The Puppet Show (Washington Poe)

Poe put a pot of coffee in the centre of the table and they got to work. As it was his line of enquiry, Flynn let him lead the first session.

‘Back to basics everyone. I want us to assume these men did know each other at some point. They may have been hiding that fact, but that’s what we detectives do; we detect things.’

Bradshaw stuck her hand in the air.

Poe waited but she said nothing. He looked at her, confused, until he remembered that up until a year ago, her entire life had been spent in classrooms and lecture halls. ‘Tilly, you don’t have to put your hand up. What is it?’

‘I’m not a detective, Poe. I’m an employee of the National Crime Agency but I don’t have the power of arrest like you, Detective Sergeant Reid and Detective Inspector Stephanie Flynn.’

‘Er . . . thanks for clearing that up, Tilly. Good to know.’

Bradshaw nodded.

For the next four hours they delved into the lives – and deaths – of Graham Russell, Joe Lowell and Michael James. At midday, Reid took a phone call.

‘We have a name for victim number four. Clement Owens. Sixty-seven years old. Retired solicitor. Worked in the private sector and represented the banking industry. Apart from his wealth, there’s no obvious connection to the others. We’ll have more info soon.’

Flynn called a break. They were all getting hungry and she’d brought sandwiches with her. Poe suggested they ate outside.

Although Poe enjoyed the harsh beauty of a Cumbrian winter, he’d lived at Shap for over a year now and felt qualified to say that spring was his favourite season. Other than the omnipresent sheep, winter stripped the fells of life. Left acres and acres of bitter, colourless landscape for as far as the eyes could see. Spring seemed like resurrection. The days were longer, dormant plants pushed green shoots through the warming earth and the heather blossomed. Exotic gardens of lichen and moss burst into life. Ferocious, freezing winds became warm, richly scented breezes. Birds nested, animals bred and there was a renewed sense of optimism in the air. It was the time of year that made you appreciate the beauty and slower pace of life in rural Cumbria.

While Flynn was off making a phone call, and Bradshaw chased Edgar all over Shap Fell, Poe turned to Reid and said, ‘It’s good to see you again, Kylian. How long’s it been?’

‘Five years,’ Reid grunted through a mouthful of ham and egg.

‘Five years? It can’t be. The last time I saw you was—’

‘My mother’s funeral,’ he said accusingly.

A burst of blood coloured Poe’s cheeks. Reid’s mother had died of motor neurone disease, after years of illness. He was right, the funeral had been the last time Poe had seen him.

‘I’m sorry, mate,’ he said, but Reid waved away his apology. ‘How’s your dad keeping?’ asked Poe.

‘You know him, Poe. He only retired because mum told him he had to. Still does a bit for a stable in Lancashire. Not even sure they pay him, he does it to fill his time. If he’s not doing that, he’s napping in front of the fire or reading books on racing.’

Reid’s father had been a highly respected vet specialising in racehorses. As a boy, Poe had loved visiting George Reid’s veterinary practice. There were always animals to fuss over.

‘How’s your dad?’ Reid asked, smiling. ‘Still a beatnik?’

Poe smiled. It wasn’t far from the truth. His father lived to travel, and rarely came back to the UK. The only time he’d lived in one place for any length of time was when he was raising Poe. His mother, unable to handle the vanilla life, had abandoned them both when he was a toddler. His father had temporarily sacrificed his nomadic spirit and brought him up alone. As soon as Poe joined the Black Watch, he was off again. They kept in touch via email but they hadn’t seen each other for almost three years. As far as Poe knew, his father was in Brazil somewhere. Doing what, he had no idea. He could be deep in the rainforest or running for political office, there really was no way to tell. He loved him dearly but he’d never been what you’d call a ‘traditional’ parent.

Poe’s mother had died a few weeks after he’d been suspended, killed by a hit-and-run driver. He only found out when his fa

ther emailed him five weeks after she’d been cremated. He’d been saddened by her death, just as he was saddened by anyone’s death, but he hadn’t lingered on it. She’d made a choice to put her own needs before his a long time ago.

‘You seeing anyone?’ Reid asked.

Poe shook his head. He’d always found it hard forming relationships. When he’d been down in Hampshire, there’d been a few women, but nothing that lasted for more than a few weeks. A therapist might have told him it was because he had a deep-seated fear of abandonment, but Poe would have told them they were wrong: he wasn’t scared of abandonment: it was all he’d ever known . . .

‘You?’ he asked.

‘Nothing permanent.’

‘Well, aren’t we a pair of romantic bastards?’ Poe smiled.

Flynn returned from her phone call. ‘I’ve just spoken to Director van Zyl,’ she said. ‘He wants us to stay up here for as long as it takes. I told him about our new line of enquiry and he agrees it’s worth pursuing.’

She sat down, poured herself a coffee and grabbed a sandwich. She looked tired and Poe knew the investigation was getting to her. None of it made sense – especially his connection – and SCAS were supposed to answer questions, not pose them.