'Work to do,' he said. 'Thanks all the same.'
'Any time you're passing. Watch how you go now.'
Furniss accompanied him to the door and saw him out into the eye-blinding sunshine. Returning to the cool shades of his taproom he said to his barmaid who was checking the bottled beer, 'Bloody cops. Drink you out of business if you let 'em! And, Elsie, keep an eye open for those gyppos who sometimes get in here. The coppers reckon they had summat to do with that Dinwoodie tart's death.'
Wield meanwhile was taking a circuitous route back to the centre of town. The old aerodrome was barely a half-mile away across the by-pass. Roughly rectangular, it was flanked by the river and open country on one side, the by-pass itself on another, and by the Avro Industrial Estate and the suburb of Millhill on the other two. During the war when Wellingtons and Lancasters took off from here nightly, the 'drome had been well outside the city limits, though too close for the comfort of those who unpatriotically wanted to keep the war as far away from themselves as possible. Now the city had caught up with it, industry and suburbia had nibbled into it, and increasingly there were voices raised in council meetings pointing out what a valuable piece of real estate it was. The Aero Club's lease ran out in three years and Wield guessed that with the squeeze on local authority finances getting even tighter, the speculators would be invited in to do their worst.
Wield felt as indifferent to this possibility as he had done during the recent battle between the motorway planners and the city's premier golf club. His ideas of recreation were oriental in every sense. Judo, kung-fu, karate – his fondness for these martial arts had the official seal of approval. Every good policeman should be able to take care of himself.
And every good policeman should be able to make connections too. He thought of the coincidence of Lee's use of the Cheshire Cheese. Could it be significant?
He pulled the car to a halt by the side of the road. From here he could see the open expanse of the old airfield. A bright orange windsock hung flaccid from its pole.
Wield took out his map of the city and its environs and studied it for a while. Then he carefully drew circles round the Cheshire Cheese, Charter Park and the Pump Street allotment. Next he put a cross against the north-east corner of the airfield where the gypsies had their encampment.
Apart from its comparative proximity to the Cheshire Cheese, it had no apparent significance. Now he put squares round the murdered women's homes. Again nothing. They were widely scattered. Only June McCarthy had been killed near her home.
Wield frowned. Much more of this and he'd run out of shapes. He began to set triangles round the victims' places of employment.
That was better. That was what had been niggling away.
Two of the triangles, McCarthy's factory and Sorby's bank, were situated not too far from the airfield, in the Avro Industrial Estate and the adjacent Millhill residential suburb respectively. Mrs Dinwoodie's Garden Centre was several miles out of town and, for the purpose of the enquiry, Pauline Stanhope's place of work would have to go down as Charter Park. But a fifty per cent statistic might be significant.
Though, he thought gloomily, gypsies were hardly famed for using banks or indeed seeking employment in the factories.
He started his engine again. As he did so, his radio crackled into life with his call sign. He replied and was told to contact Inspector Pascoe as soon as possible. There was a call-box only a hundred yards ahead.
'Sergeant, where are you?'
Wield explained and also gave a brief run-down of his talk with Furniss and his subsequent geographical musings.
Pascoe said doubtfully, 'It might mean something. I'll toss it around. Meanwhile, on your way in, call at the Wheatsheaf Garage. You probably heard Tommy Maggs is still missing. He didn't arrive home yesterday and he's not at work this morning. See if anybody can give us a line, particularly that lad, Ludlam. Watch him. If he's covering up for Tommy, he can be slippery. You know about Ludlam, don't you.'
'Oh yes,' said Wield gravely. 'I know.'
Ludlam, like Maggs, had had some juvenile problems with the police, but a little more serious – shop-lifting, robbing a phone-box, taking and driving a car without permission. Since his mother died when he was seventeen, he had lived with his married sister, Janey, who had been glad of his company two years ago when her husband, Frankie Pickersgill, had been jailed for his part in an off-licence robbery. Frankie was a careful, clever and previously unconvicted criminal. The police had been delighted to get him at last, disappointed that his clean sheet got him off so lightly as a 'first offender'.
What few people knew, especially not Frankie and his wife, was that a few days before his arrest, Ron Ludlam had been picked up trying to flog some cheap Scotch round the pubs and after a couple of hours alone with Dalziel he had been ready to co-operate fully in return for a guarantee of anonymity.
Dalziel's guarantees usually made the South Sea Bubble look firm and substantial, but this time enough evidence materialized to convict without Ron's appearance in the box.
'On the other hand, if he knows anything about Tommy, a bit of pressure and he'll give. We know that,' continued Pascoe. 'Now, to kill two birds with one stone. We've got so many of the lads tied up on the Choker case that Mr Headingley's finding himself a bit thin on the ground. He's going down a list of possibles for the Spinks's warehouse break-in. Frankie Pickersgill's on it, of course. He's been out three months now, might be feeling the pinch though it doesn't sound like his style. Anyway he says he was home that night watching telly with his wife and brother-in-law.'
'We know Ron was at the Bay Tree at half eight,' interposed Wield.
'Yes, I know. This is after ten we're talking about,' said Pascoe. 'Well, Janey and Ron, it's not the best of alibis. And while Mr Headingley doesn't really reckon Frankie, it might be worth pressuring Ron ever so lightly at the same time as you ask about Tommy.'
'Right,' said Wield.
When he got to the Wheatsheaf Garage, he wandered around for a while chatting to all and sundry and got confirmation of the story as told before. Tommy had worked normally in the morning. He was not his old chipper self, but that was only to be expected in the circumstances. At midday he had cleaned himself up and driven away.
Wield found Ludlam half in, half out of an Austin Princess, working under the dashboard. He climbed into the passenger seat and said, 'Very nice.'
'You reckon? Me, I like something with a bit more zip.'
Ludlam was a fresh-faced youth of about twenty with shoulder-length blond hair that obviously got nothing but the best treatment, wide-set blue eyes and good teeth. There was a smudge of oil on his cheek. Wield, looking down on him with an undetectable pleasure, was tempted to erase the smudge, but resisted easily.
'You still living at your sister's place, Ron?' he asked.
'That's right.'
'Frankie's out now, isn't he?'
'Yeah. He's working as a driver. He only did sixteen months with the remission.'
'Only sixteen months? I expect it seemed long enough to him. You're good mates, are you?'
Ludlam wriggled out of the car then climbed back into the driver's seat.
'Yeah. Fine. Why not?'
'I can think of a reason, Ron,' said Wield gravely. 'Frankie never suspected though? That's good. But you must feel you owe him a favour, like. I mean even though it was only sixteen months, you must feel you owe him a favour. And your sister too. You owe Janey a lot, I should think.'
'What do you mean?'
'The night Brenda disappeared. What were you doing. Ron?'
'Nothing. I went home early. Sat and watched a bit of telly with Janey and Frankie.
‘You left the Bay Tree, didn't go into the disco, didn't pull yourself a bird, just went home for a quiet night? Not your style.'