The Curator (Washington Poe)

by M. W. Craven

  Within a minute all three had said yes.

  Chapter 15

  Flynn had arrived at the hotel an hour after Poe. She looked exhausted.

  She must have had the same conversation with Nightingale as he’d had, as she said, ‘Where do you want to put yourself tomorrow, Poe?’

  ‘I want Tilly to examine Rebecca’s laptop, boss.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’ll be protected with MoD encryption. No way the High-Tech lot in Cumbria will be able to open it.’

  ‘You ever consider that we’re not meant to open something like that?’

  ‘Not for a second,’ Poe replied. ‘And I’m not interested in her work. There’s nothing to suggest that’s how the victims are being chosen.’

  ‘Then why examine her computer?’

  ‘Amanda Simpson’s abduction would have been simple enough. Straight in and out in an area with a low population at this time of year. And Howard Teasdale’s murder, well … he was a registered sex offender with an Xbox. Total recluse by the looks of things. If he wasn’t at the takeaway the chances were he’d be at home whacking off.’

  ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘I can see how he did it with Amanda and Howard but I can’t with Rebecca. I don’t know how he broke into her house and I don’t know how he knew when she’d be in. The front of her house is on a main road and a six-foot wall protects the rear. All her doors and windows have modern, burglar-proof locks.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I need Tilly to see if she’d emailed anyone her work schedule or any other appointments she had,’ Poe said. ‘The only way I can see it happening is if the killer knew exactly when she’d be leaving her house. It’s possible he simply rushed her and bundled her back inside.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like the man we’re after.’

  ‘It doesn’t,’ Poe agreed, ‘but it’s all I’ve got.’

  ‘Do it then,’ Flynn said.

  She then talked them through what they knew about Amanda Simpson. It didn’t take long. They had a three-day window for her abduction – the time she was last seen and the missed Skype chat with her boyfriend. The working theory was that she’d been taken from her flat. Because students went home for Christmas, only Amanda and an old man on the top floor had been in during that period. CCTV didn’t cover the flats but Nightingale had a team combing through the town’s cameras anyway. They weren’t expecting anything. This killer was only seen when he wanted to be.

  Flynn said, ‘Estelle Doyle’s scheduled Howard Teasdale’s post-mortem for the day after tomorrow. Perhaps we’ll know more then.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Poe said.

  ‘What have you been working on, Tilly?’

  ‘I’ve been profiling Howard Teasdale, DI Flynn,’ Bradshaw replied. ‘I’ve emailed you both my initial report but I’m not sure how helpful it is. He spent more time playing online games than I do.’

  ‘OK, I’ll look at it later tonight,’ Flynn said. ‘Are you going to draw up profiles on the other two victims now that we know who they are?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘After you’ve examined Rebecca’s laptop you’d better base yourself here. It’ll save you traipsing across Cumbria with Poe.’

  ‘I like traipsing across Cumbria with Poe.’

  Poe stifled a grin.

  Flynn sighed. ‘My feet are fucking killing me and my ankles are twice the size they normally are. Can we skip ahead to where we’ve had the argument and I’ve won but Tilly does whatever she pleases anyway?’

  ‘Sounds about right,’ Poe said.

  ‘Good, because I need to lie down for a while.’

  When Flynn had left, Poe said, ‘Go and get some rest, Tilly – we’re gonna Sherlock the fuck out of this thing tomorrow.’

  Bradshaw giggled.

  ‘Classic Poe. That’s so going on Twitter.’

  ‘No it bloody isn’t,’ he said.

  It was dark when Poe got back to Herdwick Croft. It was cold and empty. He wished he’d stopped to get Edgar. The spaniel brought the croft to life the same way seagulls did at the coast.

  He’d collected his mail from reception at Shap Wells Hotel. Because the ancient stone cottage was inaccessible by car and, as the postman had point-blank refused to yomp over two miles of rugged moorland to deliver it every day, he’d come to an arrangement with the hotel to have his mail delivered there.

  Poe flicked through it while he swigged a bottle of beer. The last letter was a copy of one sent to his solicitor by the council’s legal department. They wanted Poe’s availability for court.

  They were pressing ahead with their eviction.

  Poe had been fleeced with the purchase of Herdwick Croft. Victoria’s father, Thomas Hume, had told him it was for sale because of an unexpected council tax demand. He’d offered it to Poe at a knockdown price. Peaceful, isolated, simple – it had everything Poe had ever wanted and he’d turned it from a derelict shepherd’s croft into a home he thought he’d never leave.

  But the real reason behind the sale was that Thomas Hume’s planning permission to convert it into a home had been refused. It was worthless. Poe had applied for retrospective planning permission, but since the Lake District National Park had been extended to include Shap Fell, and more recently been given UNESCO status, the chances of success were lower than sheep shit in a tyre track.

  Poe’s time at Herdwick Croft was borrowed.

  He twisted the letter, put a match to it, and used it to light his wood-burning stove. He finished his beer, made himself a beef sandwich then sat down with his notes. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d missed something at Rebecca’s bungalow. Something had either been there that shouldn’t, or wasn’t there that should have been. He reran his steps and studied the photographs he’d taken but he saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  He knew how his mind worked and it was pointless trying to force it. It would either come or it wouldn’t.

  When his eyes started to tire he decided he’d be serving the investigation best by getting some sleep. He tidied up then put some water in his espresso maker so it was ready to go in the morning.

  He frowned then picked up one of the photographs of the kitchen. He saw the discrepancy immediately.

  ‘Where’s her bloody kettle?’ he muttered.

  Chapter 16

  The journey to Rebecca’s bungalow the following morning took longer than expected. A freezing fog was suffocating Shap Fell and the dips and sinkholes simmered like witches’ cauldrons. It was impossible to judge how deep they were and, despite knowing the route well, Poe exercised caution – if he came a cropper he would likely die of exposure before anyone found him.

  By the time he got to the outskirts of Carlisle the mist had disappeared and the sun was low and dazzling. It was the type of weather where you needed sunglasses but felt silly wearing them.

  Bradshaw was waiting for him at the side of the road. CSI had finished processing Rebecca’s bungalow during the night and their vans were no longer parked outside. A lone uniformed constable stood at the entrance of the driveway. He watched them approach then bent down to retrieve a clipboard protected by a clear plastic sheet. Poe and Bradshaw showed him their IDs then waited for him to radio it in. When he received authority, he told them they were free to go in.

  ‘Door’s not locked,’ he said as they walked past.

  Other than the millions of particles of fingerprint dust that hung in the air, the bungalow looked the same as it had the day before. Poe walked Bradshaw over to the laptop. Before she could open it and get stuck into its guts, he gave her a bit of context.

  ‘The laptop has been left for you to examine, Tilly. Rebecca Pridmore was a senior contracts officer with the MoD and was currently working on some sort of strategic weapons system for nuclear submarines. On her laptop there will be any number of interesting things – most of which will lead us down blind alleys if we let them. Your job is to separate the interesting from the important.’

&
nbsp; He paused to let it sink in.

  ‘Jeez, Poe, and you say I’m a dork …’

  ‘Just tell me if she was hacked, will you?’ he said. ‘The killer was on a tight schedule and I need to know how he knew when she’d be at home.’

  The laptop was password protected. Bradshaw opened one of her own laptops and before long she had cables running between them. In two minutes Rebecca’s MoD-encrypted laptop was unlocked.

  Poe left her to it. She was oblivious to him now anyway.

  The day before, when he’d been searching the bungalow, he’d been restricted in where he could look by where CSI had put down their stepping plates. Now that the scene had been processed he could go anywhere he wanted.

  And he had a kettle to find.

  Which he failed to do.

  ‘What are you looking for, Poe?’ Bradshaw said.

  ‘I can’t find her kettle.’

  ‘There’s a café not far from here. Shall I go and get you a black coffee?’

  ‘I meant it’s bothering me that I can’t find it.’

  ‘Lots of people don’t have a kettle, Poe.’

  ‘I don’t know a single person who doesn’t have a kettle,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t have one.’

  ‘I have a pot I use.’

  ‘Maybe she has a pot she uses.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said, looking round the sleek, modern kitchen, ‘but I doubt it.’

  The sound of clacking stopped.

  Bradshaw said, ‘There’s nothing obvious on her laptop. If she’s been hacked then my program hasn’t been able to spot it. And as I wrote the program I’m confident in saying that she hasn’t been hacked.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ he said. He’d not expected to find anything but he was still disappointed.

  ‘I’ll run the program again using slightly different search parameters, but …’

  A tall man had entered the room. He had a stiff walk, like he’d eaten some bad prawns. He didn’t see Poe so approached Bradshaw.

  ‘I’m looking for Detective Sergeant Washington Poe,’ he said.

  Bradshaw looked up, flashed him an on-off smile and said, ‘OK.’

  She went back to her laptop. Poe grinned. Sometimes Bradshaw appeared normal, but it never lasted long.

  ‘Excuse me, young lady!’ the tall man snapped. His throat rattled cancerously when he breathed in. ‘When I ask you a question, you’ll answer me!’

  Bradshaw looked up in astonishment. Poe nipped out from the kitchen area and stood in front of the man. He had a blotchy face and ears like a gremlin. He looked startled by his sudden appearance.

  ‘Apologise,’ Poe said.

  The man’s blotches became more pronounced. ‘She’s touching MoD property; I’ll speak to her any damn way I choose!’

  Poe took a step forwards. Put his nose six inches from the man’s. ‘Look into my fucking eyes.’

  The man backed off and held up his arms in supplication. He turned to Bradshaw and said, ‘I’m sorry.’

  Bradshaw shrugged and went back to the laptop.

  ‘He didn’t even ask a question,’ she muttered. ‘How was I supposed to answer him?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to stop doing that, miss,’ he said. He flipped open a black wallet and showed Poe an ID card.

  ‘Malcolm Sparkes. Ministry of Defence. Security,’ he said.

  ‘You’re here for the laptop?’

  ‘I am. And there’s no point trying to unlock it – it has military-grade security.’

  ‘How long did it take you, Tilly?’ Poe said.

  ‘Ninety-seven seconds, Poe.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Sparkes said.

  Bradshaw turned the laptop around and showed him a clearly unlocked screen.

  ‘But-but how …?’ he said.

  Bradshaw ignored him.

  ‘What can you tell me about Mrs Pridmore?’ Poe said.

  ‘Other than she’s in big trouble when she gets back to work, nothing.’

  ‘Why’s she in trouble?’

  ‘She’s obviously not using our security.’ Sparkes couldn’t stop staring at the unlocked computer.

  ‘She was.’

  ‘She was what?’

  ‘She was using the laptop security. Tilly is just better than the people who designed it. And she isn’t in trouble because this is a murder investigation.’

  ‘Murder? I thought it was a missing persons case.’

  ‘Not any more.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘We are. We’re trying to find out how the killer knew she’d be at home.’

  Poe talked him through what they knew so far.

  ‘Hashtag BSC6?’ Sparkes said.

  ‘You don’t know what it means, do you?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Are you going to let us do our job?’

  Sparkes nodded. ‘But can I ask that I supervise what your analyst is doing, and if I think she’s getting into sensitive areas can I ask her to stop?’

  That didn’t seem unreasonable, and Poe said as much. Bradshaw had probably got everything she needed by now anyway.

  ‘What can you tell me about her job?’ Poe said.

  ‘Not everything, obviously, but basically Rebecca was our man on the ground, as it were. Contract management is done at a pretty high level but we still need people to work on site.’

  ‘What exactly did she do?’

  ‘The contract she was managing was for the strategic weapons system on the new SSBNs being built.’

  ‘SSBN?’

  ‘Ship Submersible Ballistic Nuclear,’ Sparkes replied. ‘Submarines basically. The navy has two types of nuclear-powered subs – those that are armed with Trident and those that aren’t. SSBNs are the former. The Dreadnoughts being built now are replacing the current Vanguard class. As well as managing the contract, Rebecca was responsible for liaising with everyone involved.’

  ‘Everyone at BAE?’

  ‘As well as the Royal Navy and the MoD. Even the Yanks.’

  ‘The Americans? I thought BAE only built British subs,’ Poe said.

  ‘They do, but the Americans own the design for the Trident D5 missiles and they need to know that our subs will be compatible with theirs.’

  Poe processed what he’d been told. He still didn’t think Rebecca was murdered because of her work but it seemed she interacted with far more people than he’d first assumed. He briefly wondered if DC Pearson had been right: that the other murders were to disguise the one that mattered. Hiding her murder in a serial killing investigation. It had been done before. It was something to keep in mind.

  ‘Which program did you use to breach her computer?’ Sparkes asked Bradshaw. ‘I’d better report we’re vulnerable to it. Make sure our tech-heads can write in a fix.’

  Bradshaw shrugged. ‘It doesn’t have a name.’

  ‘Where did you get it then?’

  ‘I wrote it.’

  ‘So, you’re good at this computer stuff?’

  ‘I’m good at everything,’ she said. And with that she lost interest and went back to what she was doing.

  Poe pulled Sparkes away. ‘Better to let her get on with it. If it’s any comfort there won’t be another program like hers and she assures me Rebecca wasn’t hacked.’

  ‘That’s a relief, I suppose.’ He kept glancing over at Bradshaw. ‘I’ll still need to make a phone call.’

  ‘That’s one way to get rid of him,’ Poe said after he’d left.

  Bradshaw nodded without looking up.

  ‘There’s no kettle but I can get you a drink of water if you want?’

  ‘Yes, please, Poe.’

  Poe turned on the tap and stared out of the window while he waited for the water to get nice and icy. When you drew it directly from the ground like he did you kind of got spoiled when it came to meat locker-cold water.

  A bunch of starlings flew in and settled on the largest tree in the garden. It was stripped of foliage and colour, little more
than a skeleton. Winter was the comma in the year. It stripped the land of colour and joy but without it there would be no spring – the plants and trees needed time to rest.

  There was nothing wrong with helping the animals through the colder months, though. He did it at Herdwick Croft by leaving out bacon rind and Rebecca did it here with fat balls. Poe watched as a starling hung upside down and pecked at one. Before long there was a mass of feathers and confusion as ten more joined it.

  A wood pigeon flew in and landed on the edge of the stone birdbath. It pecked in vain at the solid ice, desperate for something to drink.

  At the solid ice …

  Poe straightened.

  He knew how Rebecca had been abducted.

  Chapter 17

  Each morning for the last month, Poe had needed to unfreeze Edgar’s outside water bowl. At Herdwick Croft he brought it inside and put it under the hot tap.

  Rebecca Pridmore didn’t have a dog bowl. But she did have a birdbath. A stone birdbath that would freeze solid every night just as Edgar’s water bowl did. And no way was she bringing that inside – it had probably taken two strong men just to site it. She’d have taken the hot water to it.

  She’d have taken her kettle to it.

  Every morning.

  Poe imagined she boiled it, poured some into her cafetière, and then took the rest outside. He doubted it would take more than five minutes but it would be five minutes when she’d have been vulnerable. If someone was aware of one of the few routines she had, they could lie in wait and grab her when she stepped outside. And in a garden with such high walls, no one would witness it.

  If he was right, the kettle was still in the garden.

  ‘I’m popping outside, Tilly,’ he said.

  He found it immediately. One of the advantages of a garden stripped of its greenery was that things were easier to find. The kettle was in a small shrub near the birdbath. It was stainless steel and half-dome-shaped. An old-fashioned one that would sit on the Aga.