The Curator (Washington Poe)

by M. W. Craven

  He had a pair of binoculars raised to his eyes and he was staring out to sea.

  ‘I saw a minke whale yesterday,’ he said without warning and without turning round. His voice was muffled. ‘I’ve been waiting to see if it’s still here.’

  ‘Really? I didn’t think they came this far,’ Poe said.

  Atkinson said nothing for several moments. ‘You lot just won’t take no for an answer, will you?’

  ‘I’m not the police, Mr Atkinson.’

  He sighed and lowered the binoculars into his blanket-covered lap. ‘So, who are you then?’ With practised efficiency, he pushed one wheel, pulled the other and did a neat one-eighty.

  And Poe got his first look at the person they called ‘the man in the mask’.

  Chapter 62

  Poe had attended surveillance courses throughout his career, and the one lesson that had stuck was to look beyond the moustache, the long beard, the silly hat. A man robs a post office wearing a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles and the human condition meant that that would be all the eyewitnesses would remember. Ten people would describe the same person differently but they’d all be able to tell you what his glasses looked like.

  He’d assumed he was above all that. That when he looked at people, he really looked at them. But, right then, if anyone had asked him the colour of Atkinson’s hair, he wouldn’t have been able to tell them – all he could see was the mask.

  Bradshaw had sent him a link so he’d known what to expect but seeing it for the first time was still a shock. It was clear plastic and moulded to fit the contours of Atkinson’s acid-ravaged face. It started at his hairline and ended an inch or so underneath his chin. It extended to his ears and had a hinged jaw, which explained why his voice had been muffled.

  He could see the hypertrophic scarring underneath, the result of an overgrowth of collagen, the fibrous protein that forms part of the body’s supporting tissue. The network of scars were thick and white and awful. It looked as if Atkinson’s face was covered with caul fat, the lacy membrane of a pig’s abdomen that encases butcher’s faggots.

  The inert plastic mask applied direct pressure to the face and helped flatten out the non-elastic collagen fibres and reduce the livid purple hues. Bradshaw said it would be OK to take it off for short periods of time, although it would get uncomfortable – the mask caused sweat to build up on the face, which kept the scarring moist and flexible.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Poe said. ‘I thought I’d have done better.’

  He stepped forward and offered his hand. It wasn’t taken. ‘I’m Washington Poe. I’m with the National Crime Agency and I really need to talk to you.’

  ‘So talk,’ Atkinson said.

  ‘Can I bring Detective Superintendent Jo Nightingale round? She’s police but she’s good people, I promise you.’

  ‘You know what Cumbria Police did to me?’

  ‘I do and I’m sorry. All I can say is that neither me nor the super had anything to do with it.’

  Atkinson shrugged. ‘Five minutes. Then I want you off my property.’

  Without another word he wheeled himself up the ramp, through the modern French doors and into the cottage.

  Poe walked round to what they’d assumed was the front of the bungalow. Nightingale was still peering through the keyhole.

  ‘He was whale watching,’ Poe said. ‘He’s not happy but he’s agreed to give us five minutes.’

  ‘What’s he like?’ she asked.

  ‘Pissed off. And don’t stare at his face. We won’t get away with that twice.’

  Much like Herdwick Croft, most of the bungalow was open-plan. The French doors led into a large living area. A wood-burning stove filled with glowing embers warmed the room. The floor was stripped pine and the walls were whitewashed. The furniture was minimal and functional and there were wheelchair friendly routes between everything. No tight corners or narrow gaps between chairs. Two of Atkinson’s walls were fitted with bookcases and every chair in the room had a quality reading lamp beside it. No prizes for guessing what he did in the evening.

  The room and its fittings had been designed well: nothing was out of reach for a man sitting down. The doorframes Poe could see had been widened and the doorknobs lowered, the floor was obstruction free and there was ample space to turn a wheelchair. Poe assumed the kitchen and bedrooms were equally as accessible.

  Nothing was cheap either; it was all high-quality stuff. The kind you have when you spend most of your time at home. Poe would have liked a look around the rest of the bungalow. He felt an affinity with Atkinson and his way of life and thought he could probably learn from him.

  There was a gap between two low tables and Atkinson reversed into it. It looked to be where he sat when he wasn’t using one of the reading chairs. Poe didn’t want to sit without being invited, but he didn’t want to stand over Atkinson either. Lesson one, day one of the interviewing victims and witnesses course was get down to their eye level.

  Nightingale forced the issue by taking a seat. Poe got the feeling she was still annoyed that Atkinson had sent her officers back with a flea in their ear the night before. He reluctantly took the seat opposite her.

  ‘Mr Atkinson,’ Nightingale said, ‘my name is—’

  ‘Not you, him,’ Atkinson said, clipping her sentence. ‘I won’t talk to Cumbria Police. He said you were a nice person and I won’t have you standing outside in this weather but while you’re in my house you won’t speak.’

  Nightingale stared at him. Eventually she shrugged.

  ‘Fine,’ she said.

  ‘Mr Atkinson,’ Poe said, ‘we have reason to believe that your life’s in danger.’

  Atkinson’s expression didn’t change. Poe wasn’t sure if it could underneath the mask.

  ‘Out here?’ he said. ‘I hardly think so.’

  ‘Nevertheless.’

  ‘Why, though?’

  ‘We don’t know. We think because of the court case.’

  ‘I was cleared of all wrongdoing and even if I hadn’t been’ – he gestured at the wheelchair and at his face – ‘I’ve paid a steep enough price already.’

  ‘We believe this threat is credible.’

  ‘I imagine they all do to Cumbria Police. They won’t want to mess up again.’

  ‘Can I tell him, ma’am?’ Poe asked Nightingale. They needed Atkinson to start taking things seriously and at the minute they were getting nowhere.

  Nightingale nodded.

  ‘Mr Atkinson, on Christmas Eve two severed fingers were found wrapped in a Secret Santa gift in Carlisle. On Christmas Day two more were found in the font in a church in Barrow. The last pair was found on Boxing Day. They’d been put into the deli counter at a food hall in Whitehaven. Each pair came from a different victim. The victims are all dead.’

  Atkinson stared at him.

  ‘All the victims have now been identified, although only one body has been recovered. We think you’ve been selected as the fourth and final victim.’

  ‘What makes you think that? I don’t bother anyone out here. I rarely see anyone. The court case is over.’

  ‘Because of who the three victims were.’

  When Atkinson spoke his voice was muted. ‘Who were they?’

  Poe glanced at Nightingale.

  ‘Tell him,’ she said.

  ‘They were the three jurors who voted not guilty at your trial,’ he said gently.

  ‘Oh no,’ Atkinson cried, his hand going to his mouth. As much as it could, his face blanched.

  Poe pressed on.

  ‘The killer is ruthless, resourceful and well-funded and, although your being alive proves he hasn’t yet located you, we believe it’s only a matter of time before he lands on Montague Island. Superintendent Nightingale has over two hundred police officers working this case and we are no nearer to identifying or catching him.’

  ‘But … but why?’ Atkinson said. ‘What possible motivation could he have?’

  ‘Superintendent Nightingale is following
several lines of enquiry, one of which is that someone who lost everything when the waste management plant went bust hired him.’

  ‘Someone from J. Baldwin is trying to kill me?’

  ‘It’s possible they’ve hired the services of this man, yes. We’re watching them, of course, although whoever’s behind this is not our primary concern right now. The most pressing matter is to find the killer before he finds you. That’s why Superintendent Nightingale sent out officers last night and why we walked across the sand flats this morning.’

  ‘What makes you think he’ll be able to find me, though?’ Atkinson said. ‘Witness protection changed my identity to Ian Carruthers. Everything’s registered under that name. There’s nothing on the island under the name of Edward Atkinson.’

  ‘I don’t want to appear rude, Mr Atkinson, but you don’t exactly blend in. How long do you think it’ll take a determined and resourceful man to find out where the man in the mask lives?’

  Atkinson gave it some thought.

  ‘A long, long time,’ he said eventually.

  Chapter 63

  ‘Let me explain,’ Atkinson said. ‘The builders who renovated my bungalow did so under the guidance of the architect. None of them met me and I didn’t move in until after they’d left. I purchased the land via email and under my witness protection name. You haven’t been on the island long but I can assure you, everyone here fiercely protects their privacy – I haven’t seen or spoken to any of my neighbours in years and during the colder months none of them are here anyway.’

  ‘Even so—’ Poe said.

  ‘My provisions are brought in by sea and left on the terrace,’ Atkinson continued. ‘I do not meet with the people who deliver them and the account is settled monthly under the name Carruthers. I have a handyman on retainer in case I need assistance but I’ve never had to call upon his services. I don’t meet with these people out of any concern for my security, you understand, but because I’m hideous. South Cumbria is not a progressive place and I will not become an object of curiosity. And don’t forget, I could be anywhere in the world. The money I got from Cumbria Constabulary and from J. Baldwin was not inconsiderable – to any right-minded person, an isolated and inhospitable island off the coast of Barrow-in-Furness would be the last place to look for a man in a wheelchair.’

  Poe conceded he had a point.

  ‘This is a safe place for me to be, trust me.’

  Nightingale, who’d hadn’t spoken for a while, said, ‘Be that as it may, Mr Atkinson, now I’ve identified you as being at risk I have a statutory duty of care. I realise we fucked that up spectacularly last time and I appreciate we’re the last people you want to see, but I promise you, we’re not going anywhere. If I have to put fifty police officers on and around this island I will. I would rather have your cooperation but I don’t actually need it. This is an active murder investigation and putting you under surveillance is a legitimate tactic.’

  Atkinson let out a lisping sigh. He shrugged and said, ‘I can’t stop you from using the island’s public land but I will not have Cumbria Police on my property. If I have to, I’ll go to the press.’

  Nightingale was about to protest but Atkinson raised his hand to stop her.

  ‘However, I can see a compromise is needed. How about this: as Mr Poe isn’t Cumbria Police, I will allow him to stay with me until this thing’s resolved. Is this agreeable?’

  Atkinson and Nightingale negotiated for ten minutes. They finally agreed that Poe could rotate with Flynn if she were up for it. Nightingale had been reticent about allowing a heavily pregnant woman to take on the task but agreed that the decision was Flynn’s, not hers.

  ‘I’ll start now, ma’am,’ Poe said. ‘Can you call DI Flynn for me when you get back? See if she’s OK with what we’ve agreed?’

  ‘You can email her if you want,’ Atkinson said.

  ‘You have the internet?’ Poe said, surprised.

  Atkinson’s scars distorted as he smiled. ‘We have an arrangement with the wind farm company. The wi-fi network they use to remotely access the turbines passes over our heads and they let us piggyback on it. One of the perks of living out here.’

  ‘I’ll email her when you’ve gone, ma’am,’ Poe said. ‘She’ll want to do her bit, though – she’s been feeling left out recently.’

  What he wanted to say was that a team of oxen with freshly peeled root ginger jammed up their arses wouldn’t be able to drag her off the next boat.

  Nightingale nodded. ‘I’ll leave one of my officers at the pier. We can cover the whole island with just two people that way. The detective coming back with me will leave his radio with you so you can keep in touch with each other.’

  It was a good plan. With Poe and Flynn on Atkinson’s land covering the western approaches, and Nightingale’s cops on the public land covering the east, the island would have all-round surveillance. No one was getting on or off without being seen.

  ‘I’ll rotate my officers each high tide,’ Nightingale said. ‘The marine unit can bring them in. I assume you’ll want to do longer shifts, given you’ll be indoors?’

  ‘I’m happy to do twenty-four hours,’ Poe replied, ‘but it’ll depend on the boss. She might bring someone up from Hampshire if this is going to drag on. Spread the load.’

  ‘And Tilly?’

  ‘She’ll stay on the mainland and keep working.’

  Nightingale said she’d have armed response units on Walney Island, ready to be rushed across should either of her two lookouts request assistance. She’d also see if it were feasible to have another armed response unit permanently at sea.

  ‘I’ll set up a dedicated and permanently staffed email address in case you can’t get through on the radio. Send details if you can, otherwise 999 will be enough to trigger an urgent assistance response. That OK?’

  Poe nodded. It would have to be.

  ‘We good then?’

  He ran through everything. Securing the island was like a military op and, although it had been a long time since he’d worn khaki, he couldn’t think of anything they’d missed. They had a 360-degree line of sight, and they’d soon have a way to call in reinforcements.

  ‘We are,’ he said.

  He hoped he was right.

  Chapter 64

  When Nightingale left, Poe got the wi-fi password from Atkinson and emailed Flynn. He told her that he would stay on the island until high tide the following morning. After that he’d need to be relieved.

  As he’d expected, she confirmed she’d share the work with him. The exact words in her email were: ‘Poe, I’m more than capable of sitting on my fat arse with a pair of binoculars.’

  Nightingale must have called as soon as she’d found a signal as Flynn already had the tide timetable. She’d land at approximately eight o’clock the next morning.

  He then sent a quick email to Bradshaw letting her know where he was and when he’d be back. She sent him a link to something called ‘WhatsApp’ and asked him to download it. It was some sort of internet-based free messaging service she said would be quicker than email. Poe did as he was told.

  With his admin done, he told Atkinson he was going to check the perimeter. What he really wanted to do was make sure the cop Nightingale had left at the pier was doing his job.

  He needn’t have worried. The cop saw Poe before he saw him. He’d found a sheltered gap between two boulders and had fashioned his waterproof coat into a poncho-type shelter. He was out of the fine drizzle but wasn’t sacrificing his tactical advantage. Poe spoke to him for a minute and they agreed that they would both patrol the island’s perimeter at least once every two hours. Nothing regular that someone could use against them.

  Satisfied Nightingale hadn’t left him with a duffer, Poe made his way back to Atkinson.

  He was back on his terrace, a full cafetière and two mugs on the wall next to him. He gestured for Poe to join him.

  ‘I want to have a look inside first,’ Poe said. ‘Get my bearings.’
r />   ‘OK,’ Atkinson said, picking up his binoculars and staring out to sea again.

  Poe let himself in through the French doors. So far he’d only been in the living room. There was a door to his left, which he assumed led into the annex Atkinson had arranged to be built, and a door on the opposite wall. He opened the door on his left first.

  The door led into a short hallway with two additional doors. Poe stepped through and opened the nearest one.

  It was Atkinson’s bedroom. The bed was large with space either side. An over-bed pole hoist to help him with sitting up, getting in or out or simply changing position was the only nod to Atkinson’s disability. Two fitted bookcases hugged the walls either side of his bed. They were ornate with raw bark edges. Poe picked up a couple of books. Moby Dick and one of Wainwright’s pictorial guides, a first edition by the looks of it. If he hadn’t been there to work he’d have taken a seat and read it in one sitting. He reluctantly put it back.

  The bedroom had a door that Poe assumed was an en suite.

  It was. A wet room rather than a traditional bathroom so there was nothing that Atkinson had to climb into. There was a large rainfall showerhead above. A handheld one in an adjustable holster was set halfway up the shower rod, about head height for someone sitting down. There was a wheeled shower chair in the corner. Presumably Atkinson transferred onto it so he didn’t get his wheelchair wet. The toilet had handrails either side and the sink was set at a lower height.

  Poe walked back through the bedroom and into the hallway.

  The other door opened into a treatment room. An examination table, the kind used in GPs’ surgeries, was in the middle of the room. White cupboards covered the wall. Poe opened them. They were full of things related to Atkinson’s acid burn. Ointments, bandages, antibiotics and spare masks. Atkinson didn’t need to leave the island for medical treatment – he could do it all himself.

  Poe went back to the living room. By process of elimination, the other door would have to be the kitchen. He was right.