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holiday, she said. They didn’t like to be
     tied to definite plans like they were in their everyday life.
    Wesley nodded in agreement at her psychological assessment of the average holiday-maker and asked her to call him when Mr
     Jones returned.
    He decided to return to the police station. It was high time he found out about the kidnapping of Marcus Fallbrook. Presumably
     it would have been dealt with by the Tradmouth CID officers ofthe day. There would be records somewhere. And it would be best to speak to Mark Jones with the facts clear in his mind.
    He found Gerry Heffernan at his desk, looking through the statements made by the Barber’s victims. Looking for something,
     anything, that would betray the man’s identity before he did more than just hack his victims’ hair off. Wesley knew Gerry
     well and he could sense his fear, his dreadful foreboding that next time somebody might get seriously hurt.
    ‘Anything new?’ Wesley asked as he entered the chief inspector’s office and sat himself down.
    Gerry Heffernan let out a large sigh, like a balloon slowly deflating. ‘Nothing. I’ve had people checking out all the leads
     and every patrol in the area’s been looking out for dark-blue saloons.’ He rolled his eyes to heaven. ‘Do you know how many
     dark-blue saloons there are in South Devon?’
    ‘I can imagine.’ Wesley was anxious to change the subject. ‘Look, Gerry, what do you know about the Marcus Fallbrook kidnapping?’
    Heffernan shook his head. ‘Before my time, I’m afraid, Wes. I joined the force about eighteen months later.’ He blushed. ‘While
     all that was going on I was at sea.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘Happy days. In fact it must have been around that time I had
     appendicitis and had to be winched off and taken to Tradmouth Hospital.’ Another smile. ‘Every cloud has a silver lining,
     eh.’
    Wesley smiled dutifully. He had heard the story of how Gerry had abandoned the sea for the nurse he later married many times
     before. Kathy had died several years ago but Gerry still thought of her . . . often.
    Heffernan continued. ‘When I joined the force I remember people mentioning a little lad who’d been kidnapped and never found.
     But, as I said, it was before my time so I don’t know the details.’ He thought for a moment. ‘There’ll be the case files of
     course. But if I were you, I’d have a word with Barry Houldsworth. He used to have my job in those days and he’d have been
     in charge of the case. DCI Houldsworth – bit of a legend, he was.’
    Wesley leaned forward, curious. ‘Why’s that?’
    Heffernan grinned. ‘You’ll see. Did you see this man who’s claiming to be Marcus Fallbrook?’
    ‘I went to the guesthouse but he was out for the day. The landlady promised to ask him to get in touch when he gets back.’
    ‘And if he’s genuine he will and if he’s not . . . ’
    ‘We won’t see him for dust.’
    ‘Just a matter of waiting, then.’
    ‘And finding out everything I can about the case in the meantime. Where can I find this ex-DCI Houldsworth?’
    ‘Try the Bentham Arms in Stoke Beeching.’
    Wesley didn’t reply. He didn’t fancy hanging around a country pub on his own, enduring the stares of curious locals just on
     the off chance someone might be there. ‘Where does he live?’
    ‘I told you, try the Bentham Arms. I heard his wife left him a few years ago. Said she couldn’t compete.’
    ‘With the job?’
    ‘That and the nation’s breweries and distilleries.’
    Wesley thought for a few moments. ‘If this Marcus Fallbrook business is a hoax, it’s a cruel one. What if the mother had still
     been alive?’
    ‘But she isn’t, is she? And the dad died recently. Maybe he knows that. Maybe he’s done his homework.’
    Wesley stood up. ‘It’s about time I did mine.’
    ‘Take care,’ said Heffernan as Wesley left the room, his words heavy with meaning.
    Wesley turned to look at him, puzzled and saw that he was