The Puppet Show (Washington Poe)

Seven Pines was located between Ambleside and Grasmere and was a magnificent building. Detached, full of character and the size of a small hotel. The external wood was painted yellow – for some reason traditional Lake District houses all seemed to have brightly painted wooden beams. It was tucked up a small lane, and had views of Rydal Water.

Poe’s antennae started twitching. He looked across at Reid and saw the same sense of unease. They were both aware of how much property cost in the area. It was on a par with London.

Before they got out of the car, Poe sent Bradshaw a text. They waited until she replied and when she did Poe grunted in satisfaction.

He knew how to start the interview.

They’d called ahead so Hilary Swift was expecting them, although they hadn’t told her what it was about. Poe and Reid walked up the immaculately raked shale path and knocked on the door. It opened immediately. They presented their identification and she studied each one carefully.

Hilary Swift had the type of accent that grated. An affected upper-class drawl that she’d perfected over the years. Poe suspected he knew more about her than she wanted him to know. She’d been born and brought up in Maryport, although if anyone ever asked, she’d rewritten her history and claimed a more upmarket Cockermouth heritage. Poe was all for people bettering themselves – it was how the human race advanced – but snobbery wasn’t the way to do it.

She was wearing a knee-length skirt and matching jacket, and her hair was a perfect Margaret Thatcher rip-off. Poe knew she was in her sixties but in questionable lighting she could have passed for fifty.

Inviting them inside with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, she guided them towards the lounge. It was clearly her showstopper room. The view out of the bay windows was stunning. Through a tunnel of trees, the eyes were guided to distant views of the lake. The interior wasn’t in tune with the exterior, though. Where the outside was governed by National Park regulations, the inside was proof that good taste couldn’t be bought. It looked like a bottle of Pepto-Bismol had been mixed with glitter then sprayed everywhere. And the hideous colour theme aside, Swift didn’t believe in clean lines or the minimalist approach to interior design either; Poe had never seen a room with so much furniture. Innumerable tables were heaped with lamps and bowls and clocks. T

he walls were jammed with bookcases and shelving units. They were adorned with expensive-looking tat. Her philosophy seemed to be, if it shone, she should own it.

Poe was scared to sit down in case he knocked something over.

A social worker’s salary didn’t come close to paying for all this.

‘I can’t give you long, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘My grandchildren came back from Australia with me, and my daughter follows in a fortnight. We’re having a family holiday. They’re upstairs, playing nicely for now, but I don’t know how long that will last. I’ll get us some tea.’

‘I’ll give you a hand, Mrs Swift,’ Reid said.

He knew Reid had gone with her so that Poe could have a nosey. He approached the window and counted the pines. There were five. He was still looking for the other two when Reid and Swift returned with a fully laden tray. She saw where he was looking.

‘Storm Henry, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘We lost two of them in February 2016.’

He’d long been of the view that if you wanted people to take storms seriously, they needed names like Roof Wrecker or Bastard rather than Henry or Desmond. No wonder the public were constantly surprised by them.

‘Can you tell me how you came to live here, Mrs Swift?’ Poe asked.

‘Can I rephrase that question for you, Sergeant Poe?’ she smiled. ‘Because what I think you meant to ask was, “How can I afford to live here?” Am I correct?’

‘You are.’

‘When the charity closed the home, I was given first refusal on the sale of the property.’

‘I was more interested in—’

‘In how I paid for it?’

‘Yes,’ Poe said. The text from Bradshaw had confirmed there was no outstanding mortgage. Swift owned Seven Pines outright.

A flash of temper lit her eyes. ‘My late husband. He knew when and where to invest our money, Sergeant Poe.’

Although he’d read about her husband – he’d worked for some accountancy firm in Penrith – it was a vague answer. Accountants were well paid but they weren’t massively well paid. He decided to leave it for now. A noise from upstairs was followed by the sound of a child crying. Swift left her seat and walked to the door. She raised her voice. ‘Annabel! Jeremy! Grandma’s downstairs talking. Can you keep it down, please?’

‘Sorry, Grandma,’ a child replied.

Poe noticed that when Swift raised her voice, her cultured accent slipped and the Maryport girl shone through. ‘Do you know why we’re here, Mrs Swift?’ he asked when she’d retaken her seat.

‘If I were pressed, I’d say one of the home’s ex-residents has been naughty and you want some background information on them? That’s what it normally is. I retired a long time ago but I still keep in touch with some of the children I looked after.’

‘Do you remember a man called Quentin Carmichael?’ Poe asked.

Her eyes narrowed. ‘So, that’s why you’re here. Because of what happened on Ullswater. But why now? It was over twenty-five years ago.’