making suggestions."
"But in the end she went?"
"No. A niece turned up. Lived somewhere near Sheffield. Said she'd take her. And that's the last anyone round here saw of her."
"So she could be still alive," said Pascoe.
"She'd be getting on, but she's the kind who'd stay alive forever if she thought folk were expecting her to die."
"Can't remember the niece's name, can you?"
"No. But they might still have a record down at Social Services."
"Depends who was running the case," said Pascoe unoptimistically.
"I can tell you that. Lass name of Plowright."
"You don't mean Jeannie Plowright who's head of Social Services at County Hall now?" said Pascoe, hope reviving.
"Aye, she's done right well," said Clark. "I thought she would. Anyone who could survive dealing with old Mrs. Lightfoot was always going to make it right to the top!"
He went into the house. Pascoe took out his mobile and dialed.
"County Hall."
"Social Services. Ms. Plowright, please."
A pause, unfilled (thank God) by soothing music. Then a man's voice.
"Hello?"
"Is Jeannie there, please?"
"Sorry, she's out. Can I help?"
"No. When will she be back?"
"Not till this late afternoon, maybe early evening. Look, if it's about-"
"It's not about anything you can help with," said Pascoe. "Can you make sure she gets a message?"
"I expect so, but listen-"
"No. You listen. Carefully. My name is Pascoe. Detective Chief Inspector Pascoe. Tell Ms. Plowright I shall call to see her in her office at nine o'clock tomorrow morning. This is urgent and confidential police business, okay? Subject of meeting: Mrs. Agnes Lightfoot, formerly of Neb Cottage, Dendale. You got that? Good. Thank you."
He rang off. If you see me coming, better step aside, he thought. Bullying Clark for having personal feelings. Now riding roughshod over some poor devil whose name or status I didn't even bother to find out. Another fifteen stone and I'll be indistinguishable from Dalziel!
The phone rang.
"Hello!" he barked.
"Peter, it's me. Listen, don't worry, but Rosie wasn't well at school and Miss Martindale sent for me and I brought her home and I thought it was just too much sun or something, then I got to thinking about Zandra so I rang Jill and she said Zandra was a lot worse, and she'd got the doctor there so I started getting a bit concerned and rang Dr. Truman and he's here now and he says he'd like Rosie to go to hospital for some tests… Peter, can you get there soon?… Please
…"
He'd never heard Ellie like this before. The world reeled as if the great ocean of heathery moor had decided to shrug its shoulders and ease Stirps Farm off its sandbank.
Then all went still again.
He said, "I'm on my way."
So much for hard cases, he thought. So much for slagging people off for letting personal feelings get in the way. Dalziel was right. If there was a god, he dearly loved a joke.
"Sergeant Clark!" he roared.
And set off at a run toward the car.
When Wield and Novello reached Bixford, there was no need to ask for directions.
Towering over the sign extending Bixford's welcome to careful drivers was a hoarding proclaiming the imminence of GEORDIE TURNBULL (Demolition and EXCAVATION) LTD.
It stood inside a high chain-link security fence running round a site of about an acre. At its center stood a bungalow, on one side of which was parked a bright yellow bulldozer bearing Turnbull's name in fiery red, and on the other a light blue Volvo station wagon.
It bore not a trace of dirt or dust and sparkled in the sunlight.
Novello drove in through the open gate and parked next to the Volvo.
Wield got out and walked slowly around the station wagon, peering in through the gleaming windows. Novello went up to the bungalow and pressed the doorbell. After a short delay the door opened. A short, stout man appeared, dressed in khaki shorts, a string vest, and espadrilles. His coarse blond hair was standing on end and he was yawning and rubbing his eyes, as though just roused from sleep. But his yawn stopped and his eyes brightened and a welcoming smile spread like dawn across his round and ruddy face as he clocked Novello.
"Hello, there," he said. "Just having a nap, but this is worth waking up for. And what can I do for you, bonny lass?"
Geordie was more than just a version of George, then. The ripple of the Tyne was in his speech.
"Mr. Turnbull, is it?" she asked, noticing that his bare, muscular arms were covered with a light golden down which seemed to reflect the warmth of the sun.
"Aye, it is. Will you come inside out of this blessed heat and slake your thirst on a can of lager? Or lemonade, if you've come to talk to me about Jesus."
She found herself smiling back.
It was remarkable. In the space of a few seconds Turnbull had made the transition from fat, disgusting middle-aged slob to pleasant, amusing, cuddly koala. It was partly the radiance of his smile, partly the undisguised, nonthreatening, wholly flattering admiration of his regard, but perhaps largely the readiness with which he offered refreshment before finding out what her business was. The Englishman on his doorstep is by nature a suspicious creature, always anticipating the worst. Novello knocked on a lot of doors in her job. She didn't look very menacing and not at all (she hoped) like a cop. But the usual respo
nse ranged from neutrally guarded to downright hostile, and that was before she identified herself.
Now she produced her warrant card and said, "Detective Constable Novello. Could we have a little chat, Mr. Turnbull?"
One eyebrow flickered up comically, but otherwise there was no change to the sunny welcome of his expression as he said, "It'll be the lemonade then, pet? Come on through."
And then there was a change, like the shadow of a thin, high cloud moving swiftly over a golden landscape, passing almost before you saw it.
"Mr. Turnbull."
Wield had come up behind her. Turnbull recognized him, of that she was sure. And the recognition had not been pleasing to him. Interesting to see if the man admitted old acquaintance or played hard to get.
But even as the thought formed in her mind, Turnbull's smile had turned up a kilowatt and he was saying, "It's Mr. Wield, isn't it? Aye, of course it is. Two of a kind, you and me, Sergeant. Once seen, never forgotten."
It should have been offensive, but it didn't come out that way, just one guy confident that appearance didn't matter to another he flattered by including him in the same club.
Wield took the outstretched hand and said, "Long time since Dendale."
"You're right. But always seems like yesterday, something like that," said Turnbull, solemn suddenly. "Come away in. Cooler inside."
It was, partly because of the shade, but also on account of a portable air-conditioning unit standing in the corner of the living room. Turnbull was unmarried, Novello had established that from Bella. But this interior didn't look to be suffering from the absence of a woman's touch. Why should it? Man like this probably had a waiting list of local ladies queuing to cook, clean, and generally mollycoddle. The idea should have caused a pang of indignation. Instead she found herself straightening an antimacassar before she sat down in the chair he offered.
Come on, Novello, she warned herself. This guy's old enough to be your father. She made herself start looking at things like a cop again. He read the Daily Mirror. There was no sign of any other reading matter in the room. The furniture was old but not antique, and the woodwork had that nice glow which comes from frequent polishing-that female touch again? Also perhaps evidenced by the richly gleaming brass urn filled with fresh fern standing in front of the fireplace. Probably the ladies of the parish had a roster, taking turns to do the church flowers before coming on to sort out Mr. Turnbull. There I go again! she thought. Concentrate. The fireplace, now that was interesting. Handsome, Victorian, rather too large for the room and certainly not coeval with it.
Turnbull had gone into the kitchen and now returned bearing a tray with a jug of iced lemonade and three glasses. There'd been a pint pot and a can of bitter on a coffee table when they came in, but he'd taken these with him. Wanting to keep a clear head?
"Cheers," he said, raising his glass. "Now, what can I do you for, Mr. Wield?"
"Business bad?" said Wield.
"Eh?"
"Finding you home in the middle of the day. The 'dozer outside."
"Oh, no," said Turnbull. "The other way round, I'm glad to say. Things ticking away so nicely, the boss can afford to leave his lads to it while he catches up on a bit of paperwork."
Wield's gaze flicked to the Daily Mirror.
Turnbull laughed and said, "Not that paper. You caught me in my tea break. No, you should see my office."
"Thanks," said Wield standing up. "Which way?"
Turnbull looked momentarily nonplussed to have his remark taken literally, but he got to his feet and led the way out of the room.
The office was in what had probably been the bungalow's second bedroom. Not much use for a second bedroom here, Novello guessed. She somehow doubted if Turnbull's houseguests resulted in much extra laundering of bed linen. Trouble was, more she thought of him as a "ladies' man," the harder it was to see him as a child molester.
"Do you have someone to run your office, Mr. Turnbull?" she asked.
"Christ, yes. Too much for a simple soul like me. I've got this lovely lady who keeps me straight."
"I can imagine. Not here today?"
"No. I gave her the day off," said Turnbull.
Novello forced herself not to glance significantly at Wield. Giving the help a holiday the day after the abduction-possible abduction-that had to be, could be, might be, significant.
"Local, is she?" asked Novello.
"Very," said Turnbull. Then he laughed that infectious laugh it was so hard not to join in. "I bet you're thinking dollybird, bonny lass? Well, I did think of getting one of those, but I could foresee all sorts of problems. Never mix business and pleasure, as the bishop said to the prioress. Then I struck lucky. Mrs. Quartermain. Sixty-five. Widowed. Loves work. And she lives just down the road, in the vicarage."
"The vicarage?"
"That's right, pet. She's the vicar's mam. He's glad to get her out of his hair, I'm glad to get her into mine. But I let him have her back when he's got anything special on. It's the old folks' outing today. They'd not get out of the village if it wasn't for Ma Quartermain."
He grinned at her, inviting her to join in his amusement even though what joke there was was on her. She found herself smiling back, then tried to hide it by looking to see how Wield was reacting to this byplay.
He wasn't. He had been taking a slow stroll around the room, studying the filing cabinet, bulletin board, fax machine, copier, with which it was crowded though not cluttered. This was a very well-organized business. The business of a very well-organized man. Able to sort out his innermost life and urges with the same degree of precision? wondered the sergeant, who knew all about such things.
"Very impressive," he said finally. "You've done well, Mr. Turnbull. You didn't have your own business when you were working on the Dendale dam, did you?"
Dendale. Second mention. And again it seemed to cast a gloom on Turnbull's natural spirits. But it would, wouldn't it? On anyone's who'd been there. Jesus, this guy's got me working for the defense already! thought Novello.
"No, I was driving for old Tommy Tiplake back then. Sort of junior partner, really. Meaning I stuck with him in the bad times. No family of his own, old Tommy, or not any he bothered with, and we got on so well that I took over when he had to retire. I've been very lucky. Done nothing to deserve it, but I thank God every day for all His blessings."
They had returned to the living room as he talked and he gave Novello a waggle of the eyebrows as she sat down again, which said clear as speech that he rated her high among the aforementioned blessings.
"Didn't know you were a religious man," said Wield.
"Comes with age, I expect, Mr. Wield. Well, it's a good across-the-board bet, isn't it. Maybe that's why I employ the vicar's mother."
"So with all this religious feeling, you'd be at church on Sunday morning?" said Wield.
"As a matter of fact, I was," said Turnbull. "Why're you asking, Mr. Wield?"
You know why we're asking, thought Novello. It's been on the news. In the paper. In the Daily Mirror. Or perhaps you knew before that.
…
It was an afterthought. A professional coda. She must fight against this submission to charm which got employers leaving businesses to him and vicars passing over their mothers to work for him, and God knows what else…
"Which service?" asked Wield.
"Matins."
"That's eleven o'clock, right?"
"Right."
"And before that?"
"Before? Let me see…"
He screwed up his brow in a parody of remembrance.
"I got up about nine. I remember Alistair Cook's Letter from America was on the radio as I shaved. Then I made myself some coffee and toast and sat with it outside round the back because it was getting hot already, and I read the Sunday paper. That would take me up till about nine forty-five, I expect. That enough for you, Mr. Wield, or do you want more?"
There was an undertone of anger there now which he couldn't disguise. Or perha
ps he could have disguised it perfectly well but just wasn't bothering. Or perhaps he wasn't angry at all.
"You were by yourself? You didn't see anyone? No one saw you?"
"Not till I went out to church," said Turnbull.
"How far's the church?"
"The other side of the village, about a mile."
"So you walk there?"
"Sometimes. Depends on the weather and what I'm doing afterward."
"And yesterday?"
"I drove there. I was picking up a friend, heading out for a day on the coast after the service."
"You always leave your car out front where it is now?"
"Not always. Sometimes I put it in the garage."
"And Saturday night?"
A hesitation. Would it be so hard to remember? Perhaps, like Novello, he was working out where Wield was going with this. And like her, getting there.
"In the garage," he said.
Which meant that if, say, the newspaper boy recalled that when he delivered the paper sometime before nine o'clock the car hadn't been visible, it signified nothing.
She looked at Wield. She knew, indeed had firsthand experience of, his reputation for thoroughness. He wasn't going to let this go till he had checked out everyone in the area who might have noticed Turnbull driving away from his house early on Sunday morning. Correction, she thought. Till I have checked them all out! Great.
Turnbull was on his feet. He went out of the room and they heard him dialing a number on the phone in the narrow hallway.
"Dickie," he said. "Geordie Turnbull. Yeah, not bad considering. Considering I've got company. The police. No, no trouble, but I think I'd like you down here to hold me hand. Soon as you can. Thanks, bonnie lad."
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