The Puppet Show (Washington Poe)

But what if it wasn’t luck? What if it had been intentional? Other than fluking their way into the charity gala, the Immolation Man had been in control. To date, he’d been the puppet master.

But why let them make any progress at all?

It could only be because he wanted Poe involved and he didn’t want him too far behind. And as soon as he thought about it that way, like a beacon through fog, his connection to the case shone through.

The Immolation Man wasn’t trying to evade justice – he was delivering it.

He wanted his story told, but only after the players had been punished. And with the investigation initially stalling and following clichéd theories, the Immolation Man had engineered the involvement of the one man who might see through the smog of confusion. Poe, with his stupid ‘follow the evidence anywhere’ mantra, became part of his narrative.

From the beginning, Poe had worried about motive, and with a case like this, when you had the motive, you had everything: the identity of the killer, what really happened on that charity cruise, how the victims were selected, everything. Poe could even take a stab at why the Immolation Man had killed the way he had.

It all made a twisted sense. From the Immolation Man’s perspective, it really did.

It was a child snuff ring that went to the top of Cumbria’s social elite. A landowner, a solicitor, a media baron, a council member and a member of the clergy. The Immolation Man was killing the people involved, but that was only half the story: he also wanted them exposed.

But he didn’t trust his own police force to do what was right. He knew his chief constable had ambitions higher than Cumbria. For advancement, he’d cover the reasons behind the castrations and burnings. He’d focus on the killings and nothing more. His story might never be told.

That was where Poe came in. The Immolation Man needed his dogged determination to see behind the headlines and get to the real story.

Reid had integrated himself into their investigation from the beginning, monitoring his progress, nudging them in the right direction if they needed help. It was Reid who’d sent him that postcard. It was Reid who’d told them about the salt-store connection; Poe doubted anyone had reminded him; he probably hadn’t even been to Kendal police station. Just came back to Herdwick Croft with an answer he knew Poe would obsess over.

And because he lived in Kendal, he fitted Bradshaw’s buffer-zone and distance decay models.

Poe even knew how he’d managed to abduct Hilary Swift.

All that was suspicious, but ultimately circumstantial.

Where was the motive? Why was he doing these monstrous things? Why would Reid, a decorated police officer with over fifteen years’ exemplary service, suddenly decide to become a serial killer?

The answer was he hadn’t. He’d decided a long time ago.

It was the jacket that provided Poe with the missing motivation.

It didn’t matter what the weather was doing, Reid never removed his jacket. For years, he’d taken the piss out of Poe’s lack of sartorial elegance. Whether they were at work, or on a night out, Reid always dressed well. In all the time he’d known him, Poe had never seen him without a shirt, jacket or jumper on. He’d certainly never seen him in a T-shirt, even when they were teenagers.

In the photograph of the boys, one of their nightmare starts to life had visible reminders. Mathew Malone had cigarette burns all over his torso and arms. Terrible scars that would never heal.

Kylian Reid’s arms were always covered.

Kylian Reid was Mathew Malone.

And Mathew Malone was killing the men who’d murdered his friends.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

‘You’re out of your fucking mind, Poe!’ Gamble said. ‘Out of your fucking mind!’

Poe had finished explaining. Gamble wasn’t buying it. Even Flynn was reticent.

‘It is a bit of a stretch, Poe,’ she said.

He needed them to believe him, and their reaction – although not unexpected – wasn’t helping. ‘Tilly,’ he said calmly. ‘Can you tell DI Flynn and DCS Gamble what you found, please?’

‘I can, Poe,’ she said. Leaning into the phone, Bradshaw said, ‘DS Poe asked me to check all vehicles registered to the Scafell Veterinary Group.’

‘What the heck is that?’ Poe noticed Gamble didn’t swear at Bradshaw. Drunks in Shap Wells aside, everyone seemed to regulate their language when talking to her.

‘They’re a veterinary practice and they used to have a lot of vehicles. Mainly four-wheel drives and Land Rovers. Since the company went dormant, they haven’t bought anything.’