The Puppet Show (Washington Poe)

Price’s murder wasn’t the endgame and Reid wouldn’t have hung around waiting. Poe checked anyway. There was a part of Reid that Poe hadn’t known about and there was no point taking unnecessary risks. He got out of the car, climbed onto the bonnet and recced the immediate area. It appeared clear.

He cast his eyes towards the Kemp Howe stone circle. It was perhaps the strangest in Cumbria. Against a backdrop of ancient moorland, it formed part of the Shap Stone Row, a collection of rocks that ran for a mile and a half alongside the A6 and the West Coast Mainline. It would have been about twenty-five yards wide if the Victorians hadn’t bisected it when the railway was laid. More than half the circle was under the embankment. The remaining six pink granite stones were large and visible from both the road and the railway.

In among them, something was smouldering.

Poe jumped down, got in the car and moved it into the middle of the road to ensure no one could get past. He put on his hazard lights.

Turning to Bradshaw, he said, ‘Until I tell you otherwise, you’re the outer cordon officer. That means no one gets into this field without my permission. Understand?’

She nodded. ‘You can rely on me, Poe.’

‘I know I can, Tilly. There’ll be some help here soon. Get the first police vehicle to park twenty yards up that way,’ he pointed up the road, ‘so we’ll block off the road completely. If anyone gives you any shit, shout for me.’

Bradshaw stepped away from the car and stood in the open entrance facing out. She looked resolute. Pity the idiot who tried to argue with her.

Poe took a moment to make sure he’d done everything he needed to do. Conduct a quick risk assessment: check. Secure the crime scene: check. Allocate resources appropriately: check.

Time to go and see if it was a burning sheep – kids did that sometimes in Cumbria – or a burning paedophile. If anyone had asked Poe for his preference, he’d have had to flip a coin.

For Reid, haste would have become more important than subtlety. Poe suspected that he’d have driven into the field and directly up to the circle. Poe walked along the wall. He had no way of recording the route he’d taken, and this was as good a way as any of ensuring vital evidence wasn’t trampled on later. From this point on, everyone approaching the crime scene would use the same route.

He was still fifty yards away when the possibility of it being a six-months-too-early bonfire-night prank disappeared.

It was a body.

Poe approached it cautiously. It was clear that the victim’s injuries were incompatible with life. His charred remains were blackened and smoking. The heat was beginning to crack the skin. Parts of his flesh glowed red. The smell was acrid. Poe bit down on his tongue to stop himself retching. He needed to pull himself together. People were relying on him.

The body’s arm moved and, for one heart-stopping moment, Poe thought it was still alive. He was about to rush in and start . . . well, he didn’t know what, until he realised that it was the heat causing the muscles to contract. By the time it cooled, the body would be as twisted as a corkscrew.

Although he’d have to be formally identified through DNA and dental records, Poe was certain it was Price. He wasn’t as badly burnt as the body at Elva Plain and he could see features he recognised from the video interview. It looked like Reid had been in too much of a hurry to stake him properly. He’d probably only had enough time to cover him with accelerant and set him on fire.

As Poe neared the body, he reconsidered – Reid had also made his signature statement. Price’s trousers were round his ankles. Reid had castrated him. And judging by the amount of blood on the grass, Price had been alive and unrestrained when his genitals had been removed. Poe scanned the area, but couldn’t see the amputated flesh. He su

spected it was where everyone else’s had been: in his mouth.

He looked back towards Bradshaw – he didn’t want her seeing this – and was relieved to see she was still facing the road. His phone rang and he answered it, unable to tear his eyes away from the horror unfolding in front of him.

‘Poe,’ he said.

‘It’s Ian Gamble. Are you there yet?’

‘I am, sir.’

‘And?’

‘Bad news, sir. I think it’s Montague Price. He’s dead, I’m afraid.’

‘Mother of mercy,’ Gamble whispered. ‘What have I done . . .?’

Poe understood. Gamble had Price in custody and now he was dead. Killed by someone under his command. There’d be investigations after this and Gamble would probably lose his job. He’d certainly never be an SIO again. Poe had a measure of sympathy for the man. No one could have been properly prepared to manage a case like this. A serial killer who was part of the investigating team? Poe had never even heard of anything like that before. Reid knew all the lines of enquiry. He’d helped shape strategy. He’d led on certain things. He knew where Gamble had deployed his mobile ANPR cameras. He knew which circles were being staked out. He knew what the police were doing and he knew what the NCA were doing. He knew everything.

How could that possibly be countered?

Yet Gamble had made mistakes. He should have doubled down on Montague Price’s security as soon as the Immolation Man’s method of abduction had been identified; the Prison Officers Association had long ago identified the possibility of ex-prisoner transport vans being used to facilitate escapes. As unlikely as it was, Gamble should have at least considered it.

And yes, he should have listened to Poe more often, instead of trying to block him at every turn. Hindsight was a wonderful thing.

‘What do you want me to do, sir?’ Poe asked. ‘At the minute I’m protecting the scene and Tilly is acting as outer cordon. We could do with some professional support.’