by M. W. Craven
‘She rings home every night.’
Under the circumstances that didn’t seem so unreasonable. ‘Deal,’ he said.
‘Now, there are a few things you need to know about Matilda, Sergeant Poe.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Well, first of all, you need to understand that she’s a wonderful girl and a marvellous daughter. I really couldn’t ask for anyone better.’
‘But . . .’
‘But she has led an extremely sheltered life. She was at university when she should have been playing outside. She got her first Oxford degree when she was sixteen.’
Poe whistled.
‘And she stayed on and got a master’s and two PhDs: one in computers and the others in mathematics or something. It’s all beyond me. We’d assumed she was going to spend her life at Oxford, going from research grant to research grant. People were throwing money at her.’
‘So how did she—?’
‘So how did she end up working for the National Crime Agency? Your guess is as good as mine, Sergeant Poe, but I suspect it’s something to do with the wilful streak she got from her father. She just came in from university one night and said she’d applied for a job. Wouldn’t tell us what as she knew we’d stop her.’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘You’ve met her, DS Poe. Matilda has an extraordinary mind. A once-in-a-generation mind according to one of the professors who came to see us when she was thirteen. The flipside of that is, because she’s never really lived in the real world before, she’s never developed the life skills you and I take for granted. I suppose it was all about her brain’s priorities. She finds social situations extremely difficult and this has caused her problems in the past.’
It was becoming clearer. Perhaps Flynn was right, perhaps Bradshaw wasn’t the right person for the job. He was about to tell Mrs Bradshaw not to worry, that her daughter would be home for tea, when Bradshaw walked through the door. She was still looking scared but there was something else. She was exuding a nervous excitement. Now she knew she was going, it looked like she couldn’t wait to get started. She walked over to her desk and began packing equipment.
‘I’ll take care of her, Mrs Bradshaw, you have my word,’ Poe said before hanging up.
Poe walked over and was about to help her, when the man who’d laughed earlier decided to entertain the assembled staff. He didn’t realise Poe was standing behind him. He stood up and said, ‘Look everyone, Little Miss Retard’s going on a road trip.’
A couple of people tittered. Most had seen Poe and recognised a shit sandwich when they saw one.
The excitement in Bradshaw’s eyes fizzled out. Her cheeks coloured and her eyes dropped to the floor. Poe glanced back at her featureless workspace and everything clicked into place.
She was being bullied.
Before anyone could react, he’d taken three strides and dragged Laughing Man from his chair. Grabbing him by the back of his jacket, Poe ran him across the office and slammed his head into the wall.
‘Name!’ Poe shouted.
Silence.
‘NAME!’
‘Jon-Jon-Jonathan,’ the man stuttered, his face a mask of terror.
‘Ashley Barrett! DI Flynn! Out here, please!’
Flynn rushed out. She was followed by the HR manager.
‘Please repeat what you’ve just said for DI Flynn’s benefit.’
Jonathan’s eyes were spinning like a slot machine as he searched for a way out. Poe’s grip on his throat was vice-like. Without releasing him, Poe turned and addressed the room. ‘Most of you haven’t met me yet. I’m Detective Sergeant Washington Poe and you all need to know that I absolutely won’t tolerate bullies.’
It was true. He wouldn’t. Having a strange name, no mother and a total weirdo for a father had been the toxic trio that made him a bully magnet at school. It hadn’t taken long to work out that the only way he would survive was if there were consequences for anyone who picked on him. The bullies learned that Poe fought back, that he didn’t back down and he wouldn’t stop fighting. Start a fight with Poe and you had to be prepared to continue until someone was unconscious. It wasn’t long before he was given a wide berth.
‘So, take a good look at your friend Jonathan here,’ he continued, ‘because this is the last time he steps foot in this office.’
The whole office stared, open-mouthed.
‘Does anyone think I’m being unfair?’
No one seemed to. Or if they did, they were bright enough not to say.
‘Did everyone hear what Jonathan called one of his colleagues?’
Everyone had, it seemed.
Poe pointed at one. ‘You, what’s your name?’
‘Jen.’
‘What did Jonathan say, Jen?’
‘He called Tilly a retard, sir.’
‘I work for a living, Jen. Don’t call me “sir”.’ Poe turned to Flynn and Barrett. ‘Good enough?’
Flynn turned to Barrett and said, ‘It is for me. Ash?’
Barrett paused. ‘I could have done without DS Poe assaulting—’
‘He was holding a pen,’ Poe interrupted. ‘I thought he was going to use it as a weapon.’
‘Good enough then,’ Barrett said. ‘Jonathan Pierce, I’m formally suspending you for gross misconduct, bullying and using offensive language. Please let me have your credentials and we’ll arrange for a disciplinary hearing, at which point you’ll no doubt be formally dismissed from the NCA.’
‘But-but-but everyone calls her that,’ Jonathan said.
Poe could almost hear the room’s sharp intake of breath. Jonathan had just committed the cardinal sin: ratting out colleagues to save his own skin.
Poe said, ‘Anyone else here committed gross misconduct?’
No one moved. A couple of people looked guilty, but it didn’t look as though anyone was about to fall on their sword.
‘Nope? Just you it seems, Jonathan,’ Poe said. He leaned in and whispered, ‘And if I hear there’s been any comeback on my friend Tilly, I’ll hunt you down and twist your fucking fingers clean off. Are we clear? Nod if you understand.’
Jonathan nodded.
‘Good,’ Poe said. ‘Now fuck off.’ He let Jonathan go and he slumped to the ground.
Turning to Bradshaw, he said, ‘You don’t need a tent, Tilly. You’ll be staying in a hotel with DI Flynn. You got everything else?’
She managed a nod.
‘What you waiting for then? Let’s go and catch us a serial killer.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Poe had assumed the three of them would share the driving. They’d pulled over at some services in Cheshire after Bradshaw had announced, ‘I need the toilet’, but when Poe threw her the keys and told her she’d be driving the last leg, she’d told him she didn’t have a driving licence.
He thought for a moment. ‘So why the hell have you been sitting in the passenger seat all this time? Non-drivers sit in the back.’
She folded her arms. ‘I always sit in the passenger seat. It’s statistically the safest.’
Flynn stopped the argument before it could start by climbing into the rear. ‘I prefer the back anyway, Poe,’ she explained.
Bradshaw continued lecturing them on car safety as Poe pulled back onto the M6. He stopped listening before he was off the slip road.
He’d never met anyone like her. She didn’t seem to understand any of society’s basic norms. There was no filter between her brain and her mouth and she blurted out whatever she was thinking. She had little to no understanding of non-verbal communication: she either refused to make eye contact or wouldn’t break it. If he ignored her when she said his name, she simply repeated it until he answered.
After a while, they descended into silence.
Poe glanced in the rear-view mirror. Flynn was asleep. ‘Can you do me a favour, Tilly?’ He reached into his jacket pocket and passed over his BlackBerry. ‘There’s an e-diary thing and some sort of tracking app on this phone.
Can you disable them?’
‘Yes, Poe.’
She made no move to take it.
‘Will you disable them?’
She hesitated. ‘Am I supposed to?’
‘Yes,’ he lied.
She nodded and started fiddling with his phone.
‘But if DI Flynn asks, don’t tell her,’ he added.
‘Do you like working for SCAS, Tilly?’ he said five minutes after she’d returned his BlackBerry.
‘Oh gosh, yes,’ she replied, her face lighting up. ‘It’s marvellous. It’s not everywhere you get to adapt theoretical mathematics into real-world applications.’
‘Damn straight,’ Poe said without cracking a smile. It had been the first time she’d really smiled. When she did, her face was transformed.
After they talked about her SCAS work, they discussed her time at Oxford. It was a one-sided conversation; Poe didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. Maths had ended for him as soon as they replaced numbers with letters. It was clear Flynn had been right, though. Bradshaw was an asset. She had an in-depth understanding of all their profiling disciplines but her real strength was being able to devise bespoke solutions as and when they were required. Flynn had told him it was her program that arranged the slash wounds into his name. He thanked her. She’d probably saved his life.
She blushed.
‘Why are you called Washington, Poe?’ she said minutes later. She smiled shyly when she realised what she’d said. She rephrased it. ‘Poe, why is your first name Washington?’
‘Don’t know. Ask me another,’ Poe replied.
‘Why does no one like you?’ she said.
Poe glanced at her. She wasn’t being rude. She didn’t seem to understand the concept of small talk; if she asked you something, it was because she wanted to know the answer. ‘Boy, you just come right out and say things, don’t you?’
‘I’m sorry, Poe,’ she mumbled. ‘DI Stephanie Flynn says I have to work on my people skills.’
‘It’s fine, Tilly. It’s refreshingly honest, actually,’ he said, keeping his eyes on the road as he overtook a lorry. ‘And I didn’t realise I was that unpopular.’
‘Oh, yes. I listened to Deputy Director of Intelligence Justin Hanson and Detective Inspector Stephanie Flynn talking about you.’
‘Deputy Director Hanson blames me for not getting promoted,’ he said.
‘Why is that, Poe?’
‘A lot of people didn’t want me investigating Peyton Williams, Tilly. He was an MP’s aide, and Deputy Director Hanson, along with some other senior managers, were terrified of causing a scandal. If they’d listened to me in the first place, Peyton Williams wouldn’t be dead.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I don’t care for Deputy Director Justin Hanson too much. I think he’s mean.’
‘You’ve got that right,’ Poe said. ‘And anyway, you couldn’t have heard them this morning. Even I couldn’t hear what they were saying and I was nearer DI Flynn’s office than you were.’
‘Not this morning,’ she said. ‘I was in Conference Room B with Deputy Director Justin Hanson, DI Stephanie Flynn and Director Edward van Zyl when I was showing them the MSCT data. After a while, I think they forgot I was there.’
Poe said nothing. He glanced in the rear-view mirror again. Flynn had woken up. Her eyes were red and gritty. Car sleep was never as satisfying as bed sleep.
Bradshaw turned in her seat and said, ‘You don’t like Poe do you, DI Stephanie Flynn?’
‘What are you talking about, Tilly!’ she exclaimed. She looked worried, though. ‘Of course I like Sergeant Poe.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I thought when Director Edward van Zyl said that the Serious Crime Analysis Section needed Poe because he had an “encyclopaedic understanding of serial killers”, and you said, “But a microscopic understanding of not being a dickhead, sir”, it was because you didn’t like him?’
Poe laughed so hard, hot coffee jetted out of his nostrils.
‘Tilly!’ Flynn said, mortified.
‘What?’
‘You should never repeat private discussions.’
‘Oh.’
‘That wasn’t a nice thing to say. About either of us,’ Flynn said.
Bradshaw’s bottom lip began to quiver and Poe jumped in. ‘Don’t worry about it, Tilly. Being liked is overrated.’
She smiled. ‘That’s good, because no one likes me either.’
He turned to see if she was joking. She wasn’t.
Bradshaw turned to look out of the window. The conversation was over.
Poe glanced at Flynn in the mirror. Her face was red with embarrassment. He winked to show there were no hard feelings. He was beginning to like Matilda Bradshaw.
The rest of the journey was uneventful and they arrived at the Shap Wells Hotel just after seven in the evening.
Flynn and Bradshaw checked in while Poe collected his mail. Although it wasn’t his official address, it wasn’t fair to expect a postman to walk over the rough fells to Herdwick Croft, and the hotel allowed him to have his mail delivered to reception.
There was very little. That was one of the perks of living silently; you got very little junk mail.
Flynn met him at reception.
‘Sorted?’
‘Yeah,’ she sighed. ‘Tilly wanted a room nearer the fire exit so we had to do some swapping around but she seems happy now. I’ve told her to get something to eat then have an early night.’
‘Let’s go and see victim number four then.’
Long Meg and Her Daughters, the scene of the third murder, and Castlerigg, the scene of the first, were two of the most visually impressive prehistoric monuments in the country. They were internationally known stone circles. Cumbria also had countless other Neolithic circles, including some that were so small they could only be identified from the air.
Poe didn’t know of any near Cockermouth. He suspected that either the police or the Immolation Man had seen a circle when there wasn’t one. Most fells in Cumbria had naturally occurring rocky outcrops and stone formations, and if you were standing in the middle of one, it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to imagine they’d been strategically placed by a Stone-Age civilisation thousands of years ago.
But Poe was wrong.
There was a stone circle near Cockermouth.
Poe navigated the roads as they got smaller and smaller. He turned right at Dubwath, a tiny village on the edge of Bassenthwaite Lake, and five minutes later the flashing glare of blue lights guided them to where they needed to be.
Poe parked at the back of a long row of police vehicles. A uniformed officer was standing at a gate holding a clipboard.
He asked to see their ID and gave Poe a funny look as he recorded his name.
‘Is there a stone circle up there?’ Poe asked.
The uniformed cop nodded. ‘Elva Plain. Supposed to have had something to do with the trade in Neolithic axes.’ When you were on cordon duty in the middle of nowhere there was very little to do but Google things on your phone.
‘This is the outer cordon?’ Poe checked.
‘Yep,’ he replied. ‘The inner cordon’s up there.’ He pointed towards a sharply inclined, windswept hill. Poe couldn’t see anyone but he could hear voices.
As they climbed, they met another uniformed cop on his way down who told them they were nearly there. They kept walking up until they saw it.
The circle was on a level terrace on the southern slope of Elva Hill. It was bathed in artificial light. Fifteen grey stones formed a circle about forty yards in diameter. The tallest was no more than a yard from the ground; some of the others were barely visible.
It was a hive of activity.
CSI, clad head to toe in white forensic suits, milled about in organised chaos. Some knelt on the ground working, while others focused in and around an evidence tent that had been erected in the middle of the circle.
The inner cordon was set up so the entirety of the circle’s circumference was within the bl
ue and white police tape. Poe and Flynn introduced themselves to a cop with another clipboard.
‘The boss’ll be out soon,’ the uniformed constable said. ‘Can’t let you in without his permission.’
Poe nodded. Good crime-scene discipline usually meant a good SIO. Ian Gamble might not have the flashes of inspiration that cracked the impossible cases, but he played to his strengths. And why not? Ninety-nine per cent of murders were solved by thorough and methodical investigations.
Flynn turned to face him. ‘Is there anything to be gained by going in? We’ll get the photos when they’re ready.’
‘I’ll have a quick look, if you don’t mind. I want to get a feel for him.’
She nodded.
One of the white-suited men looked up and saw them. He left the conversation he was having and walked over to them. He pulled off his face mask as soon as he’d left the cordon. It was Ian Gamble, the SIO. He reached out and shook Poe’s hand.
‘Good to see you again, Poe,’ he said. ‘You had any thoughts on why your name was on the last one’s chest?’
Poe shook his head. No niceties, no small talk. Strictly business.
‘Never mind, we can get into it later,’ Gamble said. ‘You want a look?’
‘Just to see what my first impressions are.’
‘Fair enough,’ he said, before turning to a man standing near a box of equipment. ‘Boyle!’ he shouted. ‘Bring DS Poe a suit.’
At the sound of Poe’s name, another man in a forensic suit pulled off his mask.
It was Kylian Reid.
In a voice loud enough for the whole hill to hear, Reid said, ‘Misunderstood by colleagues, ignored by managers, taken for granted by everyone else – ladies and gentlemen, I present the great Washington Poe.’
Poe reddened.
His friend bounded over, leapt the cordon fence, causing Gamble to wince, and wringed Poe’s outstretched hand until it hurt.
‘I see how it is now,’ Reid said, a grin on his face. ‘I only get to see you when there’s an emergency. That how it is, Poe? Shite show.’
Poe shrugged. ‘Kylian.’ There’d be time to catch up later.
Reid turned to Flynn and said, ‘So, how’d you know this friendless weirdo?’
