watering her tubs while they were still in the shade, and this car had been turning out of the moor road onto the main road. Just came up and turned, there was a stop sign, but you could see a long way down the main road and there was so little traffic on Sunday, you didn't need to halt. Kind of car? Don't be daft, luv! All the bloody same to me. Color, then. Blue, she thought. Definitely blue.
At this point her husband appeared. He was as thin as his wife was broad, angular, almost lupine. Jack Spratt and his wife. Introduced and put in the picture, he immediately poured scorn on any hope of getting useful information from Bella on the subject of motor vehicles.
'She can tell our Cavalier from the brewery wagon and that's about it,' he averred.
His wife, though willing enough to admit her deficiencies voluntarily, was not disposed to have them trumpeted by one who didn't have enough spare flesh on him to merit the description 'better half.'
'At least I were up and about, not pigging it in my bed like some I could name,' she said indignantly. 'Mebbe if you hadn't spent most of Saturday night supping our profits, you'd have been lively enough to be able to help this lass instead of slagging me off.'
Novello, though young in years, was old enough in experience to know that marital arguments have their long-established scripts which, once started, are very hard to stop.
She said loudly and firmly, 'So it wasn't a Cavalier, then. Was it bigger?'
'Yes, bigger,' said Bella, glaring defiantly at her husband.
'A lot bigger? Like a van, maybe?'
'No. Too many windows.'
'A sort of jeep, then. You know, a Land-Rover like the farmers use? Fairly high?'
'No! It were more like one of them long things, like a funeral-car sort of thing. Like what Geordie Turnbull drives.'
This last was aimed at her husband. Signaling a truce by appealing to his expertise, perhaps? Didn't sound like that somehow. More like a sly shot from a hidden gun.
'Oh, aye, you'd remember that all right,' Postlethwaite spat out viciously.
'What kind of vehicle does this Mr. Turnbull drive?' asked Novello quickly, before his six-gun could clear leather.
'A Volvo station wagon,' said the man. 'Aye, and it's blue.'
'Blue? Light blue? Dark blue?' demanded Novello.
'Light blue.'
'And this vehicle you saw, Mrs. Postlethwaite, was that light or dark?'
'Lightish,' admitted the woman meeting her husband's glare with a matching anger. 'But it weren't Geordie's.'
'How'd you know?' jeered Postlethwaite. 'All you'll have studied close is his roof from the inside.'
To hell with guns, this was hand-to-hand fighting with bayonets! Bella drew in a deep breath and looked ready to go for the jugular. Then she caught Novello's pleading gaze and decided to postpone the pleasure till she had him alone.
With a promissory glare at her husband, she said, 'If I had a mind like thine, I'd grow mushrooms in it. And I know for a fact this couldn't have been Geordie's car, 'cos there were a kiddie in the back.'
She didn't realize what she was saying until she'd said it, and in that moment the script changed from long- running soap to tragic drama.
Ten minutes later Novello was on her mobile, talking to Wield in St. Michael's Hall.
He listened with an intensity she could feel over the air and when she'd finished he asked, 'How do you rate this Bella?'
'No good on car makes. Fair on colors. I tried her with some cars passing on the main road. Not what you'd call an artist's eye but she could tell blue from black, gray, and green.'
'And the kiddie?'
'Just a glimpse. Little blond girl looking out of the back window.'
'Frightened? Distressed? Waving? Or what?'
'Just looking. She didn't get a look at anyone else in the car, can't say if there was anyone but the driver. But even though it was just a glimpse, she's certain about the girl.'
'Didn't mention her straight off, but.'
'No reason to. I didn't want to risk leading her.'
Novello described her interrogation stratagem.
'Nice,' said Wield. 'And this guy, Turnbull. Anything there?'
'She's adamant it wasn't his car.'
'But it was her mentioned him first.'
'Only to wind up her husband. Way I read it is, this Turnbull drops in fairly regularly and has a nice line in chat she enjoys. Maybe they've got something going, or maybe she just gets fed up of jealous Jack's innuendo. Either way, I'd guess he's a red herring. Bella may not know makes, but she insists this car was a lot newer and cleaner looking than Turnbull's.'
'They've got these things called car washes,' said Wield. 'Couldn't she just be trying to get him off the hook she thinks she's put him on?'
He's doing the devil's disciple bit, thought Novello. Making me double-check my conclusions.
She said carefully, 'I've heard her going on about what she'd do to child molesters. No way can I see her protecting anyone suspected of that.'
'But if she's certain in her own mind this Turnbull couldn't be our man… There's men banged up for multiple murder who've got mothers and lovers protesting their innocence.'
'You think I should give him a look,' said Novello, uncertain whether to feel resentful or not.
'You know where he lives?'
'Oh, yes. Jealous Jack is very much of your mind, Sarge, and he insisted on giving me clear directions. Turnbull has a contracting business in Bixford on the coast road, about ten miles. He lives next to the yard, but if he's not there, Jack says it'll be easy to find him. Just look for bulldozers with GEORDIE TURNBULL painted on them in big red letters, crawling along, holdin' up bloody traffic…'
Novello had lapsed into what she thought was a rather good impression of the publican's bitter snarl, but Wield clearly didn't rate the act.
'What was that you said?' he interrupted. 'Geordie Turnbull?'
'That's right.'
'Hold on.'
Silence. Had the Fat Man turned up? The silence stretched. She thought of suggesting they get a tape to play when they put you on hold. 'The Gendarmes' Duet'? Too obvious. Judy Garland singing 'The Man Who Got Away'? Her grandfather had been very partial to Garland. She was indifferent, but knew all the songs off by heart from hearing them blasted out of his old record player. Now approaching eighty, his taste was turning back to the Italian music of his childhood…
'You there?'
'Yes, Sarge.'
'Don't move, I'm coming to join you.'
His voice gave away as little as his face, but Novello detected an underlying excitement which filled her head with speculation. She reckoned that if Wield were juggling eggs as his lottery number came up, he'd never crack a shell. So for him to be excited…
She felt she'd done all that was to be done at present with the Postlethwaites, so she took her drink to a bench on the shady side of the pub and sat there trying to separate in her mind her real concern for the missing child and her imagined advancement if she should be the one who cracked it.
When Wield arrived he said to her, 'I'm going over it all again with them.'
'Sure,' she said. 'That's okay, Sarge.'
'I'm not telling you so's not to hurt your feelings,' he said. 'I'm telling you so I can be sure you'll be listening close instead of feeling hard done to.'
He went through it all again. When he was finished he said, 'Thank you both very much. You've been very helpful.'
