The Puppet Show (Washington Poe)

‘But she’s not field ready?’

‘She has an IQ close to two hundred but probably can’t boil an egg—’

‘Ash, is there any legal reason why I can’t take her?’ Poe asked.

‘If she claims customs and practices, we’d defend it and she’d lose.’

Poe looked at him. He waited for a yes or no answer.

‘No,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing in employment law that offers her any protection.’

‘That’s settled then,’ he said, ‘and this time last year, I couldn’t boil an egg.’

Poe walked back into his office and sat down. He steepled his fingers and leaned forwards to face Bradshaw. He’d try something Flynn had tried on him the day before and hope Bradshaw wasn’t in the mood to bluff him. ‘You have two choices. One, you go home and pack a bag for a Cumbrian spring, or two, I accept your notice right now.’

Bradshaw looked even more nervous than before.

I’m missing something, Poe thought. ‘What is it, Tilly? Why can’t you leave the office?’

Eventually she stood, her eyes brimming with tears. She stomped out of his office without a backwards look.

Poe watched as she made her way to her desk. She got to her workstation and slumped in her chair. She put on some headphones and began typing.

He followed her over. Perhaps she hadn’t understood the urgency.

‘Miss Bradshaw, DI Flynn tells me you’re the best we have. I need you up in Cumbria. You’re no use to me behind a desk.’

‘Duh,’ she said, ‘what do you think I’m doing?’

An arrogant-looking young man laughed insolently. Poe gave him a look that would’ve withered a thistle. He read what Bradshaw had typed into Google’s search bar: What to pack for a Cumbrian spring?

‘You’ve got to be kidding me?’ he said.

She looked up. It was clear she wasn’t.

There were no personal items around her workspace. Flynn had tidied up the office since he’d left, but everyone else had managed to personalise their workspaces. Mugs with ‘World’s Best Dad’, cheaply framed photographs of partners and kids, the odd risqué calendar. Bradshaw’s was empty.

‘Have you just moved to this desk, Tilly?’

She looked confused. ‘No. I have been here almost twelve months, Poe.’

‘Where are all your things then?’

‘What things?’

‘You know, your mug, a cuddly toy, a novelty pen,’ he replied. ‘In other words, where’s all your shit?’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I used to bring things in but people took them for a joke. I never got them back.’

Poe’s heart missed a beat. ‘Look, just pack as if you’re going away for a few days: a change of clothes, some toiletries, that type of thing. I also need you to bring all the gear you need to catch a serial killer,’ he said. ‘And be quick. There’s been a fourth murder.’

‘You don’t understand how much trouble I’m in,’ she muttered.

An hour later, Poe understood.

Bradshaw had left to pack – Flynn had needed to authorise a taxi as Bradshaw didn’t have a

car and her mother usually dropped her off and collected her – when Diane, the receptionist, walked over. She was smiling and Poe already recognised that as a bad sign.