‘Stop!’ he cried. People looked at them.
Bradshaw looked at Poe for guidance. He said nothing.
‘Please,’ Tapping whined.
‘Tilly,’ Poe said.
‘Yes, Poe?’
‘After you’ve asked him to come over, can you get me another pint of Cumberland while you’re near the bar?’
‘Of course, Poe.’ She turned and made a beeline for the bishop who was momentarily standing on his own.
In silence they watched her approach Nicholas Oldwater. She gently tapped him on his arm and he turned. He bent down to hear what she had to say and they both looked at Poe and Tapping. Poe waved. Tapping didn’t. Bradshaw and Oldwater began walking over. It wasn’t a quick process. Everyone wanted to talk to the bishop.
‘Fuck you, Poe,’ Tapping muttered under his breath. ‘Fuck you very much.’
‘I reckon you have about thirty seconds,’ Poe said.
‘Thirty seconds for what?’ He wasn’t trying to hide his panic.
‘To convince me,’ Poe replied.
‘Convince you of what, man?’ Tapping couldn’t tear his eyes away from the approaching bishop.
‘Not to tell the bishop you insulted his guests and called him a moron.’
‘How?’ he snapped.
‘I want back on the Immolation Man case.’
Two more seconds. The bishop got closer.
‘OK!’
‘Tonight,’ Poe said. ‘I want a phone call from my DI telling me that Cumbria has had a rethink. Same access as before.’
Tapping gritted his teeth. ‘Fine.’
‘I’d smile if I was you, Leonard. The bishop’s very influential, you know . . .’
‘Well, that was fun,’ Poe said to Bradshaw. The bishop had just left to go over his speech, and Tapping was making his phone call.
‘Come on,’ Poe said, ‘let’s go and see if we can learn something about the Carmichaels. By the end of the night I want to have spoken to all three of them.’
That was easier said than done. Notwithstanding the Bishop of Carlisle, the Carmichaels were the stars of the show. As soon as one sycophant finished talking to them, another two took their place. While they waited for an opportunity to present itself, they idly walked along the right-hand side of the auditorium. The side with the display cabinets.
Starting at the end furthest from the stage, they worked their way along. Whoever had arranged the display had done it chronologically and Poe realised he’d started at the wrong end. The first item he read was the invitation card for that evening. The next few cabinets seemed to be the Carmichaels posing with various dignitaries and C-list celebrities, holding oversized cheques or champagne flutes.
Poe had almost finished the most recent decade when he felt a polite tug at his elbow. It was the bishop.
‘Sergeant Poe, can I introduce you to Jane Carmichael?’
She was a tall woman in her forties. Her blonde hair was piled high on her head, beehive style, and her understated gown probably cost more than Herdwick Croft.
Carmichael smiled politely and offered her hand, not in the standard vertical position, but palm down as if she were royalty. Poe resisted the urge to bow. He lightly shook her fingers. She ignored Bradshaw, who wandered off, oblivious to the snub.
‘Charmed,’ Carmichael said. ‘What brings you to my event, Sergeant Poe?’