The Puppet Show (Washington Poe)

Ah.

‘And you realise that as you’re now officially a serving police officer again, if you refuse to come back to work it’s a sackable offence? But rather than go through all that, I’ve been told I can accept your resignation now. I’ve taken the liberty of getting HR to draw up this document.’

Poe studied the one-page sheet. If he signed at the bottom, he was no longer a police officer. Although he’d been expecting it for a while, he found it wasn’t as easy to say goodbye as he thought. If he did sign, it would draw a line under the last eighteen months. He could start living.

But he’d never carry a warrant card again.

He glanced at Edgar. The spaniel was soaking up the last of the sun. Most of the surrounding land was his. Was he ready to give all this up?

Poe took her pen and scrawled his name across the bottom. He handed it back so she could check he hadn’t simply written ‘piss off’ on the bottom. Now that her bluff had been called she seemed less sure of what to do next. It wasn’t going to plan. Poe took the mugs and coffee pot inside. A minute later he was back outside. Flynn hadn’t moved.

‘What’s up, Steph?’

‘What are you doing, Poe? You loved being a cop. What’s changed?’

He ignored her. With the decision made, he just wanted her to go. ‘Where’s the other document?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You said you had two things for me to sign. I’ve signed your resignation letter, so unless you’ve got two of them, there’s still something else.’

She was all business again. Opening the file, she removed the second document. It was a bit thicker than the first and had the official seal of the NCA across the top.

She launched into a rehearsed speech. It was one Poe had used himself. ‘Washington Poe, please read this document and then sign at the bottom to confirm you’ve been served.’ She handed over the thick sheaf of paper.

Poe glanced at the top sheet.

It was an Osman Warning.

Oh shit . . .

CHAPTER THREE

When the police have intelligence that someone is in significant and immediate danger, they have a duty of care to warn the victim. The Osman Warning is the official process for discharging that duty. Potential victims can consider the protective measures being proposed by the police, or, if they aren’t happy, they can make their own arrangements.

Poe scanned the first page but it was full of officious bullshit. It didn’t say who he was at risk from. ‘What’s this about, Steph?’

‘I can only tell you if you’re still a serving police officer, Poe.’ She handed him the resignation letter he’d just signed. He didn’t take it.

‘Poe, look at me.’

She held his gaze and he saw nothing but honesty in her eyes.

‘Trust me. You need to see what’s in this file. If you don’t like it, you can always email Hanson your notice later.’ She handed him back his resignation letter.

Poe nodded and tore up the letter.

‘Good,’ she said.

She passed across some glossy photographs. They were of a crime scene.

‘Do you recognise these?’

Poe studied them. They were of a dead body. Blackened, charred, almost unrecognisable as a human being. Shrunken, as anything primarily made of liquid is after exposure to extreme heat. The corpse looked as though it had the same texture and weight as the charcoal Poe removed from his wood-burning stove every morning. He could almost feel the residual heat through the image.

‘Do you know which one this was?’ Flynn asked.

Poe didn’t answer. He flicked through the sheaf of photos searching for a point of reference. The last one was a shot of the whole crime scene. He recognised the stone circle. ‘This is Long Meg and Her Daughters. This . . .’ he pointed at the first photograph, ‘. . . must be Michael James, the Tory councillor. He was the third victim.’