The Puppet Show (Washington Poe)

He returned to the file and reread the summary. Some kid, whose dad had wangled a job for him with the council, had panicked when they’d found the body in the machine’s bucket, and instead of lowering it to the ground he’d dumped it all over his colleague, a Mr Derek Bailiff. Bailiff had suffered a stress-induced heart attack and died at the scene.

‘I want permission to speak to the witness then,’ he told Flynn.

‘What witness?’ she asked.

‘Francis Sharples. The one who accidentally killed his mate when they found the body. If I can’t examine the corpse, at least let me have a word with someone who saw it. There might be something that seemed irrelevant then but doesn’t now.’ Poe pressed his advantage, ‘Come on, Steph, part of being the boss is knowing when to compromise.’

‘Fine,’ she said eventually. ‘But I’m coming with you.’

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Bradshaw was happy to keep working at Herdwick Croft so Poe didn’t have to dump Edgar with his neighbour. She promised she wouldn’t give him too many treats. Poe left out a handful but hid the rest; Edgar had begging down to an art form and Bradshaw had already proved to be a pushover.

Reid texted Poe the address for Sharples. Since the incident at the Hardendale Salt Store, he’d moved out of his parents’ house and into a flat in Carlisle. What he did for a living was anyone’s guess.

Poe knew where he was going and Flynn didn’t so they took his car. They were soon speeding along the A6. A few miles later they were at the turn-off for the M6, but instead of entering the northbound traffic, Poe drove over the motorway bridge and stopped beside a wrought-iron gate. He turned off the engine and said, ‘That’s the Hardendale Salt Store. That’s where the so called Tollund Man was found.’

They got out of the car and wandered up to the depot. It was only a stone’s throw from the motorway. From the outside, the domed building looked like a planetarium or a modern concert hall. Tens of thousands of motorists passed it every day, wondering what it was. The metal gates were locked; Poe doubted it was open much during the warmer months, but the small detour had served a purpose. The journey had taken less than ten minutes and it emphasised – in his opinion, at least – the possible link between himself and the body.

‘And back there,’ he said, pointing the way they’d come, ‘is where I live. As the crow flies it’s less than eight miles.’

Flynn didn’t see it that way. ‘It doesn’t mean anything, Poe. As DS Reid said, this depot almost certainly wasn’t the one he died in.’

Poe said nothing.

Forty minutes later Poe pulled up outside Francis Sharples’s flat. It was in a converted townhouse in affluent Stanwix, an area that was all delis and bouncer-less pubs.

‘North of the river,’ Poe said. ‘Very posh.’

/> ‘Is it?’ Flynn asked.

‘For Carlisle, yes. The city doesn’t have the wealth of the towns and villages in the Eden Valley or the National Park, but most areas aren’t too bad.’

She shielded her eyes and craned her neck to look at the house. ‘What do you think Sharples does for a living?’

‘God knows. He’s a philosophy graduate: I’m assuming he’s on the dole.’

She smiled and pressed the button on the intercom with the typed name ‘Sharples’. Poe noticed that BPhil had been added in biro.

A tinny voice answered, ‘Yah?’

They looked at each other. Flynn rolled her eyes.

She leaned in, and, in a clear voice, said, ‘National Crime Agency, Mr Sharples. We’d like a word, please.’

There was a significant pause. There always was after they announced themselves. They might not have the status of the FBI – their American equivalents – but their name was still enough to spook people. Eventually the door clicked open.

Sharples’s flat was on the top floor and he was waiting by the door. He was a tall and stringy man. He didn’t ask for their ID but they showed him anyway. He turned around without glancing at them. They followed him in.

The townhouse might have been Georgian but the interior was all twenty-first century. The large living room had polished oak floors. Modern pictures hung on the whitewashed walls. A large desk with an Apple laptop dominated the window wall. A bookcase displayed a selection of highbrow books. Tolstoy’s War and Peace, Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment, an Old English edition of Beowulf: none of the spines were creased and Poe instinctively knew they were for show only.

He offered them his hand. ‘My friends call me Frankie.’

This time it was Poe’s turn to roll his eyes. He made sure Sharples saw.

After inspecting the rest of the room, Poe said, ‘Can I ask what you were doing when we knocked?’

‘I was working,’ he said.