office door. He knew that the boss would much rather be interviewing
Mark Jones. And Wesley would have valued his opinion too. He looked around the office and saw that Rachel Tracey was out.
She was talking to local taxi firms, trying to trace ex-employees. Everyone would feel relieved once the Barber was caught.
He would have to meet Mark Jones – or Marcus Fallbrook – alone, which was probably for the best. After all, he didn’t want
to frighten the man off by arriving mob handed. He sat at his desk for a while wondering how to play the situation and eventually
he decided that he’d let Jones do all the talking. Awkward questions could wait until he had all the details of the case at
his fingertips. And the more people were allowed to talk, the more they gave themselves away.
He left the police station and took a short cut through the Memorial Park. It was almost deserted apart from a couple of council
employees sweeping the pathways. The fine drizzle had stopped but a veil of mist hung over the river that rippled, battleship
grey, in front of him. It was the sort of day the Irish described as ‘soft’. As far as Wesley knew, Devonians didn’t have
a word for it, which was surprising because such days were as common there as sunny ones were in his parents’ native Trinidad.
He walked on down the esplanade. Moored yachts bobbed on the river to his left, not as many now as in the height of summer.
The town seemed quiet as he carried on past the ferry’s landing stage and the harbour master’s office.
The streets and waterfront that had been invaded by an army of tourists throughout the summer now belonged once more to the
town’s inhabitants, to the relief of most except those who made their living by the holiday trade. The local police usually
breathed a collective sigh of relief in September. But not this year. Not with the Barber about.
Wesley could see the cannon ahead. It dated from the Crimean War and stood proudly at the end of the esplanade, overlookingthe place where the car ferry plied to and fro. In the summer, children swarmed over it but now that part of the esplanade
was deserted apart from a solitary figure. A man in early middle age; average height; thin with cropped hair; a pale face
and full lips. He wore jeans and a sweatshirt that had seen better days and a pair of scuffed trainers. If this was Adrian
Fallbrook’s brother, he had slid several rungs down the social ladder.
Wesley slowed his steps, studying the man who was leaning against the cannon, staring at the yachts bobbing at anchor on the
high tide. It was him all right. In spite of the differences in height, age and colouring, the resemblance to Adrian Fallbrook
was remarkable. The shape of the face, the set of the jaw, the shape of the eyes. Surely no impostor could achieve the subtle
family likeness, Wesley thought to himself as he walked forwards, his eyes fixed on his quarry.
‘Mark Jones?’
The man swung round, his face wary. Suddenly Wesley’s resolution to let the man talk himself out of his inheritance faltered.
He wanted to ask questions. He wanted answers.
‘Mr Jones, I’m DI Peterson, Tradmouth CID.’ He glanced up at the leaden sky. If they stayed there much longer, it would start
to rain. ‘I know a place that serves a good cup of tea.’ He smiled to put the man at his ease and began to lead the way to
the Scone and Kettle, a place he judged to be relaxing and unthreatening despite the establishment’s reputation as the most
haunted café in Tradmouth.
Once they had ordered tea, Wesley studied the man sitting opposite him awkwardly, like a gangling teenager at a family party.
He noticed that his green eyes were watchful and wary. But then, if his story was true, that would hardly be surprising.
‘I know this isn’t easy for you but Adrian Fallbrook had no choice. He had to tell us about your visit. Your – Marcus Fallbrook’s
– kidnapping was a very
Mark Jones. And Wesley would have valued his opinion too. He looked around the office and saw that Rachel Tracey was out.
She was talking to local taxi firms, trying to trace ex-employees. Everyone would feel relieved once the Barber was caught.
He would have to meet Mark Jones – or Marcus Fallbrook – alone, which was probably for the best. After all, he didn’t want
to frighten the man off by arriving mob handed. He sat at his desk for a while wondering how to play the situation and eventually
he decided that he’d let Jones do all the talking. Awkward questions could wait until he had all the details of the case at
his fingertips. And the more people were allowed to talk, the more they gave themselves away.
He left the police station and took a short cut through the Memorial Park. It was almost deserted apart from a couple of council
employees sweeping the pathways. The fine drizzle had stopped but a veil of mist hung over the river that rippled, battleship
grey, in front of him. It was the sort of day the Irish described as ‘soft’. As far as Wesley knew, Devonians didn’t have
a word for it, which was surprising because such days were as common there as sunny ones were in his parents’ native Trinidad.
He walked on down the esplanade. Moored yachts bobbed on the river to his left, not as many now as in the height of summer.
The town seemed quiet as he carried on past the ferry’s landing stage and the harbour master’s office.
The streets and waterfront that had been invaded by an army of tourists throughout the summer now belonged once more to the
town’s inhabitants, to the relief of most except those who made their living by the holiday trade. The local police usually
breathed a collective sigh of relief in September. But not this year. Not with the Barber about.
Wesley could see the cannon ahead. It dated from the Crimean War and stood proudly at the end of the esplanade, overlookingthe place where the car ferry plied to and fro. In the summer, children swarmed over it but now that part of the esplanade
was deserted apart from a solitary figure. A man in early middle age; average height; thin with cropped hair; a pale face
and full lips. He wore jeans and a sweatshirt that had seen better days and a pair of scuffed trainers. If this was Adrian
Fallbrook’s brother, he had slid several rungs down the social ladder.
Wesley slowed his steps, studying the man who was leaning against the cannon, staring at the yachts bobbing at anchor on the
high tide. It was him all right. In spite of the differences in height, age and colouring, the resemblance to Adrian Fallbrook
was remarkable. The shape of the face, the set of the jaw, the shape of the eyes. Surely no impostor could achieve the subtle
family likeness, Wesley thought to himself as he walked forwards, his eyes fixed on his quarry.
‘Mark Jones?’
The man swung round, his face wary. Suddenly Wesley’s resolution to let the man talk himself out of his inheritance faltered.
He wanted to ask questions. He wanted answers.
‘Mr Jones, I’m DI Peterson, Tradmouth CID.’ He glanced up at the leaden sky. If they stayed there much longer, it would start
to rain. ‘I know a place that serves a good cup of tea.’ He smiled to put the man at his ease and began to lead the way to
the Scone and Kettle, a place he judged to be relaxing and unthreatening despite the establishment’s reputation as the most
haunted café in Tradmouth.
Once they had ordered tea, Wesley studied the man sitting opposite him awkwardly, like a gangling teenager at a family party.
He noticed that his green eyes were watchful and wary. But then, if his story was true, that would hardly be surprising.
‘I know this isn’t easy for you but Adrian Fallbrook had no choice. He had to tell us about your visit. Your – Marcus Fallbrook’s
– kidnapping was a very
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