But Colder

, she protested. He couldn't. . .
Shane worked for Calder, I said. All the time. Perma¬nently. Wherever he went, it was to manufacture patients for Calder.
She was silent so long that in the end I said, Ursula?
I'm here, she said. Do you want me to go on with the photos?
Yes, if you would. To find him.
Hanging's too good for him, she said grimly. I'll do what I can.
She disconnected, and I told Oliver what she'd said.
Bret Williams? He was Shane Williams here.
How did you come to employ him? I asked.
Oliver frowned, looking back. Good lads aren't that easy to find, you know. You can advertise until you're blue in the face and only get third- or fourth-rate applicants. But Nigel said Shane impressed him at the interview and that we should give him a month's trial, and of course after that we kept him on, and took him back gladly this year when he telephoned asking, because he was quick and competent and knew the job back¬wards, and was polite and a good time-keeper. . .
A paragon, I said dryly.
As lads go, yes.
I nodded. He would have to have been good; to have taken pride in his deception, with the devotion of all traitors. I consid¬ered those fancy names and thought that he must have seen himself as a sort of macho hero, the great foreign agent playing out his fantasies in the day-to-day tasks, feeling superior to his employers while he tricked them with contempt.
He could have filled the hollowed cores of apples with cap¬sules, and taken a bite or two round the outside to convince, and fed what looked like remainders to his victims. No one would ever have suspected, because suspicion was impossible.
I slept again on the sofa and the following morning Oliver telephoned Detective Chief Inspector Wyfold and asked him to come to the farm. Wyfold needed persuading; reluctantly agreed; and nearly walked out in a U turn when he saw me waiting in Oliver's office.