“We are investigating several murders of young women, Mr Alton. Each one was found mutilated as I described, in the same way as your cat. Each was garrotted, and each had the name ‘Vida’
written on an item on their person.” He paused, giving Alton time to take this in.
Alton lowered his head and let out a low wailing sound. “You’ve got this wrong. It has nothing to do with me or Vida. This is the work of some deranged nutter, perhaps someone with a grudge, I don’t know. But it’s your job to find out. You shouldn’t be hassling me.”
“If you would agree to be more helpful, I wouldn’t have to hassle you. A simple DNA test will clear all this up.”
“No. I refuse. I’ve already told you.”
“It’s very odd, don’t you think? This obsession he has with her—this insane need to seek out women who we think look like your wife and also sound like her. That isn’t normal, Mr Alton, is it?”
“She’s in danger—is that what you’re telling me?” Alton looked round at his solicitor, the anxiety evident in his face.
“I’ve left an officer at your house,” Ruth confirmed. “I spoke to her earlier and she’s fine.”
“You were on the bypass the morning of the pile-up?” Calladine continued. “What were you doing there so early?”
“I was delivering to a garden centre in Huddersfield. But I didn’t use the bypass. I went over there by the old road.”
“Your van was seen on the bypass, Mr Alton.”
“I wasn’t in my van. I was delivering fruit trees, so I had to use the pick-up. The van was parked, back at the nursery.”
“What is the name of the place where you delivered the trees?”
“‘Blooming Marvellous’ on the Halifax Road.”
At that moment Imogen stuck her head around the door and beckoned to Calladine.
“Julian has found a scrap of fabric in the back of Alton’s van. It’s from the blanket that Serena was wrapped in.”
So it was confirmed—they had the right van. But what about their suspect? “Check this out for me.” He scribbled the name of the garden centre on her notepad. “I want the time Alton was there, the morning of the pile-up. When you’ve got it, come back and tell me.”
“Mr Alton. We now have proof—which is backed up by forensic evidence—that your van was used to move one of the dead women.” Calladine leaned back in the chair.
The room fell silent. Alton’s eyes closed for a moment.
“It wasn’t me.” His words were almost whispered. “I don’t understand what’s going on.”
Imogen put her head around the door, and Calladine went out again.
“He got there just after seven. The owner remembers the time because he complained that their café wasn’t open—it doesn’t open until seven thirty.”
“Alexander Stone said the pile-up happened at about that time
—certainly no later than seven thirty.”
“So Alton’s in the clear. He couldn’t have put Madison in that car, could he?”
“No, he couldn’t. So then, who did?”
Calladine went back into the interview room. “Mr Alton, who else has access to your van—the small white one you usually drive?”
“Well there’s me and a couple of the others, that’s all. But mostly it’s Jonathan who does the running around.”
“Jonathan?”
“Jonathan Dobson, Sandra’s son. You know; the manageress at the garden centre café. Jonathan works for both of us. I can’t afford to employ him full-time and neither can she.”
Was this man seated in front of him entirely innocent, or was he somehow complicit in the murders? He was nervous. Something was wrong—but what? He wasn’t the one who did the chasing—he was too old, and he wasn’t in the van when Madison was dumped. But that didn’t mean he was completely in the clear. He was obviously afraid of something. He might still have known what was going on.
“Mr Alton, why won’t you give a DNA sample?”
“Because I haven’t done anything.”
“But a DNA sample would prove your innocence, once and for all.”
“Look—leave me alone. I haven’t done anything to any women.
You’ve got nothing on me, so back off.”
“I still don’t understand. A DNA sample from you would clear this up in no time, and then you could go.”
Alton sighed wearily. “You already have my DNA.” He leaned forward, his head in his hands. He looked beaten, the brash exterior completely gone. “Look, I didn’t want this to get out, but I got into a lot of trouble years ago. I was brought up on the Hobfield estate.
You know what that place is like. I got busted for burglary a couple of times. I was young and stupid—fortunately I got off with community service and a fine. I’ve never told anyone this—not even Vida. So please, can you be discreet? I run a reputable business and people trust me. Can you imagine how folk would be if this got out? Go and check, and then you’ll see. I’m not a match for whoever did that to those women.”
“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?”