‘Would you mind telling me what this is about?’
‘It’s come up in a murder investigation.’
‘I see,’ she said. It was obvious she hadn’t been expecting that. ‘I gather you’re not with Cumbria police.’
After explaining that he was with the National Crime Agency but attached to a Cumbrian murder investigation, she said, ‘Are you mobile? Because if you can get to the Civic Centre in Carlisle at midday I can meet with you. I’ll have retrieved the home’s records from archives by then.’
‘Will that include the financial records?’ he asked. If it did, there could be a paper trail to follow.
‘I’ve not seen them. But I’ll get onto finance when I put the phone down and make sure we get records going back . . .?’
‘Twenty-six years,’ he answered.
By the time he’d finished with Audrey Jackson, Reid’s call was over. ‘That was the boss,’ he said. ‘The body found in Carmichael’s coffin has been identified as Sebastian Doyle, sixty-eight years old. Everyone thought he’d moved abroad to be with his family in Oz, which was why he hadn’t been reported missing.’
‘He fit the same profile?’ Poe asked.
‘That’s all I have. Gamble said he’d keep me updated throughout the day.’
Poe didn’t respond. Another victim, another older man and, at the minute, all roads were leading to Quentin Carmichael’s charity cruise. He stood up. ‘Come on, we’ll need to get a shift on if we want to make that midday meeting.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
It didn’t matter how many charity abseils it hosted, Carlisle’s Civic Centre remained the most soulless building in Cumbria. Poe believed that uninspiring surroundings led to uninspired thinking, and it didn’t get any more uninspiring than the twelve-storey tower block in which Cumbria’s leaders worked. In the county that inspired William Wordsworth and Beatrix Potter, Poe found it shocking that planning permission had been granted to the monstrous eyesore that overlooked the city’s historic quarter. The imminent plans to knock it down and start somewhere else couldn’t come fast enough.
They were shown into Committee Room C, a characterless room that contained nothing that could cause offence: just an oblong table, plastic chairs and some Perspex-covered posters promoting the council’s mission statement. The ceiling light was dim and flickering. Tea and coffee had been arranged for them, along with some biscuits. Reid opened a three-pack of chocolate bourbons and they had one each.
Audrey Jackson arrived promptly at midday. A bespectacled man was with her. Poe introduced himself and everyone else did the same. When Jackson sat, he noticed she did so on the other side of the table. The man took a seat beside her.
The other thing he noticed was that neither had any records with them.
The man with Jackson began. ‘My name is Neil Evans, and I’m with the council’s legal services, Sergeant Poe. I must insist that you tell me what Seven Pines Children’s Home has to do with a murder investigation.’
‘I told Mrs Jackson over the phone,’ Poe replied.
‘And now you’re going to have to tell me, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘Even though it wasn’t one of our homes, Cumbria County Council has a duty of care for every child housed in Seven Pines, and although they’re now all over twenty-one, they remain entitled to certain services; one of which is confidentiality.’
‘This is a murder investigation,’ Poe said.
‘That may be so,’ Jackson cut in. ‘But there’s still a stigma attached to care leavers, Sergeant Poe. We’ve had it before. Rather than look for real evidence, the police simply round up all the kids in our care and see which one most fits the suspect profile.’
Poe didn’t respond. It was probably true.
‘So, if you’re on nothing more than a fishing expedition, Mr Evans will ensure we aren’t bullied into giving out the names of our children.’
Poe summarised what they knew and how they’d ended up at the Civic Centre with the assistant director of Looked After Children. He ended with, ‘And I have no interest in the children who stayed at Seven Pines, Mrs Jackson. At the moment, I am only interested in that cruise, and the only person we know who was definitely on it is dead. Quentin Carmichael, have you heard of him?’
From the looks that flashed between them, Poe knew they had. Neither tried to deny it.
Evans said, ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant Poe, but you haven’t passed the reasonableness threshold. I cannot expose the council to the risk of you seeing our records. I appreciate your candour, and I will note that at no point have you asked to see anything to do with the home’s former occupants, but if you want to see these records, you’ll need a warrant.’
Ordinarily, Poe would have been punching the wall, but Evans had a point. He said, ‘If I were to get a warrant, would it be worth my while?’
Evans stared at him. Almost imperceptibly, he nodded.
Poe turned to Reid. ‘How long will it take your lot to get one?’
‘You’ve seen them in action. Gamble’s a good SIO but he’s thorough. He won’t rush a decision.’