The Puppet Show (Washington Poe)

But for twenty-six years these boys had said nothing? Even with all the press the Immolation Man’s victims had been getting recently? One of them would have come forward. Even if it were just to ask how much compensation they might be entitled to.

In Poe’s opinion, the explanation for the boys’ continued silence was simpler. And far darker.

They were dead.

It was a thought he kept to himself.

During Poe’s overnight stay in hospital, Bradshaw had kept him up to date with what had happened in his absence. Swift had used a drug called propofol to put him and Reid to sleep. The tests on the evidence found at Montague Price’s home had been completed. Propofol was the unknown liquid in the vial.

It was one of the most commonly used anaesthetics. It was fast acting, could be taken orally, and didn’t stay in the body long. It was a heavily controlled substance, and Gamble had assigned four detectives to try and locate her source.

They might not yet know where she got the propofol from, but its use did provide an answer to one of the unanswered questions: how had five men been abducted without any sign of a struggle? They’d almost certainly been drugged and taken when they were semiconscious. Gamble’s working theory now was that they were either in on it together, or Swift had been trying to set up Price. With the ‘how’ answered, the ‘why’ could wait, apparently.

All the victims had empty stomachs, which gave additional credence to the theory that propofol had been used to facilitate their abduction. To keep her method unknown, Gamble believed Swift had kept her victims captive until the propofol was out of their systems – at least two days, according to the medical advice they’d been given. The search was on for her makeshift containment facility.

As Gamble prattled on, Poe caught Bradshaw’s eye and gestured for her to join him at the back of the room. ‘What do you reckon the two of us get out of here?’ he said. ‘Go back to Shap Wells and do some police work?’

‘Thought you’d never ask, Poe.’

Poe knew Flynn had been in on Montague Price’s interview, and that she’d already emailed Bradshaw a copy of the video.

‘Do you think Hilary Swift is the Immolation Woman, Poe? I’d be ever so surprised if she was.’

‘Why’d you say that, Tilly?’

‘Statistics. Eight-five per cent of serial killers are male.’

‘Still leaves fifteen per cent,’ Poe replied.

‘And less than two per cent of females have used fire to kill.’

‘Go on then.’

‘Go on then what?’

‘I know you’ve done the maths. What are the chances of a female serial killer who also uses fire?’

‘Statistically improbable, Poe.’

He sighed. An absence of motive and now he had Bradshaw’s maths. He didn’t care what Gamble thought, Poe’s gut was telling him that, although Swift was involved, she wasn’t their killer.

‘Come on, let’s go and see Price’s confession.’

The video was as clear as a 4K television. The interview room Gamble had used was small and square. Every line was straight and every corner sharp. The walls were cream and bare. The only things in the room were chairs, a table and some recording equipment. It was a serious room with a serious purpose.

Montague Price was a thin man in his seventies. Poe could see liver spots on his hands. He was resplendent in a tweed suit, complete with waistcoat and tiepin; every inch the country gent everyone believed him to be.

He’d been a big man in the hunting and shooting fraternity. He’d represented Great Britain in clay-pigeon shooting. That made him virtual royalty in Cumbria.

He was visibly shaking. Poe suspected the underlying reason was medical, rather than a fear of what was coming. Bartholomew Ward, his solicitor, had travelled up from London and was rumoured to be costing Price three thousand pounds a day.

Gamble, as chief superintendent, was too high in rank to sit in on interviews, but Price and his solicitor had agreed beforehand to waiver this in the spirit of cooperation. Flynn was in the room representing the NCA, and a detective Poe didn’t know was also present.

When the introductions had been made, and the recording equipment had been double-checked, Bartholomew Ward kicked it off.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, with no deference to the fact Flynn was in the room, ‘I am about to give you a prepared statement by

my client. I would like it formally acknowledged that my client has surrendered himself to your custody voluntarily.’