The floor in the hallway was reclaimed oak planks. They covered the whole of the bottom floor and gave the property a seamless flow. PC Sheehy tripped over her own feet as she struggled to take it all in: the suspended glass staircase, the original art on the wall and the handmade Italian furniture. Everything in this house was paid for by face-lifts, boob jobs and pec implants courtesy of Dr Graham Marshall, cosmetic surgeon to the celebrities and rich locals alike. His wife’s face and body was his calling card, and Bancho had to admit that the doctor seemed pretty talented.

Alison Marshall opened the door at the end of the hallway. ‘Wait in here,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and get him.’ The police officers were still staring at each other when the door opened and Graham Marshall walked in.

‘I take it this isn’t a social call,’ he said. Bancho didn’t answer him. He took a moment to consider whether this could be one of the most famous killers of the twentieth century. The inspector had seen the court artist’s impressions and the photographs taken when Kevin Milne and Renee Smith were first arrested. But no later photograph or representation had been allowed out into the wider world. The official reason for this media ban was public protection, in case a vigilante mistook an innocent teenager or youth for Smith or Milne and ripped them limb from limb. Bancho stared at the tall, physically fit, potential suspect before him. The inspector sucked in his gut and tried to see the boy in the man. Where had the pudgy ten-year-old gone? Dr Marshall’s face had definitely been worked on. Bancho suspected a chin implant at the very least. For now, at least, he had to tread carefully. Whatever this man was suspected of, they had no proof. But Sam’s surveillance of him had to mean something, and it tied him to her disappearance.

Bancho took a deep breath. ‘Dr Marshall, a colleague of mine has disappeared under suspicious circumstances. DI Sam Jones? Your name has come up in connection with our inquiries. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to accompany us to St Leonards police station for questioning and—’

Marshall held up his hand and interrupted the inspector. ‘I have no idea why you think this is anything to do with me, but I know my rights–and yours. Let’s get this over and done with.’ He turned to Alison and handed her a card. ‘Call Brodie McLennan and tell her to get down to St Leonards immediately.’

Bancho sighed at the words–and prayed that the dean contacted Brodie before Alison Marshall did.

Chapter Forty-Three