The sergeant was saved from a possible test to destruction by the entrance of Shirley Novello.
'Ivor, make me day. Tell us the Dacres have given us a positive on the stuff you found in Turnbull's car.'
'The sneaker, a definite no,' she said. 'But the ribbon, a maybe. Lorraine liked ribbons, collected them, did swaps with friends, so she ended up with a whole boxful. No way of saying what was in there and which she took out that morning. The hair on the one from Turnbull's car's our best bet. They'll be checking that against samples taken from the girl's bedroom. But that's going to take a little while.'
'Bloody marvelous,' groaned Dalziel. 'Which leaves me with a ferret down my trousers.'
Meaning, Shirley guessed, that if he kept Turnbull too long, he'd start biting, and if he let him go too soon, he'd be out of sight down the nearest hole.
The Fat Man was regarding her broodingly.
'It was you got onto Turnbull in the first place, right?'
'With Sergeant Wield's help,' she said cautiously.
'No. Credit where it's due. You did well. Again.'
He didn't make it sound like something he expected her to make a habit of.
'So, what do you reckon to this Turnbull? He were reckoned a bit of a masher back in Dendale. So what's the female view. Still got it, has he?'
'He's… attractive,' she said. 'Not physically, I mean, not his appearance, but he's got… charm.'
'Charm?' Dalziel savored the word. 'Would kids like him?'
'Oh, yes. I think so.'
'And could he like kids?'
'Sexually? I don't know. I'd have said he was pretty well focused on mature women, preferably those who were safely married and were happy to have a fling without wanting to rock the boat…'
'But?' said Dalziel, who could spot buts the butters didn't know they were butting.
Novello hesitated, then flung caution to the winds.
'But it could be a double bluff. Or not bluff, meaning not conscious. He could chase women because he doesn't want to admit to himself that he really wants to chase little girls…'
The look on Dalziel's face made her wish she could whistle the winds back.
He said, 'Well, thank you, Mrs. Freud. You been at the communion wine, or you got half the ghost of a reason for spouting this crap?'
She said defiantly, 'He's worried about something, I can tell.'
To her ears, it sounded far weaker and wafflier than what she'd said before, but to her surprise Dalziel nodded almost approvingly and said, 'Well, that's something. Wieldy?'
'Aye. I'd say so too,' said the sergeant.
Novello felt like kissing him. Perhaps he'd turn into a frog?
'Right then, let's go and have a chat afore Hoddle starts ringing the Home Office.'
'Shall I come?' said Novello hopefully.
Dalziel thought, then shook his head.
'No,' he said. 'No distractions.' Then, observing the look of disappointment which this time she could not disguise, he condescended to explain. 'This Turnbull, I recall him and I know his sort. Women make 'em sparkle. Can't help it. Hang him upside down over a tub of maggots and bring a woman into the room and he'd feel better. I don't want him feeling better. I want him feeling bloody terrified! Come on, Wieldy. And don't forget the maggots!'
And Novello, watching them go, felt almost sorry for Geordie Turnbull.
Three hours later Dalziel was feeling sorry for no one but himself. Also he had a lousy headache.
It was called Dick Hoddle and it wouldn't go away, not unless it took Geordie Turnbull with it.
It didn't help that the interview room made The Book and Candle snug (which he remembered with great longing) look like the Albert Hall. Its one window wouldn't open (the result of paint and rust rather than security), and even with the door left ajar, the temperature in there would have cooked meringues.
Hoddle was clearly a meticulous man. Every hour on the hour he made a case for the interview to end, in progressively stronger terms. This was his third.
'My client has been cooperative beyond the call of civility in each and all of its principal senses…'
He paused as if inviting Dalziel to demand definition, but the Fat Man didn't oblige. There had been a time, before tape recorders became a fixed feature of interview rooms, when he might have offered to push each and all of the lawyer's crooked teeth down his crooked throat if he didn't belt up and let his client speak for himself. Not that that would have been altogether fair, as Turnbull on several occasions had volunteered answers against his counsel's advice. But Dalziel wasn't feeling altogether fair, just altogether pissed off.
'… and as it became clear to me, as a reasonable man, a good two hours ago that he had no case to answer, I can only assume that even your good self must by now have reached the same conclusion. You are, of course, entitled to hang on to him for twenty-four hours from the time of his arrest-'
'And another twelve on top of that if I give the word,' interjected Dalziel.
'Indeed. But admit it, Superintendent, there is no prospect that you are going to be able to charge my client with anything, so any attempt to prolong the agony might appear merely malicious and would certainly add weight to any case Mr. Turnbull might already be contemplating for police harassment and false arrest.'
'No,' said Geordie Turnbull firmly. 'There'll be nothing of that. Once I'm free of here, I'll be happy not to have any contact with the law in any form for the next fifteen years.'
Dalziel noted the time span, tried to hear it as an admission that his urge to kill had gone off and wouldn't be returning for another decade and a half, failed, and scratched his lower chin so vigorously, the sound-level needle on the recorder jumped.
The door opened behind him. He looked round. It was Wield, who'd been summoned out a few minutes earlier by Novello. Not an easy face to read, but to Dalziel's expert eye he didn't look like he'd just ridden from Aix to Ghent.
At least it gave him a temporary out. He suspended the interview, flicked off the machine, and went out into the corridor.
'Cheer me up,' he invited.
'They do a nice pint round the corner at the Queen's Head,' said Wield with a sympathetic glance at the Fat Man's sweat-beaded brow.
'And that's it?'
'If it's cheer you want, sir. Word from Forensic. That hair on the ribbon, definitely not Lorraine's. And so far nothing else in the car which suggests she's ever been in it. Same with the stuff Novello got from that rubbish bin.'
'Shit,' said Dalziel.
'You really fancy him for it, do you, sir?'
'When you're in the muck, you fancy whatever you've got, as the gravedigger said to the corpse. God, I hate that bastard. I'd really like to bang him up and throw away the key.'
'Turnbull?' said Wield surprised.
'No! Hoddle, his sodding brief. Any more good news?'
'Not from Bixford. If Turnbull stood for MP, he'd get elected. The ladies think he's lovely, the men think he's a grand chap so long as it's not their particular lady he's chatting up. The vicar's ready to pawn the church silver if dear Geordie needs bail. And his congregation would rather trust their kids with Geordie Turnbull than with Dr. Barnado.'
'Oh, aye? It'll be a different tale once word starts getting around and the tongues start wagging. These Christians can forgive owt save innocence. You think he's innocent, Wieldy?'
Wield shrugged and said, 'Makes no difference, does it? Without we've got a lot more, or even a little more, I think we're flummoxed. How about you, sir?'
'I don't know,' said the Fat Man. 'There's summat there that doesn't smell right… he's not mad enough, maybe that's it. Hoddle's threatening all kinds of false arrest shit, but Turnbull's being all laid back and forgiving. And he's from Newcastle! When them buggers finish telling you how many times they won the Cup, they start listing all the bad offside decisions against them since 1893.'
'Doubt that'll stand up in court, sir,' said Wield.
