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 response 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.'
