The Puppet Show (Washington Poe)

‘How do you fancy some advanced fieldwork, Tilly?’

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Poe dropped off Edgar, then picked up Bradshaw at the hotel’s front door. He didn’t bother turning off the car’s engine. Bradshaw – a star in the making – had understood he was coming off night work so had somehow rustled up fried-egg rolls and a flask of coffee. Poe ate the rolls before sipping the hot drink until it was cool enough to gulp.

The journey up the M6 took less than half an hour. By eight in the morning they were in Stanwix. Poe parked the car and they headed up the steps of the townhouse. Poe pointed at the BPhil after Francis Sharples’s name and asked, ‘You know what that means, Tilly?’

‘Bachelor of Philosophy, Poe.’

Poe shook his head. ‘It means he’s a cock.’ He pressed the intercom button and didn’t let up until a sleep-ridden voice answered.

‘Yah?’

‘See?’ Poe said. After he told Sharples who was at the door, and after ignoring his protests about civil liberties being trampled on, they were let in.

As before, he was waiting for them at the entrance to his flat. He’d either slept in his shorts or had managed to get dressed in the time it took them to walk up the stairs. Instead of the condescending smirk he’d worn last time, he was now struggling to hold a nervous smile.

This time Poe saw no reason to be nice. He wasn’t leaving until Sharples told him everything.

‘The information you’re concealing, it’s now part of a murder enquiry.’

‘I’m not conceal—’

‘Piss off,’ Poe snapped. ‘I’ve been doing this job fifteen years and I’ve never seen a worse liar.’

‘How dare you!’

‘Whatever.’ Poe couldn’t tell if Sharples was shocked at the change in tone or the fact someone didn’t believe him. ‘You can be as pretend outraged as you want, Frankie, I’m about to arrest you for assisting an offender and perverting the course of justice.’ Before Sharples could object, he added, ‘And at this stage, as you’re the only person connected with the case who we know to be lying, I am formally telling you that you are now considered a suspect in five murders. At the very least you will be convicted of joint enterprise.’

It was bullshit but Poe was banking on knowing more about the law than Sharples did. ‘Get dressed, you’re coming with me.’

Sharples was now shaking. Tears were in his eyes. Poe looked round the room. He’d been working on his book the night before. Or at least he wanted to give the impression he’d been working on his book. A neat stack of paper was lined up next to his laptop. It was his manuscript – where anyone who visited would be able to see it, Poe noticed – and there seemed to be about seventy pages. He picked up the title sheet: ‘The Increasing Relevance of Philosophy in a Smaller World’.

‘Nice computer, Mr Sharples,’ Bradshaw said, looking at his Apple laptop. ‘This model’s top of the range.’

While they talked computers, Poe looked at the expensive décor in the expensive flat in the expensive part of town. He’d wanted to ask Sharples last time how an unpublished philosophy graduate afforded a place like this.

‘How did you pay for all this, Mr Sharples?’

His eyes dropped to the floor.

‘I can have a forensic accountant here in a matter of hours, Mr Sharples. They’ll go through everything, and I mean everything. Better by far if you tell me now.’

Sharples mumbled something but it was too quiet for Poe to hear.

Bradshaw had, though, ‘He said he took something from the corpse.’

Poe nodded. ‘And what would that have been?’

‘A watch,’ he croaked.

Poe wasn’t a fashion guru but even he knew some watches were incredibly expensive. ‘Make and model?’

‘A 1962 Breitling 765. The strap must have broken when I accidentally tipped the body on top of Derek. I didn’t think, I put it in my pocket. To keep it safe.’

‘To keep it safe.’

‘Yes.’