The Puppet Show (Washington Poe)

‘And van Zyl was OK excluding me from my own investigation?’ She seemed to have softened slightly. Probably recognised they were going to exhume the body whether she liked it or not. Professional curiosity was blunting the indignation.

‘Honestly, Steph, I don’t think he realised. I think he assumed I was acting on your instructions.’ Poe didn’t think that at all. Van Zyl was an intelligent and pragmatic man – if he hadn’t mentioned Flynn it was because he hadn’t wanted to mention her. He hadn’t wanted to hear Poe lie. He’d almost certainly realised he was going rogue and was probably glad Poe hadn’t dug up the grave himself. But he wouldn’t want to subvert the chain of command too much; there would be repercussions. He’d have to come down on Flynn’s side when the body was back in the ground. ‘I’m assuming van Zyl called you?’

She nodded. ‘First thing. Told me my exhumation order was down in reception. You could imagine my surprise.’

Poe could. He almost smiled but held it in. Now wasn’t the time to be conciliatory; Flynn needed to stay mad at him for a bit longer.

She said, ‘Look, Poe, when all this is over you could very well be back in charge. And if that happens, it’s fine; I’ll be glad to be your sergeant again. But until that happens can you please, for the love of God, just give me the respect I gave you?’

Was that what she really thought of him. That he’d circumnavigated her because he didn’t respect her? That he was struggling reporting t

o a former subordinate? He hoped not, because nothing could be further from the truth. Flynn had been an awful sergeant but she was shaping up to be a great DI. She had the potential to be the best boss he’d ever had. It was right that she was angry.

He told her as much and was happy when she reddened. ‘This is all on me, Steph. When Gamble finds out I will hold my hands up. Tell him you weren’t involved.’

‘Fuck you, Poe,’ she sighed. ‘We’re in this shit show together.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Come on. It’s time.’

The earth was soft and damp and the gravediggers made it look effortless. With their over-long spades, they moved the dirt in quick, economical movements. Poe had no idea how deep graves were supposed to be. ‘Six feet under’ sprang to mind but he didn’t know if that was from the top or the bottom of the coffin, or just a phrase with no bearing on modern graveyard regulations. After ten minutes of digging they’d ditched their spades and one of them had got in and was moving the last of the mud with his hands. After a few moments he’d exposed wood. The webbing straps used to lower the coffin were wet and dirty but still in good condition – they hadn’t been in the ground for long – and he passed them up to his colleagues. No point fitting new ones when the ones in situ were perfectly serviceable.

‘We’ll lift it out and place it directly into the shell, Sergeant Poe,’ Ackley said. ‘You can remove the lid and examine the contents from there. When you’re finished we’ll widen the grave slightly and reinter.’

The man who’d cleared the coffin and located the webbing straps grabbed the hand of his mate and climbed out of the grave. As he did so, part of the webbing caught on his leg. It caused him to slip and he banged against the side of the coffin.

The lid moved.

That was odd. Coffin lids weren’t simply popped on like the top on a tube of Pringles, were they? Weren’t they supposed to be nailed down?

‘The lid. It’s loose,’ Poe said.

They all peered into the grave.

A sickly sweet stench of putrefaction wafted up.

Flynn’s nose wrinkled in disgust. ‘What’s that?’ She removed a handkerchief from her pocket and held it across her mouth and nose.

There was something wrong with the smell.

‘I don’t know, but it’s not coming from someone who’s been in salt for about thirty years,’ Poe replied. It was too . . . organic.

The man in the grave reached down to remove the coffin lid.

‘Stop!’ Poe yelled. He reached down and grabbed the man’s hand. Hauled him up. He faced the three gravediggers. ‘I need you all to put down your spades and remove your protective clothing.’ He turned to the environmental health officer. ‘You too, Freya. This isn’t an exhumation site any more, it’s a crime scene.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The body in the coffin wasn’t the dried-out husk of the unidentified male they’d been expecting – it was another victim of the Immolation Man. Judging by the smell, it wasn’t a new victim. It was as badly burned as the body Poe had seen in the circle at Cockermouth, but whereas that body had smelled disgusting but fresh, this one smelled disgusting and rotten.

‘It’s the fifth victim,’ Poe said, ‘or the fifth one we’ve found anyway.’

Flynn didn’t seem to be able to tear her eyes away from the blackened corpse in the grave.

‘I take it you believe me now when I say the two are linked?’

‘What the hell’s going on, Poe? And where the hell’s Tollund Man?’

Poe didn’t have a clue.

But Flynn had hit the nail on the head; the new victim being there was incidental and of little interest to them. That was a job for Gamble and the main investigation. Poe had no doubt that the Immolation Man’s primary objective in replacing the body with another victim had little to do with mischief; it was to stop Poe finding out who Tollund Man was.