The Puppet Show (Washington Poe)

‘Computer games, I expect,’ Poe replied.

Reid decided to stay the night. He booked a room and they drank whisky and smoked cigars until the early hours. They discussed how Gamble would handle the search for Montague Price. Earlier, they’d all watched the ten o’clock news where Gamble had made the first of what Poe was sure would be many public appeals. Although he’d privately thanked SCAS, it must have slipped his mind to do it publicly. If you believed what he said, it was only because of his determined and unwavering leadership, along with the extraordinary skills of his detectives, that the breakthrough had been made.

Oh well, Poe had never been in it for the glory.

A late night and a bellyful of whisky did not make for a pleasant morning. Edgar woke him at eight. His look said, ‘A piss, breakfast and a walk, please.’

He groaned out of bed and threw open the front door. The harsh stab of sunlight he’d expected didn’t happen. Instead, thick tendrils of fog crept into the croft. Putting on some old trainers, he dawdled outside to see how bad it was. The fog at Shap was legendary and could trap the fells in a thick blanket at any time of the year. Today’s was a beauty; like looking out of a 747’s window as it flew through cloud. Edgar ran off and disappeared in the vast whiteness. Visibility was down to a handful of yards; like a giant eraser, the fog had eradicated everything from view. He couldn’t see Shap Wells. He could barely see his own hand.

Poe wasn’t leaving the house until it cleared; it was too dangerous. He got a few slices of bacon frying and toasted some bread. Edgar would find his way back by smell.

His phone rang. It was Flynn.

‘Morning, boss.’

‘They’ve got him.’

Poe’s stomach flipped, and it was nothing to do with his hangover. ‘Price?’

‘Yep.’

‘Where?’

‘They didn’t catch him. He walked into Carlisle police station with his solicitor three-quarters of an hour ago.’

Thrown by the unlikely scenario of the Immolation Man handing himself in, Poe could manage no more than, ‘Bloody hell.’

‘Indeed,’ said Flynn.

‘What’s he saying?’

‘Nothing yet. He’s still locked in a room with his solicitor. Gamble wants to know if you want to be there when he starts talking?’

Poe didn’t, and luckily he had the perfect excuse; every Cumbrian knew of the Shap fog. Gamble would understand.

‘It is a bit thick this morning,’ Flynn agreed after he’d politely declined. ‘I’ll go and represent our interests. I think I can just about make out the road from here.’

‘OK, boss. Keep me updated?’

‘Will do.’

* * *

After his breakfast, he sat outside with a coffee while Edgar exercised. Around 10 a.m. the sun began burning through the fog and Poe reckoned it would be safe to have a wander over to the hotel to see if Reid had surfaced.

He was halfway there when his phone rang. It was an 020 London number. He answered and the director of intelligence, Edward van Zyl, bade him a good morning.

‘Who are you speaking to, Poe?’ van Zyl asked.

Poe stopped, looked at his handset in confusion before replying. ‘Er . . . you, sir. Director of Intelligence van Zyl.’

Van Zyl replied, ‘You must be mistaken, Poe. The last time we spoke was just before you went on leave.’

‘OK . . .’

‘You’ve heard Price is in custody?’

‘I have, sir.’