The Puppet Show (Washington Poe)

‘Perfect,’ she said.

After another round of handshakes, Poe and Flynn made their way back to the car.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Flynn turned to face Poe. ‘What was that about?’

‘The “liaison” thing?’

‘Yes. That.’ She sounded angry. ‘Do they not trust me?’

Poe shrugged. ‘It’s not you they don’t trust, Steph. It’s me.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

Shap Wells was a hotel with a past. Almost as isolated as Herdwick Croft, it could only be accessed via a mile-long drive down the narrowest of roads. During the Second World War, its isolation had been used to the Allies’ advantage: it was requisitioned from the E

arl of Lonsdale and turned into Prisoner of War Camp Number Fifteen. It had held up to two hundred prisoners, mainly German officers, with the camp leader at one point being a German prince related to Queen Mary.

The main north–south railway line was near and security had been high as trains had facilitated POW escapes from the camp. Two barbed-wire fences had been erected around the hotel, and towers had allowed guards to cover every angle with powerful searchlights. The concrete bases of the guard towers were still visible if you knew where to look. Poe did; he knew the hotel well. His car was permanently parked there, he took advantage of the free wi-fi when he needed to go online, and he ate in the restaurant at least twice a week.

Next morning, before making his way to the hotel, Poe left Edgar with Thomas Hume, the farmer who’d sold him the croft and the surrounding land the year before. They’d become friends and did the occasional favour for each other. Poe allowed Hume to graze his sheep on his land and helped him with the odd bit of dry stone walling – usually when Hume needed muscle rather than technical ability – and Hume looked after Edgar when Poe was away.

Although he usually walked the two miles to the hotel, that morning Poe took his quad bike. He collected his mail from the receptionist, a New Zealand girl who always had a smile for him, and went looking for Flynn and Bradshaw.

They’d just finished breakfast and Poe helped himself to a coffee. Flynn was wearing another power suit, black this time. Bradshaw was wearing the same cargo pants and the same trainers, but a different T-shirt. This one had a faded picture of the Incredible Hulk and the phrase ‘Don’t make me angry’. He was surprised Flynn had allowed it. Then again, he wasn’t – the art of management was all about avoiding pointless battles.

Five minutes later Kylian Reid joined them. Flynn frowned in annoyance but shook his hand. He updated them on the fourth victim. He still hadn’t been identified but the body had been recovered and was now being prepped for post-mortem. Gamble wanted to know if SCAS would put it through the MSCT. Flynn confirmed they would.

Flynn had managed to get the use of a small conference room for the duration of their involvement. Poe was pleased they’d be working away from the main investigation. He’d never been the most popular cop in Cumbria: his tendency to speak truth to power meant that he’d been tolerated at best and he knew his suspension from the NCA had been joyfully received in his old force. He didn’t care, but he didn’t want any ongoing antagonism to get in the way of what they were doing.

They were in the Garden Room on the ground floor. Despite the age and grandeur of the hotel, the room was modern and well equipped. Flynn had chosen a bigger room than they needed. It allowed them to section it off. They spent the first half hour setting up Bradshaw’s equipment and arranging the tables so they had a conference area and enough space to move about. They weren’t allowed to pin or Blu Tack anything to the walls so Flynn called for additional whiteboards and flipcharts.

Incident rooms were the beating hearts of major investigations and Poe felt the familiar tingle of excitement; there was something exhilarating about setting up a new one. Before long it would be populated with clues and questions, of things they knew and things they wanted to know.

It was going to be different to previous investigations in which Poe had been involved. In the official incident room at Carleton Hall, Gamble would have an army of staff: office managers, action managers, document readers, indexers, exhibits officers, house-to-house coordinators, disclosure officers and file preparation officers.

At Shap Wells there was just the four of them. It was liberating.

When Bradshaw had hooked up the computers, they began.

Flynn kicked it off. ‘I’m suggesting we start with why Poe’s name was carved into the chest of Michael James. Any one disagree?’

Poe gave everyone the chance to speak up. No one did.

He raised his hand. ‘Just a thought.’

They all looked at him.

‘I think, for now at least, we should assume it’s a red herring. I don’t know any of the victims and I know DCS Gamble is going through all my old cases to see if anyone I put away fits the profile of a serial killer. What value can we add?’

Flynn said, ‘You have an alternative line of enquiry, I take it?’

Poe nodded. ‘There’s a far more important question that hasn’t been answered yet.’

‘Which is?’ Reid asked.

‘Why the gap between the first and second victim was so long and the gaps between the second, third and fourth were so short?’

Flynn looked slightly annoyed and he knew why. Experience suggested – and it was backed up by statistics – that serial murderers started slowly then speeded up.