Water. Finally, when the Evening Post supported a local campaign to get bobbies back on the beat with a piece of research from the Applied Psychology Department of MYU showing that life-sized cardboard cutouts of policemen in supermarkets reduced the incidence of shoplifting by half, the ACC said, 'Well, we can manage that, at any rate,' and Hector was returned into the community.
But not without some necessary fail-safes. He had to radio in every thirty minutes, else a car was sent out to look for him. If his assistance was required in any matter more serious than a request for the time, he had to contact Control for instructions. And in particular, he was strictly forbidden to make any attempt to direct traffic, as his last venture in that area had resulted in a gridlock which made the chief constable miss a train.
But when the copies of Wield's modified photo of Benny Lightfoot had been handed out that morning, Hector had taken his with the rest and registered that they were being instructed to ask people if they had seen this man. The instruction was, in fact, aimed at patrol-car officers, who were advised particularly to check garages in the district in case the camper van had been filled up with gasoline. Door-to-door inquiries were being concentrated on the Danby area. But Hector, delighted to have a task he comprehended, thrust the photo in front of any pedestrians he encountered, demanding, 'Have you seen this man?' but rarely staying for an answer as his eager eye spotted yet another target who might pass him by unless he hurried.
It was with some irritation that he felt himself tapped on the shoulder as he blocked the way of a young man on a skateboard. He turned to find himself looking at the woman he'd just questioned.
'What?' he demanded.
'I said yes,' she said.
'Eh?'
'You asked me if I'd seen that man and I said yes.'
'Oh.'
He scowled partly in puzzlement, partly because he'd just noticed the skateboarder had taken the chance to glide away.
'Right,' he said. 'So you've seen him then?'
'I said so, didn't I?'
This was undeniable.
He said, 'Hang on, will you?' and looked at his personal radio. One of the buttons had been painted fluorescent orange by a kindly sergeant who had then written in Hector's notebook, 'Press the bright orange button when you want to talk.'
Hector actually remembered this, but checked in his book just to be quite sure.
'Hello?' he said. 'This is Hector talking. Over.'
He had an official call sign, but no one was foolish enough to insist on it.
'Hector, you're ahead of yourself, aren't you? You're not due to check in for another ten minutes.'
'I know. It's yon photo you gave me. I showed it to this woman and she says she's seen the man. What do you want me to do?'
'The pho-his Hector, where are you?'
'Hang on.'
He turned his head slowly looking for something to locate himself by.
The woman said, 'You're in Bra. gate. Can you hurry this up? I'll be late for work.'
'She says we're in Bra. gate, Sarge,' said Hector.
'She's still with you, is she? Thank God for that. Stay there, Hector. And whatever you do don't let her leave, right?'
'Right,' said Hector. 'How shall I stop her?'
'You're a policeman, for God's sake!' yelled the sergeant. 'Just keep her there!'
'Right,' said Hector again.
He switched off his radio and replaced it with great care. Then he turned to the woman.
'So what's going off?' she asked.
He said, 'You are under arrest. You do not have to say anything, but I have to warn you that anything you do say will be taken down-'
'This is crazy,' she said angrily. 'I'm off.'
She turned to walk away. Hector with some difficulty pulled out his new style long baton, and set out after her.
Fortunately his first swing missed entirely and the patrol car had turned up before he could get into position to try a second.
The car officers got the woman into the backseat and calmed her down, then listened to what she had to tell them.
She finished with 'And I've got to get to work now. With the cutbacks we're short staffed as it is, and if I'm not there to get things started, there'll be real trouble.'
'Someone from CID will need to talk to you,' said the driver. 'But from the sound of it, it's best they do that at work anyway. So let's be on our way.'
Through the window open against the morning heat, Hector said, 'What shall I do?'
The woman told him.
'Couldn't have put it better myself, luv,' said the driver, grinning broadly as he drove away.
That morning of early rising, Shirley Novello slept late.
Sparing only enough time to make herself look as if she hadn't just fallen out of bed, she drove to headquarters with a disregard for speed limits and road courtesy which she would have found deplorable in a civilian.
By the time she'd parked her car, she was awake enough to find it deplorable in herself. Two minutes she might have saved, if that. And for what? Dalziel and Wield and all important people would be clocking on at Danby. It was only the supernumeraries like herself who were kept on the perimeter of the inquiry, tidying up. She herself was faced with the possibility of another tedious trip down to Sheffield if old Mrs. Lightfoot had revived sufficiently to be interviewed.
Still, even if the big guns were away, no need to give the little pistols ammunition.
She opened the door of the CID room and strolled in, trying to look as if she'd been researching down in Records for the past half hour.
Dennis Seymour looked up from his desk and said in a loud voice, 'Morning, Shirley. You're looking gorgeous today. But then why shouldn't you be, with all that beauty sleep you're having?'
She glowered at him, angry that someone she thought of as a mate should be pointing the finger like this. Then it dawned on her that Seymour was the only person in the room.
'Where's everybody?' she asked.
'Busy,' he said. 'Things don't stop just because you're asleep. All our suspects have been in the action. Geordie Turnbull's been attacked and there's been a definite sighting of Benny Lightfoot in Dendale. We even have a good likeness, thanks to our own Toulouse-Lautrec.'
He tossed Novello a copy of Wield's updated picture.
She said, 'I wish I'd had this yesterday when I was down at Wark House.'
'Never heard of the fax, Detective?' said Seymour. 'Or take it with you. Didn't you say someone would have to talk to the old lady?'
'Yes. I'd have done it yesterday, only she wasn't up to snuff.'
She must have sounded a touch defensive because Seymour said, 'But you think a hard, insensitive man might have insisted? If you're thinking of a hard, extremely fat insensitive man, you're probably right. But no harm done. Much better to chat when the old girl can chat back. They're up and down like a fiddler's elbow, these old folk. She'll probably be bright as a button today.'
'I hope so. But I'll fax the photo anyway. Sooner we get confirmation, the better.'
She scribbled a note to Billie Saltair, asking her to show the accompanying picture to the nurse, Sally, and get her reaction, if any; also inquiring how Mrs. Lightfoot was this morning and stressing the necessity for an early interview.
Even her note lacked the true CID masculine assertiveness, she thought. But what-the-hell? Some of her male colleagues would still be questioning Winifred Fleck!
