“You don’t have to say it, Inspector; the minute I have anything I’ll ring you on your mobile.”

* * *

Back at the nick, Imogen and Alice were engrossed in the two laptops.

“Imogen—carry on with analysing the stuff on the laptops for now, but I’ve got something else for Alice.” He turned to her. “Ring round the estate agents and compile a list of all the properties for sale in Leesworth which have a garden. We’re only interested in gardens with plants—plenty of soil. If they’ve been flagged over or are covered in gravel then you can forget them.”

Someone had to go to Slaithwaite. Calladine checked his watch.

He couldn’t afford to miss the call from Jo when it came. Devon DeAngelo worked in a different time zone and he had to be ready.

“Ruth. Rocco. Would you two go and speak to our witness and check out the area around the railway station? I’m waiting here for Jo to call, and then hopefully I can Skype the detective in New York.

We’ll reconvene about five. Is that okay with everyone?”

Heads nodded, and Rocco grabbed the folder.

* * *

“She was a lovely girl, so chatty,” Ruby Tunnicliffe told them with a smile. “She made that boring journey into a real pleasure.

We talked about all sorts, but particularly about my holiday in Miami last year. She’d been there too—stayed on a yacht, no less, and for a whole month.”

“Did she say who she was meeting that night, Mrs Tunnicliffe?”

Ruth asked.

“Well, she didn’t say much, just that he was a new boyfriend, someone she’d met online and only seen a couple of times. I did tell her to be careful—I mean you hear such stories, don’t you?

Anyway, she would have none of it. Her Jack, that’s what she called him, was the perfect bloke—if such a thing exists.” She rolled her eyes. “But apparently he wasn’t afraid to spend his money, and she seemed to like that.”

“Spend his money on what? Did she say if he’d bought her anything?”

“No, but he’d taken her for some fancy meal in Chinatown earlier in the week. Eaten like a pig, she had—or so she said.”

Ruth looked at Rocco—there were cameras all over that part of town.

“Did she say if they had this meal at night or during the day?”

He was hoping to pin the time down and save on all that CCTV watching.

“Lunchtime. Then he took her around the shops, but I don’t recall her saying they’d bought anything.”

“Thanks, Mrs Tunnicliffe. Would you mind coming with us to the railway station and pointing out exactly where he was waiting? We’ll bring you back home afterwards.”

Ten minutes later, Ruby Tunnicliffe was describing the sequence of events.

“He was in a van, a small white van parked just beyond that street light down there. He didn’t get out.” She frowned. “You’d have thought he would have helped her with her stuff; her bag was heavy. We talked for a moment or two—just here on these steps, but he must have been impatient because he tooted his horn. Then she went off. She waved, and then she was gone.”

“And they drove off in that direction? You didn’t see them turn around?” Ruth asked. The bastard was clever. He’d have seen Patsy talking to her and wouldn’t have wanted the woman to get a look at him.

“No—and I would have because I was waiting ten minutes for a taxi.”

The white van again. This was their man alright. Rocco ran Mrs Tunnicliffe home, while Ruth waited outside the station and rang in.

“We’re going to need the CCTV from Chinatown—say the last two days’ worth. Daytime footage. And someone needs to go through it to see if they can spot Patsy. She and our man ate there lunchtime. He spent money—some posh place—and that’s all we know. Also, it sounds very much like the same van. It might be an idea to check those registered to folk in Leesworth, big job or not.”

* * *

Calladine got the call from Jo at about three thirty that afternoon. Apparently it was nine thirty in New York, so DeAngelo would be at work. He left the nick and went straight home to boot up his laptop. He hadn’t used Skype before, but Jo had set him up an account and left instructions on how to use it. People did this all the time so it couldn’t be that difficult, he reasoned. He wasn’t averse to technology—it was simply that he didn’t use it much. A memo, a report, a few emails, was about the scope of his expertise.

Everything else he left to the others—notably Imogen.

But today technology was proving to be a little marvel. Minutes after arriving home and grabbing a mug of coffee, he was meeting Devon DeAngelo in cyberspace.

“Hi there, Detective!” The New Yorker became visible to him on the screen. “Nice to know you. Don’t get to speak to our Brit cousins very often. Jo tells me she’s got the hots for your daughter.” He laughed at this, as if it was completely ordinary. “So what can I do for you?”

He was a large man, casually dressed in an open shirt and loose fleece jacket. He had a full head of dark hair. Calladine put him at about his own age, but he was well out of condition. He had a noticeable paunch and a reddish hue to his face. He seemed to be out of breath when he spoke.

“It’s good of you to help. I really need to speak to some people stateside, but the tight sod I work for is making that very difficult.”

The American laughed. Calladine could see him reaching for a can of soft drink. “We have the same problems here, believe me.

The rules can be a right bitch sometimes.”

“The problem I’ve got is that we’ve had a series of murders locally—all young women, all students attending a university in Manchester and all American. It’s grim. They’re kept somewhere, and death isn’t quick. This man’s a right bastard and he needs stopping as soon as possible. The problem is we’ve got precious little to go on. The evidence is sparse. Forensics are working on one or two leads, but nothing has given us the break we need.”

“Do you know why he goes for American girls? I mean—that’s pretty specific.”

“No idea, but it must make some twisted sense to him. I have a list of female students, all from the US, who’ve left university without going through any of the formalities, and I need these checking out. I need to know if they’re safe at home or missing here. We know we haven’t found them all yet. We’re pretty sure there’ll be more before this is over.”

“Jo has my email address. Send over the list and I’ll do what I can, Inspector. What about those you do know about? Have the families been told?”

“We’re on with that but I’ll send those too. Incidentally, one of the victims was from Queens—your neck of the woods, I believe.”

“Sure is. What’s her name?”

“Serena Hall.”

“I’ll look into her background for you. Look, Inspector—suppose I get back to you tomorrow for an update?”

“Fine with me—and call me Tom.”

“Great, Tom. You call me Devon.”

Calladine smiled. He still couldn’t quite get over the name.

“What’s your rank, Devon?”

“Lieutenant. I’m in Homicide, Tom, so I do more or less the same thing you do.”

“But with guns.”

“You disapprove?” DeAngelo laughed, picking up a sandwich from his desk. “Better not get into that one,” he chuckled. “Talk again tomorrow, Tom!” And then he was gone.

He owed Jo. He’d get her something; perhaps he’d treat her and Zoe to a slap-up meal somewhere. He was just thinking about getting back to the office when there was a series of loud raps on his front door.

Chapter 17

“You took your time, Tom Calladine. I was beginning to think you were seriously indisposed or something.”

Calladine gasped, wondering if his eyes were deceiving him. But the woman who stood on his doorstep was real enough. She smiled again, batted her long lashes and pushed past him into his hallway.

“Well if you won’t ask me in, Detective, then I’ll just have to be a little more forward.” She walked through to the sitting room, dropped the suitcase she was carrying onto the floor and stood staring at him. She cocked her lovely head to one side, winked, and then opened her arms wide. “Come here, stupid man. Come and give me a hug.”