Page 95

DEAR DETECTIVE INSPECTOR WYNNE:

EIGHT YEARS, DETECTIVE INSPECTOR. COMING UP ON A DECADE AND YOU’RE NO CLOSER TO FINDING ME OR MAGGIE. I SEE YOU IN THE NEWS FROM TIME TO TIME, COMMENTING ON YOUR INVESTIGATIONS. ARE THEY AS MUCH OF A FAILURE AS THIS ONE? YOU WOULDN’T SAY SO, WOULD YOU?

I’LL RAISE A GLASS AGAIN THIS YEAR! EIGHT LONG YEARS. AND THERE’LL BE ANOTHER EIGHT. OR MORE. YOU HAVE NO CHANCE, DETECTIVE INSPECTOR WYNNE, NONE AT ALL.

AND YOU KNOW IT, WHICH IS THE BEST THING OF ALL.

YOURS SINCERELY,

???

But this time, the sender had made a mistake.

And Wynne was not going to waste the opportunity.

3

The letter was postmarked Alsbury, a small village in North Yorkshire.

A tiny village. No more than a road, a pub, a few houses and a petrol station. How many postboxes could there be in a village that size?

Wynne had asked and there were two. One near the pub, and one opposite the petrol station. The petrol station had CCTV and the camera covered the postbox, and, according to the DS who had called, the CCTV had recorded a man in his fifties or sixties posting a letter.

It was him. Wynne knew it.

The drive took over two hours. On the way, DI Wynne explained as much of the case as she could to her partner, DS Chan. When they arrived at the police station it was closed, but as they pulled up the side door opened and a woman in her late forties stepped outside.

‘DI Wynne?’ she said.

Wynne nodded and shook her hand. ‘Thank you for waiting.’

‘DS Liz Dales.’

‘Nice to meet you. This is DS Paul Chan.’

‘Come in.’

They went into a small office at the back of the building. Dales sat at the desk in front of a computer.

‘I must say, it was a very intriguing request,’ she said. ‘Was there any footage of someone posting a single C4 envelope on Wednesday afternoon? I didn’t hold out much hope. I thought there would be a lot of people doing it.’

‘But there weren’t?’ DS Chan asked.

‘No. Quite a few people posting letters, but only one posting a large white envelope.’ Dales pressed a key and a window popped up. On it was a still image of the garage forecourt, the postbox to the left. She pressed another key and a man walked on screen. He was wearing loose-fitting chinos, a short-sleeved shirt, and a flat cap. He approached the postbox, took an envelope from his back pocket, and put it into the slot.

‘That’s the only person who posted a letter Wednesday afternoon?’ Wynne said.

‘Yes,’ Dales replied. ‘As I say, others posted things, but they were multiple letters, or smaller format ones.’

DS Chan looked at Wynne. ‘Probably passing through. Stopped here to post it then moved on.’

‘Oh, he’s not passing through,’ Dales said. ‘That’s Fred Taylor, lives in the village. Would you like his address?’

4

Wynne rang the bell of a large detached house. It was the perfect place – big, private, secluded – to hide someone away. She didn’t want to jump the gun, but she felt they were getting closer. If this man had sent the letter, even if he wasn’t the one who took Maggie Cooper, he must have some connection to whoever had.

She and DS Chan waited as the echoes died down. She was about to ring it again when she heard the drawing of a bolt.