The Puppet Show (Washington Poe)

Poe doubted it. The laptop was in sleep mode and he noticed the Blu-ray player was powered up. The case for a Transformers Blu-ray was open and there was a cup of coffee on the table in front of the large TV. Poe didn’t wait to be asked; he sat down on the nut-brown leather sofa.

Sharples tried to give him the evil eye. He was a strange-looking man. A pubic beard covered his chin and his moustache could have been made of eyelashes. His Adam’s apple was so big it looked like he’d swallowed a triangle. His thinning hair was tied back into a ponytail. He wore shorts, a T-shirt and leather sandals. A black tattoo was just visible on the bone behind his ear.

How had a Grade-A dickhead like this ever worked for the council’s road department? Nothing Poe had seen fitted with him ever having had a manual job.

Flynn explained why they were there and Sharples stiffened. The memory appeared fresh. He touched his ear when Flynn asked him if he knew anything that might be of help to them. Poe looked closer and saw he was running his fingers over his tattoo. He continued touching it while he recounted the sequence of events at the Hardendale Salt Store.

He admitted releasing the JCB load instead of lowering the bucket. Derek Bailiff had been his friend and mentor. That he’d caused his death had devastated him. And, no, he couldn’t remember anything useful about the body that he hadn’t already told the police. He hadn’t seen much of it. It was just the hand sticking out initially, and even when he’d mistakenly tipped the load on top of Bailiff, most of the corpse had stayed buried. He hadn’t been there when the body had been taken away. He’d resigned before he was fired.

It was clear that he’d told the story many times. He didn’t need to pause while he remembered details. It sounded rehearsed and Poe couldn’t help feeling that Sharples was leaving something out. He knew witnesses frequently did this; they tried to present themselves in the best possible light, and a peacock like Sharples even more so.

He needed to put him off his stump speech. ‘What’s with the ink, Mr Sharples?’ Poe would rather eat petrol-station sushi than call someone Frankie.

Sharples turned so they could see it. Flynn leaned forward. ‘Looks like a circle.’

‘It’s an ouroboros. A snake eating its own tail. Symbolises the cyclicality of life. It means—’

‘I know what it means,’ Poe cut in.

‘I had it done after the incident. It’s a private reminder of the fragile nature of life.’

‘I wish I could remember what my personal philosophy was,’ Poe muttered. He needed to take him away from the Francis Sharples appreciation society. Needed to needle him, get him talking without thinking. ‘And it’s a private reminder my arse. You have it behind your ear so people will ask about it. You love talking about what happened. Probably the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to you.’

‘No!’

Don’t let him settle; keep him on his toes.

‘What do you do, Mr Sharples?’

‘I told you, I was working.’

‘No, what do you do for a living? What is your profession?’

‘I’m an author. I’m writing about how philosophy’s increasing in relevance in a shrinking world.’

‘Published?’

‘Not yet. But I’ve had some very promising responses to my proposals.’

‘May I see them?’

‘See what?’

‘Letters from publishers and agents.’

‘You clearly don’t understand the publishing industry, Sergeant Poe. It’s all done verbally these days.’

‘Yep. You’re talking shit,’ Poe said. Before Sharples could protest, or Flynn could intervene, he asked, ‘What aren’t you telling us?’

Sharples paled and glanced at Flynn. Her eyes bore into him.

‘N-n-nothing,’ he stuttered.

‘How long have you lived here?’

‘About three months,’ he replied.

‘And before then?’