“You should have told me this earlier. It would have saved you a lot of heartache.”

So if Alton wasn’t their man, then who was?

“Tell me about your workforce. Jonathan, for example. What does he do, and what’s he like?”

“He’s okay—a little work-shy at times, but when he’s on form his work’s up to scratch. But he does take time off, disappears with no explanation. It’s what comes of not having proper parents. Lads need guidance, and he has no father. Sandra’s far too lenient with him. She’s tried, God bless her, but she doesn’t know the half, and these days she doesn’t even bother looking. His father was a bad un from what she says—‘sown in weakness, bred from bad stock’—that’s how she describes Jonathon. One night of passion with the wrong man, followed by a lifetime of worry, that’s her lot, Inspector.”

“I thought she had a husband. She calls herself Mrs.”

“That’s just so folk don’t talk.”

Alton was telling the truth. Ruth got Julian to check the database, and the DNA of the man they wanted wasn’t his. They had nothing to charge him with, so Calladine decided to let him go.

* * *

“I need the photos from that pub near the university! Whatever condition they’re in, I need them now. And I think we need to talk to Jonathan Dobson urgently, don’t you?”

“Photos first?” Ruth asked.

“Do we have anything?”

“Julian’s cleaned them up a bit and he’s sending them through now, sir.”

The three of them waited around Imogen’s computer screen as she opened the email attachments. They looked a little foggy, but they could see the inside of the pub and the people who were milling around the bar.

“There, sir. That’s Patsy and her friend sat on the seats at the back. The shape in the foreground must be him.”

All they could see was his back. Calladine hoped the next few photos would give them more.

“He’s tall and skinnier than Alton, so it’s definitely not him.”

“There!” Imogen shouted. “This next one shows him sitting next to Patsy.”

They peered closer. The picture was grainy, but they could make him out just enough to confirm for sure that it wasn’t Alton.

“I’ve seen him before.” Imogen was squinting slightly at the image.

“Rocco! This man in the photo—we’ve seen him somewhere, haven’t we?”

“It’s the guy who was working in the garden centre café that day we were chasing up on the Cassie Rigby case. What’s he doing with Patsy Lumis?”

What indeed?

“I’m betting that’s Jonathan Dobson.” Calladine nodded. “Right

—we need to find him and bring him in. Alice! Do me a favour—ring the hospital and find out if Patsy’s recovered yet. If she has, is she fit enough to talk to us?”

Ruth got her coat and grabbed her car keys. “I’ll drive. Nursery, sir?”

“There and the garden centre. We need that warrant quick. I hope the search team is organised. He’ll know we’ve spoken to Alton. He could be disposing of evidence as we speak. We need to find those bodies.”

“I’ll get the warrant organised, then I’ll join you,” Rocco added.

* * *

There was already a police presence at both businesses, but they hadn’t started the search yet, so no one was taking much notice. To the uninitiated eye everything looked fairly normal.

Calladine arrived, backed up by several police cars. They swooped into the car park. Ruth took the café, while Calladine made off down the path to the nursery, with a couple of uniformed officers.

“Mrs Dobson! Where’s your son?” Ruth called out.

The woman looked up from the till and nodded towards the nursery. “He’s still working. Alton had to go off somewhere, so he’s getting a big order out.”

Ruth caught up with the inspector and told him. Then they saw the young man hauling fruit trees onto the pick-up truck. Ruth was hurrying behind Calladine, and he gestured for her to slow down. He didn’t want Jonathan spooked. From the look of him he’d be good on his toes, and he didn’t want him doing a runner.

“Hi there!” He called out as casually as he could, his hands in his coat pockets and a smile on his face. “Is James Alton in?”

Jonathon Dobson put down the sapling he was shifting, and brushed his hair off his face as he shook his head. “I thought you lot had him.”

He was young, in his mid-twenties, and not bad-looking. He had longish dark hair and looked very fit—like a man who worked out.

He was humming to himself as he worked, and didn’t seem at all bothered by the sudden appearance of the police. This worried Calladine. What was he up to? What had he done? Had he covered his tracks so soon? Surely he wouldn’t have had the time—and he didn’t know they were onto him yet.

Then he saw it. At the top end of the tract of land, the inspector could see a bonfire which was alight and smoking away. To the casual observer it looked as if they were simply burning old stock;

twigs and branches that had been pruned. But it was the smell that gave the game away. To those who knew it, there was no disguising the smell of burning flesh. Calladine felt a shiver run down his spine. This one was a monster. So cocksure, so confident he could outwit them.

“What are you burning?” Calladine asked as casually as he could.

“Rubbish. I’m getting rid of the dross—preparing for the new stuff.”

“Odd smell, don’t you think?”

Dobson began to chuckle, and then covered his mouth with his hand. He leaned on the spade he’d been using. “The stuff’s rotten—not what I want at all.” He looked Calladine directly in the eye as he spoke—his were deep blue, cold as ice and without a flicker of warmth in them. Calladine shuddered. Time to wrap this up; time to get this bastard behind bars.

The weather was cold and wet, so the fire never really stood much chance, despite the liberal dowsing with petrol he’d given it.

Calladine nodded to one of the uniforms and sent him off with a hosepipe.

“Jonathan, you’ve taken some tracking down. In fact you’ve led us quite a dance over the last few days. But finally it’s all over.”

Chapter 23

Lydia Holden took her time getting ready. She deliberately waited for Calladine to leave—she didn’t fancy answering any awkward questions. She got out of bed, showered and made herself coffee and toast. She had a busy day ahead of her. She planned to drive into the Cheshire countryside and make her first contact with Marilyn Fallon. She was excited. This was finally it. She was on her way to getting one of the biggest stories of the decade.

She checked her handbag. The photo was in place, all the details she’d need. She was ready. Lydia had done her homework. She’d been studying Fallon and his wife for days and knew their routine almost as well as she knew her own. At eleven each morning Marilyn went out to walk her dog—and that was the key. It was obvious from everything Lydia had observed that Marilyn loved the animal, despite its being a funny-looking thing with wrinkles all over its face. A dog that Lydia had learned was a breed called a ‘Shar Pei.’

Today, the unsuspecting Marilyn was going to make a new friend. It’d all happen so smoothly and appear so natural she wouldn’t suspect a thing. She’d meet a like-minded soul who shared her interests, including her love of dogs, and this rare breed in particular. She’d see very different Lydia; a superficial, high-maintenance blonde with too much money and too much time on her hands, and hopefully Marilyn would recognise a kindred spirit.

Lydia was piqued that Tom Calladine was being such a pain where his cousin was concerned. She’d hoped to wangle an invitation to dinner or some similar family gathering, but Tom was dead set against having anything to do with the man. He could have made this a whole lot easier—but no, he had his principles, so she’d just have to move things on herself.