He rose, put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her down on to the chair he had just vacated.
There was something here, he was sure. But it was probably something for Chief Inspector Headingley, and he had already spent too much Choker time on it.
Casting bread on waters was a good exit ploy for a policeman. Leave them worrying. It was often very effective. It was also often very unpleasant but, as any Rider Haggard fan knew, duty must be done.
'Janey,' he said sternly. 'If your Frankie's relying on Ron for an alibi, he shouldn't sleep too well at nights.'
'What the hell do you mean?' she said sullenly, still rubbing her wrist.
'Come on, Janey! Don't be naive. You must know your brother well enough by now. When Frankie got done for the whisky, did you never wonder how we got on to him?'
She was with him so quickly he knew he must have touched some deep hidden suspicion.
'You're lying,' she said. 'Prove it.'
'Oh Janey,' he said sadly. 'That's the one thing people like you and people like me have in common. We know when each other's lying or telling the truth. It's only juries that need proof.'
He made for the door. There was nothing else for him here just now. Later, perhaps…
Wield knew he'd taken a risk. It was one thing to threaten Ludlam, quite another to blow the gaff to Janey. But Wield had his intuitions too. It crossed his mind that the last time he had followed one was when he sat in on the seance with a cassette recorder in his pocket.
He shuddered at the memory and drove to Brenda Sorby's bank.
Millhill was a typically 'mixed' suburb, middle-class, owner-occupied on the side nearest the river moderating to council house and commercial towards the neighbouring industrial estate. The Northern Bank was in a smallish shopping precinct at about the midway point. The previous weekend after the discovery of Brenda Sorby's body, Pascoe had interviewed the bank staff while Wield had checked round the shops. Only the hairdressing salon a quarter of a mile along the road had provided any witness. Brenda had kept her appointment, been bright and chatty and left just after six-fifteen. Indeed, as they knew that she had met Tommy in the Bay Tree at eight, anything the bank staff or shopkeepers could tell them hardly seemed likely to be significant, but Dalziel wanted the ground turned over again, and Dalziel was Ayesha.
Wield checked his notebook. A couple of the smaller shops had been closed for the annual holidays. It was surprising how many people still stuck to the old tradition of taking their vacation during the High Fair.
The first one he tried, M. Conrad, Jeweller and Watch-Repairer, was locked. The second, Durdons Confectioners, was open. Mr and Mrs Durdon had just got back from a week in Spain that very morning, and were clearly bent on recouping their expenses as rapidly as possible.
Yes, they had read about the killing, they always bought the English papers on holiday. Yes, they had been here that Thursday, they didn't go till early Friday morning. Yes, they remembered the lass vaguely.
But no, they didn't recall seeing her that day, and no, there was nothing they could tell Wield though he got a distinct impression they had lorded it at their Costa Brava hotel on the strength of their intimate connection with the case.
In the bank he was greeted with less enthusiasm. Mulgan, the acting manager, had (according to Pascoe's notes) been genuinely distressed at Brenda's death, but also perhaps a little too concerned that somehow it would reflect on him.
Now, a week later, this personal concern seemed to dominate. About five nine, with brown hair, thick, luxuriant and anointed, he was a good-looking man in a fleshy kind of way. His full cheeks were razored to a roseate glow and gave off strong emanations of one of the more macho aftershaves. Wield's memory was stirred. Maurice had given him a bottle last Christmas, but he had never used it.
He took Wield into his office, an act, so the sergeant felt, more of concealment than courtesy.
'This is very nice, sir,' said Wield, looking appreciatively round the well-proportioned office. 'It's a pretty large establishment. I mean, for a suburban bank.'
'Yes. It was built as the Avro Industrial Estate developed,' said Mulgan. 'Head Office anticipated a lot of business.'
'But didn't get it?'
'Pardon?'
'I meant, you sounded as if things didn't quite work out.'
'Oh no,' said Mulgan with loyal indignation. 'It's very flourishing. Very flourishing.'
Then, relaxing a little, he said, 'Mind you, they're a very conservative lot, your Yorkshire businessmen. You'd be surprised how many of them insist on maintaining their accounts at the main office in the town centre. Not that they couldn't have been persuaded with a little more dynamism perhaps. Well, perhaps it's not too late.'
Wield glanced at his notebook. Mulgan was the acting manager, he saw. They were clearly touching the world of his ambitious dreams.
'So you don't carry many local business accounts?' he said, probing a little further, though for no particular reason.
'Oh yes,' said Mulgan, bridling again. 'Nearly all the local shops.'
'But from the estate?'
'One or two.'
Suddenly seeing a glimmer of a connection, Wield asked, 'Would those include the Eden Park Canning Plant?'
But he was disappointed.
Mulgan shook his head and fiddled impatiently with the blotter on his desk.
'How can I help you, Sergeant?' he asked.
'We're just going over the ground again, sir,' said Wield. 'Routine. Often things come to mind after a few days that get forgotten when everyone's shocked and upset to start with.'
There was a knock at the door and a young girl's head appeared.
'I'm sorry to interrupt,' she said. 'But Mrs Mulgan's here and would like a word.'
'What?' said Mulgan irritably. 'Oh very well, I'll come out. Excuse me.'
'No,' said Wield, getting up. 'You see your wife in here, it's all right. I'll just have a quick chat with any of your staff that aren't too busy.'
Outside the door he saw the girl talking to a thin-faced, rather defeated-looking woman who appeared a good ten years older than Mulgan.
'Thank you, dear,' she said in a fairly broad rural Derbyshire accent. 'You take care of yourself, won't you? I'll go in now, shall I?'
'Excuse me, Miss,' said Wield to the girl before she could move away. He introduced himself and discovered she was Mary Brighouse. She was not bad-looking with a good figure and big brown eyes which moistened as he began to talk about Brenda.
'You were good friends,' said Wield sympathetically.
'We didn't see much of each other outside,' said Mary. 'But I liked her a lot. I was so upset when we heard what had happened, I had to go home. I didn't come back in till Wednesday.'
Wield glanced at his notes from Pascoe's report. The girl had been no help at all and had broken down very early on during questioning. From the look of it, he doubted if he was going to get any further this time. He took her arm and gently led her as far to the back of the bank as they could go.
'That was Mrs Mulgan, was it?' he said lightly. 'Bit of a surprise after meeting your boss.
‘She’s very nice,' said the girl defensively.
'Yes, I'm sure she is,' said Wield. 'I only meant…’
'Yes. I know,' she helped him out. 'They were born in the same village.'
'But he's moved on while in a manner of speaking she hasn't, you mean?' said Wield. 'It's always sad, that.'
He was very good at gossip. A right old woman, Dalziel had called him once. Wield had smiled bleakly.
'Yes, and it's not just the job either,' Mary replied, eyes clear again, voice confidentially lowered.
'It never stops there,' agreed Wield without much idea what he was agreeing to.
'No. There's some men think a bit of power gives them all sorts of rights. And he's only acting, after all.'
'I know,' said Wield, suddenly with her. 'It can be very embarrassing, that kind of thing. I mean, what's a bit
