On Beulah Height

FOURTEEN

It had been a risk but a small one for Novello to leave the cafeteria to ring in for back-up. She had spent enough hours in the police gym to feel fairly confident about confronting one unarmed man, but two was pushing things. And while Turnbull with a weapon other than his charm seemed unlikely, she couldn’t be sure about Lightfoot.

Moving back to the entrance, she saw that she’d just been in time. The two men were rising together and making for the door. She noted that Lightfoot was carrying the leather bag, which meant he had one hand occupied. She retreated before them to the car park.

No sign yet of any help, but it should be close. The coast road was well patrolled. She wouldn’t hear it coming as she’d asked specifically for no siren. Sometimes she suspected some of her male colleagues learned more from cop shows than police college. No one on the telly seemed to have worked out the advantages of sneaking up on a suspect. They either rang a warning bell or simply shouted, ‘Oy! You!’ from a distance of fifty yards. Of course this meant you got an exciting chase or lively shoot-out, which was a visual plus. In real life, you wanted to be neither seen nor heard till you’d got within half-nelson distance.

Anyway, close or not, she couldn’t wait. A suspect in a car was an arrest problem squared.

She turned away as they approached, watching them in the window of a parked Peugeot. Then, as they drew level, she turned, smiled widely, and said, ‘Geordie, how’re you doing? Why don’t you introduce me to your lovely friend?’

Turnbull instinctively smiled back before recognition began to dawn. She reached out her hand to Lightfoot. Instinctively he took it. She twisted his arm sharply, at the same time pulling him off balance and driving her toe cap into his shin.

He fell forward against the car, setting its alarm off, and Novello forced his arm up between his shoulder-blades till he yelled with pain.

Into his left ear she told him he was being arrested on suspicion of murder and advised him of his right to remain silent, but he carried on yelling all the same. She glanced sideways to see how Turnbull was taking all this. To her surprise he was standing watching with an expression in which resignation warred with admiration.

‘I hope you and me are going to stay good friends, bonny lass,’ he said. She smiled. He had the great gift of making you smile, but in this case half her pleasure came from the sight over his shoulder of a police car nosing into the car park. Attracted by the alarm and also a gathering group of spectators, they came straight to her, and two young constables got out.

‘You Novello?’ asked one of them.

‘That’s right. Cuff this one, I’ll take care of the other.’

Relieved of Lightfoot, she bent down and picked up the bag he’d dropped. She pulled open the zip.

It was full of money.

Lightfoot, upright now with his hands cuffed behind his back, was glaring in angry disbelief at Turnbull.

‘Why the hell’d you do this, you stupid bastard? You think this is going to get you anywhere but jail?’

He spoke pure Strine.

‘Get him into the car,’ said Novello. A crowd was forming. She didn’t want anyone to have the chance to recognize Lightfoot and warn the media pack.

They pushed him into the back seat of the police car and she turned to the onlookers.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘Show over. Nothing to bother yourselves with.’

They looked unconvinced.

The owner of the beeping Peugeot arrived, pressed his remote key and silenced it.

‘Did he get inside?’ he demanded, examining the bodywork for damage.

‘No, sir, it’s fine. Good alarm you’ve got.’

‘Look, I’m in a hurry. Do I have to make a statement?’

‘No, thank you, sir. We’ve got enough and we’ve noted your vehicle number if we need you.’

‘Great. Hope they hang the bastard.’

The man got into his car and the onlookers drifted away. Just another car break-in, nothing worth boasting that you’d seen.

‘Clever,’ said Turnbull. ‘You did that really well, petal.’

‘Mr Turnbull, I am not your petal,’ said Novello wearily.

She stooped to the window of the police car. Lightfoot was looking more angry than afraid. He said, ‘What the hell are you talking about, murder? OK, I gave the guy a pasting, but the money’s mine. Tell them, you stupid bastard! The money’s mine!’

‘Where do you want him, luv?’ enquired the driver.

She said, ‘First I need his keys.’

The constable sitting beside Lightfoot dug his hand into the prisoner’s pocket and came up with the keys.

‘Where are you parked?’ asked Novello.

‘Over there,’ he said, jerking his head. ‘You’re making a big mistake here, girl.’

She spotted the top of the white camper a couple of rows away. At the same time with relief she saw two more police cars turning into the car park. This meant she had enough personnel to take care of the prisoners separately, plus both their vehicles. She made a quick calculation. They’d make quite a little procession, but there shouldn’t be anyone alerted yet to take notice of it.

‘Danby,’ she said. ‘I think we should all go to Danby.’