chivalry wasn’t their strong point.
But it seemed her journey was wasted. None of the bright young things at the Castle Top had seen Leah that evening and she
hadn’t booked into that hotel or any other in the vicinity. Suzy wandered through the narrow, winding streets of Neston looking
into every pub she passed. But she saw nobody who remotely resembled Leah.
She had to think. Leah must have called a taxi with her mobile – which was now, frustratingly, switched off. Suzy hurried
back to the Mercedes and drove back home. That nutcase was about – the one they called the Barber. She had heard about it
on the local news. But the possibility that Leah had fallen into his hands was something she didn’t like to contemplate.
She had calls to make. Darren. Brad. Any of Leah’s ex-boyfriends she could think of. Leah Wakefield had to be somewhere. And
she wasn’t an easy girl to miss.
At nine thirty the next morning Wesley telephoned the guesthouse and asked to speak to the man who was claiming to be Marcus
Fallbrook. He was using the name Mark Jones and Wesley wondered how many other names he’d used in the course of his life.
But then he had a suspicious mind. The job had made him that way.
He had ordered the case files and they had arrived on his desk first thing. Glancing through them, he caught the gist of the
bare facts. The seven-year-old child disappearing from his exclusive prep school one lunchtime: the nanny, Jenny Booker, driving
there in her Mini to bring him home at three thirty and finding he wasn’t there.
The school had been criticised for not informing the parents right away that he wasn’t in class. They’d said it was a regrettable
breakdown in communication – Marcus had been due for a dental appointment that week and the teacher taking the register that
afternoon had assumed she’d marked the day down wrongly. And besides, Wesley thought, this was in the days before people saw
paedophiles behind every bush – things had been more relaxed back then.
The family had received ransom notes and phone calls from public telephone boxes but nothing had yielded any solid clues.
In fact, the file was surprisingly thin. The ransom of fifteen thousand pounds was left in the specified place and it was
picked up. But the child was never returned and the pessimistic view at the time was that young Marcus Fallbrook was dead,
although a body had never been found.
Reading through the file, Wesley found that, in addition to the bare facts, he wanted to find out about the gossip surrounding
the family and the suspicions of the officers working on the case at the time. He knew only too well that not everything finds
its way into official statements and reports . . . especially in a sensitive case like the abduction of Marcus Fallbrook.
Mark Jones had offered to meet at ten thirty on neutral ground and Wesley had suggested the waterfront next to the old cannon.
He’d been about to quip that he’d be wearing a carnation in his button hole and carrying a copy of
The Times
but he’d thought better of it. This matter was no joke. For the Fallbrooks it was deadly serious.
He looked into Gerry Heffernan’s office before he left the police station.
‘I’m going to meet this bloke who’s claiming to be Marcus Fallbrook. Want to come with me?’
Heffernan looked up and scratched his head. He had the look of a trapped animal. ‘Sorry, Wes. Got to go and see the Chief
Super – he wants to know how we’re getting on with the Barber case. He says we have to reassure the public.’
Wesley rolled his eyes to heaven. ‘Reassure them? Surely we should be warning them to be on their guard. Good luck. Fancy
coming with me to talk to Houldsworth at lunchtime?’ Somehow he didn’t relish the prospect of venturing into the Bentham Arms
alone again.
Heffernan’s eyes lit up. ‘Try and stop me. See you later.’
He watched the chief inspector disappearing through the
But it seemed her journey was wasted. None of the bright young things at the Castle Top had seen Leah that evening and she
hadn’t booked into that hotel or any other in the vicinity. Suzy wandered through the narrow, winding streets of Neston looking
into every pub she passed. But she saw nobody who remotely resembled Leah.
She had to think. Leah must have called a taxi with her mobile – which was now, frustratingly, switched off. Suzy hurried
back to the Mercedes and drove back home. That nutcase was about – the one they called the Barber. She had heard about it
on the local news. But the possibility that Leah had fallen into his hands was something she didn’t like to contemplate.
She had calls to make. Darren. Brad. Any of Leah’s ex-boyfriends she could think of. Leah Wakefield had to be somewhere. And
she wasn’t an easy girl to miss.
At nine thirty the next morning Wesley telephoned the guesthouse and asked to speak to the man who was claiming to be Marcus
Fallbrook. He was using the name Mark Jones and Wesley wondered how many other names he’d used in the course of his life.
But then he had a suspicious mind. The job had made him that way.
He had ordered the case files and they had arrived on his desk first thing. Glancing through them, he caught the gist of the
bare facts. The seven-year-old child disappearing from his exclusive prep school one lunchtime: the nanny, Jenny Booker, driving
there in her Mini to bring him home at three thirty and finding he wasn’t there.
The school had been criticised for not informing the parents right away that he wasn’t in class. They’d said it was a regrettable
breakdown in communication – Marcus had been due for a dental appointment that week and the teacher taking the register that
afternoon had assumed she’d marked the day down wrongly. And besides, Wesley thought, this was in the days before people saw
paedophiles behind every bush – things had been more relaxed back then.
The family had received ransom notes and phone calls from public telephone boxes but nothing had yielded any solid clues.
In fact, the file was surprisingly thin. The ransom of fifteen thousand pounds was left in the specified place and it was
picked up. But the child was never returned and the pessimistic view at the time was that young Marcus Fallbrook was dead,
although a body had never been found.
Reading through the file, Wesley found that, in addition to the bare facts, he wanted to find out about the gossip surrounding
the family and the suspicions of the officers working on the case at the time. He knew only too well that not everything finds
its way into official statements and reports . . . especially in a sensitive case like the abduction of Marcus Fallbrook.
Mark Jones had offered to meet at ten thirty on neutral ground and Wesley had suggested the waterfront next to the old cannon.
He’d been about to quip that he’d be wearing a carnation in his button hole and carrying a copy of
The Times
but he’d thought better of it. This matter was no joke. For the Fallbrooks it was deadly serious.
He looked into Gerry Heffernan’s office before he left the police station.
‘I’m going to meet this bloke who’s claiming to be Marcus Fallbrook. Want to come with me?’
Heffernan looked up and scratched his head. He had the look of a trapped animal. ‘Sorry, Wes. Got to go and see the Chief
Super – he wants to know how we’re getting on with the Barber case. He says we have to reassure the public.’
Wesley rolled his eyes to heaven. ‘Reassure them? Surely we should be warning them to be on their guard. Good luck. Fancy
coming with me to talk to Houldsworth at lunchtime?’ Somehow he didn’t relish the prospect of venturing into the Bentham Arms
alone again.
Heffernan’s eyes lit up. ‘Try and stop me. See you later.’
He watched the chief inspector disappearing through the
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