Before the pie woman could answer, the arrested man said, ‘Noddy.’
‘God help us!’ the copper bracelet seller said, and giggled. Somehow, she got control of herself and gave the essential facts and ended the call. ‘They said to keep him here if possible and they’ll send someone.’
The result of all this was self-defeating. No trade was done in the next half hour. The man calling himself Noddy had his own aroma competing with the appetising smell of the pies.
When two police officers eventually made their way through the crowd, the pie seller explained what had happened. As proof, she showed them the pie with the bite out of it.
‘And you arrested him?’ PC Andy Sullivan said.
‘Citizen’s arrest,’ the woman said. ‘It’s common law.’
‘I know that, ma’am. Do you want to press charges?’
‘I want to be paid for my pie, that’s all.’
It’s the job of uniformed police to defuse a situation whenever possible. Andy Sullivan spoke to the prisoner. ‘Why don’t you give the lady the money and settle the matter?’
‘Because I haven’t got any money, officer.’ Shabby and strong-smelling he may have been, but the man was polite, well-spoken and logical. Not the usual troublemaker.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Noddy.’
Sullivan revised his opinion.
A stifled sound of mirth came from behind the copper bracelet table.
While this was going on, Sullivan’s partner, PC Denise Beal, wished she was a million miles away. Her stomach was churning. She could see her short career in the police coming to a quick end if Noddy recognised her. She was trying to avoid eye contact. Sullivan moved his face closer to the prisoner’s. ‘If you mess with me, my friend, you’ll regret it. Now tell me your name.’
‘I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’ll regret it.’
‘Don’t get smart with me. Who are you?’
‘That’s what I’m called. Noddy.’
‘He’s not right in the head,’ the copper bracelet woman said. ‘I’ve been trying to tell her.’
‘Hold on,’ the pie woman said. ‘I’m the victim in all this, not him. I’ve lost half a morning’s trade through him. I’m taking him to court.’
‘Where do you live?’ Sullivan asked the man.
The copper bracelet woman said, getting another fit of the giggles, ‘Toyland.’
Sullivan told her to shut up. Then he turned back to the man. ‘I’m waiting for an answer.’
‘I’m living up here for the present.’
‘But where exactly?’
‘Anywhere that’s dry on a wet night.’
‘So you’re homeless?’
The man nodded.
This touched the heart of the copper bracelet woman. ‘Did you hear that? He’s homeless. You can’t take a homeless man to court.’
‘I can and I will,’ the pie woman said. ‘He may sound like a smoothie, but he’s a thief. You can’t argue with the evidence.’ She held up the pie. But such was the force of her feelings that her thumb and finger met in the middle and the evidence collapsed and fell in bits on the ground. ‘Oh, buggery!’
‘I was going to say “crumbs”,’ the copper bracelet woman said, in giggles again. ‘Case dismissed, I reckon.’
This was all too much for the pie woman. ‘You bitch!’ Angry and defeated, she made a grab, caught hold of the other woman’s scarf and wrestled her to the ground. They rolled over and over, screaming, in a flurry of bare legs and black underwear, all dignity gone.
‘Get them apart,’ Andy Sullivan said to Denise.
It took half a minute and some grappling, but at least Denise was in trousers. She’d had recent training in detaining a suspect resisting arrest and she succeeded in getting the pie woman’s arm behind her back and forcing it upwards so that the other woman could squirm free.
‘Okay,’ Sullivan said to the pie woman, still on the ground. ‘Are you going to be sensible and calm down?’
She said, ‘Let go of me.’
The copper bracelet woman had retreated to the other side of her table and was brushing down her clothes. She said, ‘I could do her for assault. She almost strangled me.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ Sullivan said. He nodded to Denise. ‘You can let go of her now.’
The pie woman got up, mouthing obscenities, but not giving voice to them.
Andy Sullivan was in control. ‘And now I think you ladies should go back to doing what you paid your fee for, selling your wares.’ ‘Where’s he gone?’ the pie woman said. ‘What happened to the thief?’
In all the distraction, the man known as Noddy had gone.
Late the same Sunday evening, Diamond took a call at home. It was Ingeborg, apologising for troubling him, and saying she’d made contact with her friend Perry, the link to the Lansdown Society. Two of the committee, Perry had told her, had a regular Monday morning round of golf and it might be an opportunity to see them. They met at ten.
‘Who are these two?’ he asked.
‘A Major Swithin and Sir Colin Tipping.’
Thinking his own thoughts about ranks and titles, he wrote down the names. ‘Tipping? I’ve heard of him. He sponsored a horse race I watched the other evening.’
‘I didn’t know you followed the horses, guv.’
‘I was being sociable. Horse racing or golf, I take it all in my stride. Is that the course up at Lansdown? I don’t really need to ask, do I? Thanks for that, Inge. I’ll make it a threesome and ruin their morning.’
Early on Monday, Diamond looked in at Manvers Street and told Keith Halliwell about the press conference fixed for the afternoon. ‘Basically we’re going public about the skeleton in the hope it will jog someone’s memory. John Wigfull is setting it up, but you may get enquiries during the morning. I’ll be at the golf course, so you’re in charge.’
He was amused by Halliwell’s wide-eyed look, a mixture of mystification and umbrage, but nothing was said.
‘Ingeborg will fill you in,’ he added, not wanting to cause real hurt.
On the drive out of town he saw the morning traffic inching down Lansdown Road and for a short while felt what it was like to be on a private income and able to indulge in golf while most of the world was forced to earn a living. In truth he knew he’d soon weary of the life of leisure. Golf wasn’t his sport, anyway. The only white ball game worth playing was table tennis – his sort, in the old ping pong tradition, with sandpaper bats and no crafty spinning allowed.
Not many cars were parked outside the clubhouse. He checked the time. Five minutes to spare. Rather than go inside he made his way around the building to the first tee. The two members he needed to meet probably kept good time, one being a military man.
Even on an August morning, it was cool up here, over seven hundred feet above sea level, and he wished he’d dressed as golfers do, in some kind of sweater and perhaps a baseball cap. Nobody was waiting to play when he arrived. In the distance, the pair who had started earlier had already played the first hole and moved on.
Two minutes to ten. No sign of the Lansdown Society. His assumption about good timekeeping was looking faulty.
Then a whirring sound came from the side of the clubhouse and a golf cart glided into view and across the trimmed turf to arrive at the tee precisely on time. One of the two riders was definitely Sir Colin Tipping. The other, at the wheel, halted the cart. Major Swithin was short and elderly, but had more than a hint of military swagger as he stepped off and approached Diamond.
‘Is there a problem?’
‘Not to my knowledge,’ Diamond said. ‘Would you be Major Swithin?’
‘I would. We have our round booked for now. It’s a regular arrangement. Are you a member?’
‘Visitor.’
‘You know visitors have to produce a handicap certificate?’