The Curator (Washington Poe)

by M. W. Craven

  ‘That many? I didn’t reali—’

  ‘And the recommended weekly alcohol allowance is fourteen units.’

  Atkinson said nothing. Neither did Poe – he was trying to work out his own weekly intake. Although he was nowhere near where Atkinson had been, the uncertainty surrounding his future at Herdwick Croft had seen him drink more than usual. Probably best not to tell Bradshaw.

  Atkinson shrugged it off. ‘I knew it was too much but all I saw was a future devoid of meaningful moments. Drinking myself to death didn’t seem like such a bad thing.’

  Bradshaw didn’t have an answer to that. Her unique view of the world meant she sometimes struggled with empathy but she seemed to understand that now wasn’t the time to continue a lecture on safe drinking levels.

  ‘Anyway,’ Atkinson continued, ‘it was taking too long and after a particularly difficult night I decided I didn’t want to go on. I strung two bedsheets together and tied them to the top of the banister. Tied the other end round my neck and stepped off.’

  ‘What happened, Edward?’ Bradshaw said. ‘If you’d ended up with lesions on the neck area of your spinal cord you’d have been a tetraplegic not a paraplegic – paralysed in four limbs rather than the two.’

  Poe grimaced at the lack of tact. Atkinson smiled.

  ‘Shitty builders happened, Tilly. The banister fell apart and I fell fifteen feet. The base of my spine hit the bottom of the stairs. Ended up paralysed from the waist down. Instead of ending my suffering I trebled it.’

  ‘You were sectioned?’ Poe said, knowing he had been.

  Atkinson nodded. ‘All in all it was a bit of a shit year.’

  ‘It must have worked, though.’

  ‘Not even a little bit. All they had was second-rate therapy and first-rate liquid coshes.’

  ‘So …?’

  ‘Some of the compensation money came through and a doctor came up from London with a mask. The pain stopped about the same time I could afford to remove myself from everyone and everything. A land agent bought this place for me. I spent a lot of money making it accessible and getting the terrace right and, while I’m not exactly happy, I can at least see a path to old age.’

  Poe nodded. Finding peace wasn’t an attainable goal for most. That Atkinson had stared into the abyss, no, stepped into the abyss, and survived was a remarkable testament to human endurance. He redoubled his commitment to keeping the man safe.

  ‘Do you want some more coffee, Mr Poe?’ Atkinson said.

  ‘No more for him, thank you, Edward,’ Bradshaw said before Poe could say yes. ‘He has virtually no fibre in his diet. If he’s not careful he’ll end up with an impacted—’

  Poe didn’t want to know what was going to get impacted and fortunately for him the tide agreed.

  His radio crackled. It was the cop at the pier.

  ‘Your replacement’s here,’ she said.

  Chapter 69

  Flynn, her balance compromised by an eight-month-old baby bump, was holding onto the rail of the RIB as tightly as Bradshaw had the night before. Her belly was so big that the lifejacket wouldn’t fasten and she wore it loose, like an unbuttoned waistcoat. Poe suspected there’d been quite the discussion before she’d been allowed to sail.

  He grunted in satisfaction when he saw her companion. It was Dave Coughlan. The big cop might not be a deep thinker but he seemed solid and unflappable. Poe doubted he’d scare easily. It would be one less thing to worry about while he was on the mainland.

  Poe, Coughlan and the cop Coughlan was replacing all helped get Flynn off the boat. The snow still wasn’t settling but it had made the pier treacherous. She glared at them all but eventually allowed herself to be manhandled.

  ‘We’ll never talk about this, Poe,’ she said when she was on dry land.

  The marine cop threw up her bag and Poe caught it.

  ‘Come on, boss,’ he said. ‘While Tilly’s going through her ridiculous marine safety drills I’ll take you across and introduce you to Atkinson.’

  ‘You sure you’re up to it, boss?’ Poe said. ‘There’s no shame in sitting this one out. I’m more than capable of doing another shift. Allow you time to get some NCA replacements up here.’

  Flynn snorted. ‘You looked in a mirror lately? You’ve got eyes like a racing dog’s bollocks. Go on, get yourselves home. I need you rested and I need Tilly helping Nightingale track down whoever’s behind all this.’

  Poe nodded. She was right.

  ‘I’ll see you in two tides’ time then. Round about this time tomorrow, I expect.’

  With Flynn safely ensconced on the terrace of Atkinson’s bungalow Poe jogged back to see Coughlan.

  ‘I don’t care what she says,’ he told him, ‘you radio check every fifteen minutes and—’

  ‘That’s not what she said on the way over—’

  ‘Look into my eyes, Dave,’ Poe said, staring at him. ‘Every fifteen minutes. I’m not having her go into labour and not getting the help she needs because she’s too stubborn to ask.’

  ‘Every fifteen minutes,’ he agreed.

  ‘And you do a visual check on the hour.’

  ‘You do know she outranks me.’

  ‘Everyone outranks you,’ Poe replied, ‘but I’m a sergeant and sergeants are always right.’

  Coughlan grinned. ‘Radio check every fifteen minutes and a visual check on the hour it is then.’

  ‘You’ll pass on these instructions to your replacement?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Good man,’ Poe said, handing him a bit of paper. ‘Here’s Atkinson’s wi-fi code – if Flynn gives you any shit email me or Tilly. One of us will be awake.’

  The boat ride back was uneventful and they were soon on the road. Bradshaw had refused the offer of a hotel on Walney and had instead booked a room at Shap Wells, the hotel nearest to Herdwick Croft. She wanted to carry on working.

  Poe knew he should sleep, that the time he’d stolen by overindulging in Atkinson’s coffee would soon demand a heavy price, but he was still jittery and wide awake. He’d work until his body told him to stop then get some sleep. He wanted to get at least six hours before his next shift on the island.

  A grey sky leached colour from the land. Even the snow seemed muted, more off-cream than the brilliant white of the previous day. It wasn’t falling heavily and Poe only needed his windscreen wipers on intermittent. Bradshaw’s Mole People had already sent information on how the Atkinson case had ruined a handful of police careers. She was trying to read it but the hot air coming from the heaters, combined with the caffeine-free night she’d had, meant her eyelids were drooping.

  He was about to tell her not to fight it when his BlackBerry finally picked up a signal again. It started to vibrate like crazy as missed calls and texts from the last twenty-four hours came flooding in. He passed it across to Bradshaw and asked her to see what was happening.

  She blinked wearily. ‘You have three missed calls, Poe. All from the same number. They haven’t left a voicemail.’

  ‘I disabled voicemail,’ he said.

  She looked at him.

  ‘Someone disabled voicemail for me,’ he admitted. ‘Can you ring it back? It’ll come through on the car’s speakers.’

  Bradshaw pressed return call.

  ‘Hello,’ a sleepy voice said.

  ‘This is Detective Sergeant Washington Poe. I think you’ve been trying to get in touch with me.’

  ‘Ah, Sergeant Poe,’ the voice drawled, ‘how y’all been doing over there?’

  It was Special Agent Melody Lee.

  Chapter 70

  Melody Lee wanted an update. Poe told her what they knew – that with her prompting they’d been able to see the part of the story the Curator had tried to hide. That they now knew who his final target was.

  ‘So you don’t think he knew that this Cowell dude had the hots for his own sister?’

  ‘I don’t, no. Tilly says there was no malware on his computer so he couldn’t have known that Cow
ell had a video that exonerated himself. Tilly also says it’s possible he’d only intended to set Cowell up for the Rebecca Pridmore murder and had other Black Swan Challenge players in mind for the other two.’

  ‘But the yellow dot tracking tied him to all three,’ Melody Lee said.

  ‘Exactly. And when the video of his sister having sex cleared Cowell of the murder he’d been set up for, it inadvertently cleared him of them all.’

  ‘That’s some complicated shit you’ve got going down there, Sergeant Poe,’ she said. ‘You’ll keep me informed?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Good luck then. And be careful: I’ve found that when you think you’ve figured out what the Curator’s up to, you’re normally exactly where he wants you to be.’

  ‘Why did she have to say that, Tilly?’ Poe said. ‘It’ll be all I can think of now.’

  Poe was worried and he didn’t know why. Montague Island was secure. Completely locked down. Flynn was watching the western approaches, Coughlan was watching the east. Now they had thermal imaging equipment, anyone approaching the island would stand out like dog balls. Armed cops were on standby, ready to be rushed wherever they were needed.

  ‘What are we missing, Tilly?’

  ‘I can’t think of anything, Poe,’ she said. ‘Apart from the Curator’s identity and the name of the person who hired him, of course. Other than that we have the complete picture.’

  He nodded. They did have the complete picture.

  And that was the problem. In a case this complicated there still should have been one or two things that didn’t make sense.

  ‘I’m calling Nightingale,’ he said.

  ‘It’s been too easy,’ Poe said.

  ‘Easy?’ Nightingale replied. ‘This has been the most challenging case I’ve ever worked.’

  Nightingale was about to go into a briefing with the chief constable so she couldn’t give him long.

  ‘Has it, though? Really?’ Poe said. ‘It’s been shocking and distressing, but think about it: from the moment I found that kettle, which wasn’t exactly hidden, each clue took us nearer to where we are now. There are no gaps. We didn’t have to make any leaps of faith. There’s just an unbroken line of evidence leading directly to Edward Atkinson and Montague Island.’

  ‘None of the evidence was easy to find, though, Poe.’

  ‘Exactly.’ He paused. ‘What made us trust it, ma’am?’

  ‘Because it was compelling,’ she said without hesitation.

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Something more primitive than that. Something intrinsically cerebral.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Psychologically, we’re predisposed to rely on evidence more heavily if we’ve had to work hard for it. And, as you say, we had to work hard for everything we found, but it was there. The trail never went completely cold. I think that other than Tilly’s yellow dots, everything we’ve uncovered so far we were meant to uncover. It’s almost as if he wanted us to get to Atkinson first.’

  ‘Oh shit,’ she said. ‘Is it possible he hasn’t been able to find Atkinson after all? That he deliberately allowed us to identify him so we’d lead him there? All he has to do is follow someone involved in the investigation. Me, probably – I’ve been doing daily press conferences.’

  Poe had already considered and dismissed that.

  ‘Someone this resourceful would have been able to track him down eventually,’ he said. ‘And even if he was struggling to find him, he must have known that once we’d identified who his target was, you’d do exactly what you have done: make the island impregnable. With just two people we have three hundred and sixty degree coverage. Armed response is on permanent standby and the marine unit can get them on the island in minutes. It looks like security is lax but it’s an illusion – it’s actually very thorough. No way is he getting to Atkinson now. His best chance of success was always to stay covert.’

  ‘So what’s this really about, Poe?’

  ‘I don’t know and that’s what worries me.’

  Chapter 71

  The sky was the colour of lead. Unbroken, unblemished cloud stretching as far as the eye could see. Serious clouds for serious weather. The Met Office had issued a yellow warning for snow and Poe did what he always did with their alerts: he added a colour. Shap Fell always got an extreme version of Cumbria’s weather and although the snow was light now it was only going to get heavier.

  Bradshaw had insisted on coming back to Herdwick Croft. She said they still had work to do and he knew better than to argue. His quad would be able to cope with the snow so at least she wouldn’t get stranded – the treads on the tyres were an inch and a half deep. Even so, he took it slowly, tested every dip for drift, and got back to Herdwick Croft fifteen minutes later than he usually did.

  As soon as they were inside Poe boiled some water and fired up the wood-burning stove. He’d had enough coffee but he made Bradshaw a mug of nettle tea. She accepted it gratefully.

  ‘Where do you want to start, Poe?’ she said.

  Poe had been arguing with himself for more than an hour and he still had no idea who would win.

  ‘I feel like I’m the idiot who’s peeped through the letterbox and thinks he’s seen the whole house, Tilly. No way someone this clued in doesn’t know we’ve identified his target, so either he has contingencies, or us being there was part of his plan all along.’

  ‘But what could that plan be, Poe?’

  Poe stood still and tried to untangle his mind. None of it felt right, some evidence contradicted other evidence – it was like trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube that fought back. Every suspect they’d identified, every clue they’d uncovered, when put under the lens looked like a square peg in an oblong hole. It fit but it left obvious gaps.

  So it was the gaps that he focused on. It was there he thought he’d find the answers. The real answers, not the faux-answers they were being drip-fed. And they had enough information so they wouldn’t be far away – intangible for now, but only a prompt away from instant recall. Like remembering the words to a long-forgotten song when the guitar thrums out the opening riff.

  Poe didn’t know who had fallen asleep first. He suspected he had. He remembered he and Bradshaw talking themselves into a loop. How the Curator seemed to want them on the island but while they were there Atkinson was untouchable. The more they talked about it, the less sense it made. Eventually Poe had sat down and yawned.

  His collar was now damp with drool, his head felt as though it was stuffed with marshmallows and his mouth was parched. He checked his watch. It was almost 6.30 p.m. There’d be another high tide soon and Coughlan’s shift would be ending. He’d send him an email. The grizzled cop had promised to pass on his instructions to check in on Flynn to his replacement, and he wanted to remind him.

  Poe stood, stretched, walked over to the sink and turned on the tap. By the time he’d filled his glass Bradshaw had woken. She’d been curled at the end of the couch, in the place Edgar usually slept.

  ‘What time is it, Poe?’ she yawned.

  ‘Late. Nearly half-six. Let’s get you back to Shap Wells. We have an early start tomorrow.’

  Bradshaw nodded tiredly and rubbed the back of her neck. When she’d gathered what she needed, Poe opened his front door.

  ‘Fuck,’ he said.

  Because that was the thing with Shap Fell: when the weather turned, it turned quickly. The snow, falling like confetti two hours earlier, was now a swirling white vortex. The word blizzard seemed inadequate. It was more arctic tundra than Cumbrian fell out there, the type of weather that made statistics out of ill-prepared tourists. The type of weather that made statistics out of experienced mountaineers …

  Driving back to Shap Wells would be a mistake. Potentially a fatal one.

  He told Bradshaw and she nodded.

  ‘I’ll sleep on the sofa,’ Poe said, ‘you can have the bed. I’ve got some potatoes I can bake. Hop in the shower; the storm will b
low itself out soon but we might as well get comfy in the meantime.’

  ‘OK, Poe.’

  Before long he could hear the shower running above him, the first time he had – he’d never had an overnight guest before. Up until now, if the shower was on, he was standing under it.

  While the potatoes baked and Bradshaw showered, Poe stood in front of the murder wall. He reread the documents. All of them, even the ones that couldn’t possibly be relevant. When the prompt came, it was often from the most unlikely source. The unguarded remark, the unconnected thought, the smell that brought back a memory that ignited something deep in the recesses of his mind.

  Poe stared at the wall for twenty minutes but nothing happened.

  If there was a prompt, it wasn’t on the murder wall.

  A noise made him look up. Bradshaw was at the top of the stairs. She was wearing his dressing gown and had a towel wrapped round her head. It was the most feminine thing he’d seen her do. She was red-faced and glowing. The shower had washed away most of her fatigue.

  ‘You have wonderful water pressure, Poe.’

  It was true. He did. And the water, drawn directly from the ground, was about as pure as it was possible to get.

  ‘The bakies have another twenty minutes. I don’t know if I have any vegan stuff to go on them but you’re welcome to anything you can find. I’m having black pudding, but I’ll cook it.’

  Poe climbed the stairs and got undressed. The wood burner was doing its job and the croft was cosy. If he didn’t have a guest he’d have got into bed and slept through to the morning. He stepped under the shower, readjusted the head after Bradshaw had lowered it, shut his eyes and lathered his hair with shampoo.

  And deep in his mind something stirred. He stopped washing his hair. Poe knew his mind was like one of Bradshaw’s bespoke computer programs: it never stopped processing what it had read. What it had heard.

  What it had seen …

  A memory surfaced, one that felt so real it was as if he’d stepped back in time.