‘Wounds,’ Bradshaw replied. ‘Lots of them.’
‘So the post-mortem missed a load of random slashes?’
Bradshaw shook her head. ‘That is what I thought.’ She pressed a button and they studied the 3D image of the wounds on the victim’s chest. The program sorted through the seemingly random slashes. Eventually they all came together.
They stared at the final image. There was nothing random about it.
‘What do we do now, Detective Inspector Flynn?’
Flynn paused before answering. ‘Have you called your mum to explain why you aren’t home yet?’
‘I sent her a text.’
‘Well, send her another one. Tell her you won’t be back tonight.’
Bradshaw began tapping the screen of her mobile. ‘What reason shall I give?’
‘Tell her we’re getting the director out of bed.’
CHAPTER TWO
Washington Poe had enjoyed his day repairing the dry stone wall. It was one of several new skills he’d learned since moving back to Cumbria. It was backbreaking work but the reward of a pie and pint at the end of the day was all the sweeter for it. He loaded his tools and a few spare rocks into his quad’s trailer, whistled for Edgar, his springer spaniel, and then began the drive back to his croft. He’d been working on the outer boundary wall today so was over a mile from his home, a rough-stone building called Herdwick Croft. It would take him fifteen minutes or so to get back.
The spring sun was low and the evening dew made the grass and heather shine. Birds chirped territorial and mating songs and the air was fragrant with early flowers. Poe breathed in deeply as he drove.
He could get used to this.
He had been planning on a quick shower then a walk over to the hotel, but the closer to home he got, the thought of a long soak in the bath with a good book was far more appealing.
He crested the last peak and stopped. Someone was sitting at his outdoor table.
He opened the canvas bag he always carried with him and removed a pair of binoculars. He trained them on the lone figure. He couldn’t be sure, but the person looked female. He increased the magnification and smiled grimly when he recognised the figure with the long blonde hair.
So . . . they’d finally caught up with him.
He put the binoculars back in his bag and drove down to see his old sergeant.
‘Long time no see, Steph,’ Poe said. ‘What brings you this far north?’ Edgar, the furry traitor, was fussing round her like a long-lost friend.
‘Poe,’ she acknowledged. ‘Nice beard.’
He reached up and scratched his chin. He’d got out of the habit of daily shaves. ‘You know I’ve never been good at small talk, Steph.’
Flynn nodded. ‘This is a hard place to find.’ She was wearing a trouser suit; navy blue with pinstripes, and judging by how lean and supple she looked, she’d obviously kept up to date with her martial arts training. She exuded the confidence of someone in control. A pair of reading glasses lay folded beside a file on the table. It looked like she’d been working before he’d arrived.
‘Not hard enough apparently,’ he replied. He didn’t smile. ‘What can I do for you, Sergeant Flynn?’
‘It’s Detective Inspector now, although it couldn’t possibly make the slightest bit of difference.’
Poe raised his eyebrows. ‘My old job?’
She nodded.
‘I’m surprised Talbot allowed you to take it,’ Poe said. Talbot had been the director when Poe had been SCAS’s detective inspector. He
was a petty man, and he’d have blamed Flynn for what happened just as much as he blamed Poe. More so perhaps – Poe hadn’t hung around; she had.
‘It’s Edward van Zyl now. Talbot didn’t survive the fallout.’