Free Breaking Point by Frank Smith Page A

faring no better. He had spent a fruitless and frustrating morning. While Geoff Kirkpatrick searched and dusted the caravan for prints, the sergeant had gone from door to door to ask if anyone had seen the car and the two men who had come to pick up Doyle, but no one had. Nor did they show much interest in the fact that Doyle was missing. The man was often away on a job for a week or more at a time, and the general consensus once again was, if he wasn’t away on a job, he was probably either lying in a gutter somewhere, or drying out in a police cell.
    That had been the first choice of Lou Cutter, the owner-manager of Cutter’s Caravan Court, who lived on site. ‘He’ll spend a few days in gaol, then come staggering back here, broke and begging me to give him time to pay his rent,’ he told Tregalles. ‘The little bugger’s already more than a week behind as it is, and you can tell him that from me when you find him.’
    â€˜We think something may have happened to him,’ Tregalles told him. ‘Now, you live here at the entrance to the court. Are you absolutely sure you didn’t see or hear anyone drive in and out of here last Friday morning? Probably around seven?’
    Cutter shook his head. ‘If I did, I wouldn’t have thought anything about it,’ he said. ‘As you found out this morning, not everybody in here is retired, and some of them leave for work around that time. Sorry, Sergeant, but I can’t help you.’
    Neither did things get any better when Tregalles went back to Doyle’s caravan to see how Kirkpatrick was getting on.
    â€˜Trouble is, I don’t really know what I’m looking for in all this jumble,’ Geoff said. ‘Nor can I find anything that would give me a clue to where he might have gone, and I certainly haven’t found anything that connects him to Ireland.’
    â€˜What about a workbook? Jobs he was working on? Could he have tucked that away somewhere? Maybe in his van?’
    Geoff shook his head. ‘I’ve been through everything,’ he assured Tregalles, ‘and if there ever was one, it’s gone as well.’
    Tregalles had intended to meet Molly in the Red Lion at lunchtime, but when it became clear that there was nothing to be gained by staying on, he rang her on her mobile phone to tell her that he and Geoff were on their way back to town. ‘How about you?’ he asked. ‘Any luck?’
    â€˜Not so far, but I’ve only just arrived at the pub, so perhaps I’ll do better here. I’ll let you know later.’
    But when Molly rang him later in the afternoon, it was to tell him that she, too, had little to show for her day out. ‘Dr Chandler tried, but he wasn’t much help,’ she told him. ‘He did give me the name of another man who was also passing the cottage at the same time that morning, a man by the name of Dawlish. But when I went to see Dawlish at his house in Whitcott Lacey, there was no one home, and a neighbour told me that he and his wife left for Lowestoft last Sunday to visit their daughter, and they’re not due back until the weekend.
    â€˜I contacted Emma Baker at the college, and she suggested coming back to the Red Lion about eight this evening, when all the regulars will be in, so I’ll come back then. Meanwhile, I’m coming in now; I have more than enough work on my desk to keep me busy for the next hour or two.’
    Tregalles sat back in his chair, fingers linked behind his head. Eight o’clock at the Red Lion. Not a bad idea at that, he thought. Perhaps he should go along with Molly. Two could ask more questions than one.
    What little sun there had been throughout the day had disappeared behind the hills, and a blustery wind tugged at Paget’s coat as he made his way to his car. Another nasty night by the look of it, he thought, and the sooner he was home, the better. He glanced at the time as he drove out of the