“In 2008, Jane Jenkins dated Roland Curtis in the small village of Betws-y-Coed, North Wales. Once again, the website played a big part. At the time, he lived in the seaside resort of Llandudno. He was working as a deck chair attendant and part-time musician.”

“Doing what he’s good at again,” said Reilly. “What happened to her?”

“According to the neighbours, she went missing for about a week. The next thing anyone knew, he’d called an ambulance. The police appeared. She’d had a suspected stroke. The post-mortem report said her system contained a lethal dose of sherry mixed with nuts that had been ground into a fine powder, creating the drug Ephedrine, which brought on a massive stroke.”

“So it must have all started back in Whitby in the eighties,” said Gardener. “He felt let down by this woman called Jane Peterson, beat her up, took a beating in return, and was then forced to leave.”

“So he starts up a relationship with a woman called Jane,” said Longstaff. “His name is always different but he uses the letters RC. It still doesn’t tell us why he’s doing all of this.”

“And where the hell does he keep disappearing to in between the times he pops back up?” asked Anderson.

“I might be able to help with that as well,” said Sharp.

“Go on,” said Gardener.

“Every time he skipped town, he did so when the travelling fair left. Seems to be a common link. A small fair was usually in the area for a week or so. When they left, so did he.”

“That is worth knowing,” said Rawson.

“And so is this,” said Cragg. All eyes met his.

“You must have seen the posters. It happens every year, once a year. The fair comes to town and sets up on the car park of the railway station.”

“Every year?” asked Reilly.

“Without fail.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know who runs it, would you, Maurice?” Gardener asked.

“I certainly do. An old lag called Sam Smith.”

“Do you have his number?”

“I’ll get on to it straight away.”

As Cragg left, police constables Steve Smart and Dave Reynolds returned empty handed from the estate agent.

“She’s gone, sir,” said Reynolds.

“Who has?”

“Jane Rogers aka Grace Browne,” said Steve Smart. “Her colleague said she hasn’t heard from her for a couple of days and she wasn’t at work yesterday. Jane Rogers lived in the flat above the estate agent.”

“Lived?” said Gardener.

“Yes. Her colleague let us in. Place is pretty much cleaned out. All personal items have gone, and the only thing left was an envelope on the table. Inside, she found a month’s rent and the bond in cash.”

Gardener’s phone chimed. When he answered, Bob Anderson reported that the mill house in Sowerby was all in darkness.

Chapter Forty-six

Mary was itching like mad. She had never been so uncomfortable in her life.

She had woken in the early hours of the morning, wrapped in a dirty blanket. When the itching started, the blanket had to go. She may have been shackled to a radiator, but it wasn’t on. Although the tingling did not die down, she was too cold to stay naked. The whole blanket-on-blanket-off thing had continued throughout the day, and now the i

tching was driving her to distraction.

The door opened and Robbie strolled in casually. He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. In one hand he had an umbrella; in the other, a handgun. Mary’s heart pounded in her chest.

Tags: Ray Clark DI Gardener Mystery
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