The Puppet Show (Washington Poe Book 1)

by M. W. Craven

  Poe thought he knew where she was headed but he let her finish.

  ‘As you say, the abduction points are out of his control, and if we assume that the site he keeps them at is a fixed point, then the only random part is the selection of the murder site.’

  ‘And there’s no pattern?’

  She shook her head. ‘There should have been, even if it was just the way he travelled to them, but I can’t see it, and that means there isn’t one.’ She wasn’t boasting, simply stating a fact.

  ‘Perhaps the pattern is there is no pattern.’

  Bradshaw stiffened and stood up. ‘I’m such a silly goose, Poe! You said Cumbria had sixty-three stone circles. He’s used four – where are the other fifty-nine?’

  ‘All over the place,’ he replied. ‘Off the top of my head I don’t . . .’

  Her fingers moved over the keyboard as if they were possessed. Twenty seconds later a document listing the county’s stone circles shunted its way out of the printer. For the next thirty minutes they plotted their locations on the map with yellow pins. He stood back.

  Bradshaw joined him. ‘I told you, Poe. Data never lies – there’s always a pattern.’

  Without looking at each other, they silently fist-bumped.

  He didn’t need her to explain. The Immolation Man’s pattern could only be seen when it was placed within the context of the circles he hadn’t used.

  He’d killed his victims at the so-called ‘big three’: Long Meg, Swinside and Castlerigg. They were sites of historical importance and known to an international audience. Huge and impressive. Leaving a burning body in the middle was impact heavy. But . . . he’d also picked Elva Plain in Cockermouth. Why? There were more impressive circles he still hadn’t used. Elva Plain didn’t even look like a stone circle. Most people were unaware of its existence.

  Why hadn’t he chosen a circle from the biggest mass of yellow on the map? Why hadn’t he chosen one from the area known as the Shap Stone Avenue? There were countless circles to choose from – some of them close to where they were now. Some of them were isolated but well known. They even had easy access to the M6. Pretty much everything the Immolation Man needed.

  He thought about Bradshaw’s buffer zone. Was it possible the Immolation Man hadn’t committed any crimes in the Shap area because he lived nearby? Had they been looking out when they should have been looking in?

  The back of his neck started to bead with sweat. The room was getting warm again. He removed his jacket, put it on the back of his chair and rolled up his sleeves. He could sense he was close. The answers were all there; he needed to look at everything through a different lens. He rocked his chair backwards and forwards, trying to think of something new. The rocking caused his jacket to fall on the floor. He bent down to pick it up.

  And paused.

  He caught his breath. His intuition had been telling him that the answers would be found in the past. That Price, and then Swift, becoming suspects, were nothing more than a distraction. He’d never believed either of them had been capable of being the Immolation Man.

  His eyes moved from his jacket on the floor to one of the photographs on the wall. The four boys – topless and happy in the sun, puffing out chests they didn’t yet have. He stood up and draped his jacket over the chair again. He looked at it, damp with sweat and hanging limply like a sock on a shower rail.

  His mind brought up a succession of images. Through memory after memory, he searched for the one that would disprove his growing suspicion. He couldn’t find it. He blinked and the images disappeared.

  His jacket.

  The photograph.

  There was a connection.

  His thoughts drifted back to something Bradshaw had said earlier. He hadn’t paid too much attention, but it had been marinating because it was now jumping up and down in the front of his mind.

  The butterfly effect, she’d called it. She’d said that someone reminding Reid about Tollund Man being found not five miles from where they were now was the catalyst, the butterfly flapping its wings in Brazil that causes a hurricane in Texas. Without Tollund Man they wouldn’t have found the disturbed coffin, probably wouldn’t have discovered the stolen Breitling. Quentin Carmichael would still be listed as dying in Africa and the insidious purpose of the charity cruise would have remained hidden.

  But what if . . .?

  Sometimes Poe’s mind lay coiled and quiet, processing data at its own speed, but at other times he was capable of making huge intuitive leaps. A horrific, half-formed suspicion grew in the pit of his stomach and began to gnaw and gnaw . . .

  Neurons were firing. Faster and faster as he made link after link. All the disparate parts of the puzzle came together and clicked into place. Confusion was replaced by understanding.

  Poe knew most of it – maybe all of it.

  No one had been able to answer how the Immolation Man had managed to stay a ghost for so long. Fair enough, anyone could learn police procedures these days; the Freedom of Information Act meant that most police manuals were publicly available. It was feasible that an intelligent, careful man could teach himself to be forensically aware. But how had he evaded the surveillance Gamble had laid down? The mobile ANPR cameras, the human surveillance on the stone circles, all the patrols. There was only one possibility. The Immolation Man had to be getting current intel.

  As Poe inched towards confirming his own theory, he thought of everything they’d uncovered over the last two weeks. He looked at his jacket and corrected himself. He went back further. To the night of the charity cruise and a plan that had taken almost twenty-six years to come to fruition.

  Logically, there was only one person it could be. The thought chilled him to his very core.

  ‘Do you have the information sheet on propofol, Tilly?’

  She found it and handed it over. Poe turned over the top sheet and looked for the sections on other uses. He ran his finger down the list and stopped when he found what he was looking for.

  Shit . . .

  He glanced up. Bradshaw was watching him. ‘I need you to check something for me, Tilly.’

  ‘What is it, Poe?’

  After he’d told her, she frowned. ‘Are you sure?’ she said softly.

  He found he couldn’t speak. He nodded.

  As Bradshaw ran the information he’d given her, Poe paced up and down the room. It was the worst thing he’d ever had to wait for. He prayed he was wrong, but knew he wasn’t.

  The result came on to Bradshaw’s screen and she turned and nodded. She had tears in her eyes.

  She wasn’t the only one.

  Poe knew who the Immolation Man was.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Poe stared at the number on his mobile. There would be no going back if he made the call. No bell could be unrung. His finger hovered over the dial icon. Eventually he touched it. He closed his eyes as he waited for the call to be answered. She might not. She’d be involved in the search for the abducted children and trying to identify the owner of the prisoner-escort van. He had to tell her before anyone else. He needed to convince her.

  After eight rings – and Poe counted them with a heart that grew heavier with each one – Flynn answered her phone.

  ‘Poe,’ she whispered, ‘I can’t talk. DCS Gamble’s just delivering his briefing.’

  ‘You need to go and get him, Steph.’

  ‘It’ll have to wait. I’ve got—’

  Poe spoke firmly. ‘You need to go and get DCS Gamble and you need to do it right now.’

  ‘I’m going to need more,’ she replied after a small pause.

  Poe told her.

  There was a delay of three or four minutes as Flynn manoeuvred her way through the briefing room. Despite the fact it sounded as though she was holding her phone at her side, Poe could still hear her as she ‘excused me’d’ her way to the front of the room.

  It was tinny, but when she arrived, Poe could hear both sides of the conversation.

  ‘It’s DS Poe, sir.
He says he needs to speak to us.’

  ‘Does he now?’ Gamble replied. ‘Well, he’s going to have to get in the queue. When I’ve finished here, the chief constable wants me to accompany him to the PCC’s office. We’re both in for a bollocking.’

  ‘You need to take this, sir. Trust me.’

  Poe heard Gamble sigh. ‘Look, I know he’s been a small help on this investigation but we have missing children now. I really don’t have time to waste on another of his theories.’

  Flynn didn’t respond.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘We’ll go into my office.’

  A minute later Flynn put the mobile on speakerphone.

  ‘Out with it, Poe,’ Gamble snapped.

  ‘I know who the Immolation Man is, sir, and we need to act now.’

  ‘You do, do you?’ Gamble said sceptically.

  Poe ignored the rudeness. Gamble was under enormous pressure. ‘It all comes down to a suit jacket at the end of the day, sir,’ Poe replied. ‘A suit jacket and the flap of a butterfly’s wings.’

  ‘What are you talking about, man?’ Gamble snapped.

  ‘It’s Kylian Reid, sir. The Immolation Man is Kylian Reid.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  It was Bradshaw who’d pointed him down the road he’d just travelled. Rattling on about that stupid butterfly and how it kept causing hurricanes. She’d said the body in the salt store wasn’t the anchor for this case. The anchor – the first flap of the butterfly’s wings – was that someone had thought to mention Tollund Man at all. Without that chance comment in Kendal police station, they’d have been nowhere.

  But what if it wasn’t luck? What if it had been intentional? Other than fluking their way into the charity gala, the Immolation Man had been in control. To date, he’d been the puppet master.

  But why let them make any progress at all?

  It could only be because he wanted Poe involved and he didn’t want him too far behind. And as soon as he thought about it that way, like a beacon through fog, his connection to the case shone through.

  The Immolation Man wasn’t trying to evade justice – he was delivering it.

  He wanted his story told, but only after the players had been punished. And with the investigation initially stalling and following clichéd theories, the Immolation Man had engineered the involvement of the one man who might see through the smog of confusion. Poe, with his stupid ‘follow the evidence anywhere’ mantra, became part of his narrative.

  From the beginning, Poe had worried about motive, and with a case like this, when you had the motive, you had everything: the identity of the killer, what really happened on that charity cruise, how the victims were selected, everything. Poe could even take a stab at why the Immolation Man had killed the way he had.

  It all made a twisted sense. From the Immolation Man’s perspective, it really did.

  It was a child snuff ring that went to the top of Cumbria’s social elite. A landowner, a solicitor, a media baron, a council member and a member of the clergy. The Immolation Man was killing the people involved, but that was only half the story: he also wanted them exposed.

  But he didn’t trust his own police force to do what was right. He knew his chief constable had ambitions higher than Cumbria. For advancement, he’d cover the reasons behind the castrations and burnings. He’d focus on the killings and nothing more. His story might never be told.

  That was where Poe came in. The Immolation Man needed his dogged determination to see behind the headlines and get to the real story.

  Reid had integrated himself into their investigation from the beginning, monitoring his progress, nudging them in the right direction if they needed help. It was Reid who’d sent him that postcard. It was Reid who’d told them about the salt-store connection; Poe doubted anyone had reminded him; he probably hadn’t even been to Kendal police station. Just came back to Herdwick Croft with an answer he knew Poe would obsess over.

  And because he lived in Kendal, he fitted Bradshaw’s buffer-zone and distance decay models.

  Poe even knew how he’d managed to abduct Hilary Swift.

  All that was suspicious, but ultimately circumstantial.

  Where was the motive? Why was he doing these monstrous things? Why would Reid, a decorated police officer with over fifteen years’ exemplary service, suddenly decide to become a serial killer?

  The answer was he hadn’t. He’d decided a long time ago.

  It was the jacket that provided Poe with the missing motivation.

  It didn’t matter what the weather was doing, Reid never removed his jacket. For years, he’d taken the piss out of Poe’s lack of sartorial elegance. Whether they were at work, or on a night out, Reid always dressed well. In all the time he’d known him, Poe had never seen him without a shirt, jacket or jumper on. He’d certainly never seen him in a T-shirt, even when they were teenagers.

  In the photograph of the boys, one of their nightmare starts to life had visible reminders. Mathew Malone had cigarette burns all over his torso and arms. Terrible scars that would never heal.

  Kylian Reid’s arms were always covered.

  Kylian Reid was Mathew Malone.

  And Mathew Malone was killing the men who’d murdered his friends.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  ‘You’re out of your fucking mind, Poe!’ Gamble said. ‘Out of your fucking mind!’

  Poe had finished explaining. Gamble wasn’t buying it. Even Flynn was reticent.

  ‘It is a bit of a stretch, Poe,’ she said.

  He needed them to believe him, and their reaction – although not unexpected – wasn’t helping. ‘Tilly,’ he said calmly. ‘Can you tell DI Flynn and DCS Gamble what you found, please?’

  ‘I can, Poe,’ she said. Leaning into the phone, Bradshaw said, ‘DS Poe asked me to check all vehicles registered to the Scafell Veterinary Group.’

  ‘What the heck is that?’ Poe noticed Gamble didn’t swear at Bradshaw. Drunks in Shap Wells aside, everyone seemed to regulate their language when talking to her.

  ‘They’re a veterinary practice and they used to have a lot of vehicles. Mainly four-wheel drives and Land Rovers. Since the company went dormant, they haven’t bought anything.’

  ‘Tilly, can you get to the—’ Flynn said.

  Showing a resilience she hadn’t had a week ago, Bradshaw clipped her boss’s sentence. ‘Until ten months ago when two vehicles were bought from a car auction in Derbyshire.’

  There was silence. Everyone on the call knew that GU Security had their UK headquarters in Derbyshire.

  ‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’ Flynn asked. Gamble seemed to have lost his voice.

  ‘It was easy enough to check,’ Poe said. ‘Because of money-laundering laws, all car auction companies are registered with HMRC as high-value dealers. That means they can’t accept cash transactions of over ten thousand pounds so—’

  ‘So those vans would have had to be paid for via a bank transfer,’ Gamble cut in. ‘I know how the fucking money-laundering law works, Poe! I am still failing to see how this leads back to one of my finest officers.’

  ‘GU were very helpful, sir,’ Poe said, as if Gamble hadn’t spoken. ‘Among the vehicles sold to the auction company were four-cell vans and some of the larger ten-cell trucks. The auction company confirmed that the Scafell Veterinary Group bought one of each. I’ve sent you their email.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Sir, the Scafell Veterinary Group is owned by Kylian Reid’s father.’

  It took a further ten minutes for Gamble to get to grips with the fact that one of his detectives might be a serial killer. He clung to the one thing he thought Poe couldn’t explain. ‘It doesn’t make sense, Poe. Reid was drugged at the same time as you.’

  ‘He was, sir,’ Poe agreed.

  ‘Well then?’

  ‘What do you know about propofol, sir?’

  ‘It’s an anaesthetic,’ Gamble replied.

  ‘It is, sir. But thanks to Tilly I kn
ow a lot more about it now. It has a multitude of other uses. It’s been used as part of the lethal injection cocktails on American death-row inmates, and it’s used recreationally by some of the more discerning drug users. It’s even—’

  ‘Get to the fucking point, Poe!’

  ‘Veterinary medicine, sir!’ Bradshaw blurted out. ‘Vets also use it as an anaesthetic.’

  ‘Are you saying . . .’

  ‘The Scafell Veterinary Group purchased some last year, sir,’ Poe finished for him. ‘Propofol is heavily regulated and the drugs company keep an excellent record. I’ve sent you that email as well.’

  There was a pause, ‘It still doesn’t explain how he managed to drug himself and abduct Hilary Swift at the same time, Poe.’

  ‘That’s because he didn’t, sir,’ Poe said.

  ‘I don’t unders—’

  ‘The Immolation Man isn’t one person, sir, it’s two,’ Poe cut in. ‘Reid drugged himself to avoid suspicion, then his father abducted Hilary Swift and her grandchildren.’

  Flynn took control. ‘OK, Poe. Sir, I think we’ve heard enough. We need to at least detain DS Reid until we’ve cleared this up,’ she said.

  ‘And can I suggest that someone makes sure Montague Price is where he’s supposed to be?’ Poe said.

  That got Gamble’s attention. It was one thing to not see the enemy within, another thing entirely for a prisoner in his custody to be abducted.

  ‘It’s ridiculous, DI Flynn,’ Gamble said, no doubt thinking ahead. The world was about to crash down on his head.

  ‘Steph,’ Poe said, ‘if DCS Gamble can’t, can you? Price is now the only one left from that boat. Kylian will want him.’

  ‘Leave it with me.’

  Ten minutes later Poe received a text from Flynn: Reid not at Cumbria headquarters. No one has seen him. Gamble’s in meltdown. Any ideas?

  Poe sent one back saying he didn’t have any, but he’d get Bradshaw working on it. He doubted Reid would have left a paper trail leading to his location but he had to do something. After he’d made sure Bradshaw knew what she was searching for, he’d head into Kendal and have a look through Reid’s flat before it was declared a crime scene and off-limits. It wouldn’t be Reid’s containment site, but it might offer something.