The Puppet Show

by M. W. Craven

  ‘Still a DS in major incidents,’ he said. ‘I take it you’re all staying at Shap Wells? I’ll get a room there one night and we can all have a drink.’

  ‘It’ll be the best night ever,’ Flynn said woodenly.

  Poe decided the reunion could wait. ‘So, what’s in there?’ He directed the question at Gamble. Reid might be the only friend he had on the force, but it was still Gamble’s crime scene.

  ‘You know the rule of nines?’

  Poe nodded. It was how the extent of burns was medically assessed. The head and arms were all 9 per cent each, while the legs, the front and the back of the torso were all 18 per cent each. That added up to 99 per cent. The remaining 1 per cent was the genitalia.

  Gamble said, ‘Well, our lad’s getting better. Although he was the most heavily tortured, the first victim only had burns covering his legs and back. Not much on his front, and his arms weren’t touched. The burns increased on the second, and by the third, the victim was around about the ninety per cent mark.’

  ‘And this one?’

  ‘Come and see for yourself.’

  While Poe changed into the suit Boyle had brought over, Gamble replaced the one he was wearing to avoid any cross-contamination issues. Flynn didn’t bother – she’d seen victim number three in situ – and stayed with Reid. Poe was signed into the inner cordon and followed Gamble across the footboards CSI had laid down to avoid key evidence being trampled on.

  The smell hit him first. Five yards from the forensic tent and the stench became overpowering.

  Poe knew there was a myth that burning humans smelled like pork. They really didn’t. Human flesh alone might, but people who burn to death haven’t been processed the way slaughtered animals have. They haven’t been bled and their internal organs haven’t been removed. Digestive tracts full of food and faeces remain in the body.

  Everything that burns has its own unique foul smell.

  Blood is iron-rich and Poe could detect the faint metallic aroma. That was the most pleasant. Muscles burn differently to body fat, internal organs burn differently to blood, and burning guts have a smell unlike any other. The combined odour was thick, sweet and cloying. On top of it all was the unmistakable stench of petrol.

  The smell coated the inside of Poe’s nose and the back of his throat. He’d be smelling and tasting it for days. He retched and almost vomited but managed to hold it together.

  Gamble opened the tent flap for him. He walked inside. The Home Office Pathologist was still working on the body.

  It was on its side and twisted into an unnatural position. The eyeballs had burst then dried, and the mouth was open as if the victim had died screaming. Poe knew heat did strange things to corpses, and the mouth could just as easily have opened post-mortem. The hands were burnt to stumps, and although it would no doubt be confirmed later, Poe was sure the victim’s ‘1 per cent’ was missing. The corpse was the colour and consistency of rough black leather. It looked as though it had been dipped in lava then dried in a furnace. Apart from the soles of the feet. They were still shockingly pink.

  The pathologist looked up and grunted a greeting.

  Poe asked, ‘You think the same accelerant was used?’

  ‘Definitely,’ he said. He was an older man and thin. The forensic suit billowed out like a hot-air balloon. He pointed at the victim’s thigh. ‘You see that split? The University of West Florida has been researching this for a few years, and they now know that the outer surface of the skin fries and peels first. It takes five minutes for the thicker dermal layer to shrink and split, and as untreated petrol will only burn for a minute or so, additional fuel must have been used.’

  Poe didn’t want to know why the University of West Florida had been conducting research like that. He wanted to know how they’d been doing it even less. They did execute a lot of death row inmates over there, though . . .

  ‘And if you look here,’ the pathologist said, pointing at the thighs, buttocks and waist, ‘all the fat has rendered down. Human fat is a good fuel but it needs something to act as a wick. He was naked so we know it wasn’t his clothes. I’ll know more when I get him back on the table, but I suspect that every time the fire was dying down, the killer added more accelerant.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘For him to die?’

  Poe shook his head. ‘To reduce the body to this.’

  ‘Five to seven hours I’d estimate. The muscles have shrunk and contracted, which has caused the peculiar position he’s in now, and that takes time.’

  ‘And the soles of the feet?’

  ‘He was standing throughout the whole thing. The ground protected them.’ He turned back to the task in hand.

  Gamble said, ‘You can’t see it, but there’s a small hole underneath the body. He was staked in the upright position. Staking his victims is one of the adaptations he’s made since he started.’

  ‘Must have been a metal one,’ Poe said. ‘A wooden one would have collapsed after fifteen minutes.’

  Gamble said nothing and Poe knew he’d already figured that out.

  ‘I think I know why this one’s been burnt more than the others, though,’ Poe said. ‘I’m assuming you’ve been up here all day?’

  Gamble nodded. ‘Since ten o’clock this morning.’

  ‘What you won’t know then is that none of this can be seen from the road. You can barely see the crime-scene lights. The circle’s hidden from view until you’re almost on it, and because this road is mainly used by people going to and from the golf course, most people leaving the club house would be going away from it, back into Cockermouth.’

  ‘So he had more time,’ Gamble said.

  Poe nodded. ‘And if he waited until after last orders at the nineteenth hole, there was virtually no chance of being observed.’

  ‘That’s helpful.’

  Poe wasn’t sure how. They already knew the Immolation Man was careful.

  ‘Any early thoughts?’ Gamble asked.

  ‘Just that I’m never accepting a barbecue invite from the University of West Florida.’

  Gamble nodded but didn’t laugh.

  They left the tent and the inner cordon and re-joined Flynn and Reid. Poe was glad to remove the constrictive forensic suit.

  ‘We haven’t released anything to the media about DS Poe’s connection to the case, DI Flynn,’ Gamble said. ‘I’ve agreed with my assistant chief that we can use it as an additional control filter for anyone ringing up claiming responsibility. The information is extremely restricted so don’t put it on any documentation.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ Flynn said, nodding. ‘And I think we should also stay away from the official investigation, sir. Keep Poe out of it completely. We can work from the hotel for now.’

  Gamble nodded. Poe got the impression he was relieved Flynn had suggested it first.

  ‘And DS Reid seems to like DS Poe, so he can be your liaison. I’ll second him to you for now. He’ll make sure you have everything you need,’ he said. ‘As well as analytical support, can SCAS take the name angle? Try and figure out Poe’s involvement. We’ll exchange information at the end of every day, even if it’s a nil report. How’s that sound?’

  ‘Perfect,’ she said.

  After another round of handshakes, Poe and Flynn made their way back to the car.

  As soon as they were out of earshot, Flynn turned to face Poe. ‘What was that about?’

  ‘The “liaison” thing?’

  ‘Yes. That.’ She sounded angry. ‘Do they not trust me?’

  Poe shrugged. ‘It’s not you they don’t trust, Steph. It’s me.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Shap Wells was a hotel with a past. Almost as isolated as Herdwick Croft, it could only be accessed via a mile-long drive down the narrowest of roads. During the Second World War, its isolation had been used to the Allies’ advantage: it was requisitioned from the Earl of Lonsdale and turned into Prisoner of War Camp Number Fifteen. It had held up to two hundred prisoners, mainly Ge
rman officers, with the camp leader at one point being a German prince related to Queen Mary.

  The main north–south railway line was near and security had been high as trains had facilitated POW escapes from the camp. Two barbed-wire fences had been erected around the hotel, and towers had allowed guards to cover every angle with powerful searchlights. The concrete bases of the guard towers were still visible if you knew where to look. Poe did; he knew the hotel well. His car was permanently parked there, he took advantage of the free wi-fi when he needed to go online, and he ate in the restaurant at least twice a week.

  Next morning, before making his way to the hotel, Poe left Edgar with Thomas Hume, the farmer who’d sold him the croft and the surrounding land the year before. They’d become friends and did the occasional favour for each other. Poe allowed Hume to graze his sheep on his land and helped him with the odd bit of dry stone walling – usually when Hume needed muscle rather than technical ability – and Hume looked after Edgar when Poe was away.

  Although he usually walked the two miles to the hotel, that morning Poe took his quad bike. He collected his mail from the receptionist, a New Zealand girl who always had a smile for him, and went looking for Flynn and Bradshaw.

  They’d just finished breakfast and Poe helped himself to a coffee. Flynn was wearing another power suit, black this time. Bradshaw was wearing the same cargo pants and the same trainers, but a different T-shirt. This one had a faded picture of the Incredible Hulk and the phrase ‘Don’t make me angry’. He was surprised Flynn had allowed it. Then again, he wasn’t – the art of management was all about avoiding pointless battles.

  Five minutes later Kylian Reid joined them. Flynn frowned in annoyance but shook his hand. He updated them on the fourth victim. He still hadn’t been identified but the body had been recovered and was now being prepped for post-mortem. Gamble wanted to know if SCAS would put it through the MSCT. Flynn confirmed they would.

  Flynn had managed to get the use of a small conference room for the duration of their involvement. Poe was pleased they’d be working away from the main investigation. He’d never been the most popular cop in Cumbria: his tendency to speak truth to power meant that he’d been tolerated at best and he knew his suspension from the NCA had been joyfully received in his old force. He didn’t care, but he didn’t want any ongoing antagonism to get in the way of what they were doing.

  They were in the Garden Room on the ground floor. Despite the age and grandeur of the hotel, the room was modern and well equipped. Flynn had chosen a bigger room than they needed. It allowed them to section it off. They spent the first half hour setting up Bradshaw’s equipment and arranging the tables so they had a conference area and enough space to move about. They weren’t allowed to pin or Blu Tack anything to the walls so Flynn called for additional whiteboards and flipcharts.

  Incident rooms were the beating hearts of major investigations and Poe felt the familiar tingle of excitement; there was something exhilarating about setting up a new one. Before long it would be populated with clues and questions, of things they knew and things they wanted to know.

  It was going to be different to previous investigations in which Poe had been involved. In the official incident room at Carleton Hall, Gamble would have an army of staff: office managers, action managers, document readers, indexers, exhibits officers, house-to-house coordinators, disclosure officers and file preparation officers.

  At Shap Wells there was just the four of them. It was liberating.

  When Bradshaw had hooked up the computers, they began.

  Flynn kicked it off. ‘I’m suggesting we start with why Poe’s name was carved into the chest of Michael James. Any one disagree?’

  Poe gave everyone the chance to speak up. No one did.

  He raised his hand. ‘Just a thought.’

  They all looked at him.

  ‘I think, for now at least, we should assume it’s a red herring. I don’t know any of the victims and I know DCS Gamble is going through all my old cases to see if anyone I put away fits the profile of a serial killer. What value can we add?’

  Flynn said, ‘You have an alternative line of enquiry, I take it?’

  Poe nodded. ‘There’s a far more important question that hasn’t been answered yet.’

  ‘Which is?’ Reid asked.

  ‘Why the gap between the first and second victim was so long and the gaps between the second, third and fourth were so short?’

  Flynn looked slightly annoyed and he knew why. Experience suggested – and it was backed up by statistics – that serial murderers started slowly then speeded up.

  Before he could be patronised, he continued. ‘I know you’re going to give me a lesson in serial killers and how their urge to kill is sated after the first murder, but the amount of time this holds them is ever reducing. Am I right?’

  Flynn nodded.

  ‘And none of the victims knew each other, right?’

  This time it was Reid who answered. ‘The investigation has found no link between them. Of course, I can’t speak for the fourth victim; he hasn’t been ID’d yet.’

  ‘What’s your point, Poe?’ Flynn asked.

  ‘My point, Steph, is that you’re thinking like someone who doesn’t know Cumbria. It might be the third largest county in England but it’s sparsely populated.’

  ‘And that means . . .?’

  ‘That it’s statistically unlikely that these men didn’t know each other.’

  Flynn and Reid stared at him. Bradshaw – for whom the word ‘statistic’ was a starter pistol – began typing.

  ‘I’m from here, and so is Kylian, and we can tell you that everyone seems to know everyone.’

  ‘It’s a bit thin,’ Flynn said.

  ‘It is,’ Poe agreed. ‘But if you also consider that all the victims were in the same age and socio-economic group, the odds of them not knowing each other reduces even further. This isn’t Knightsbridge. Parts of Cumbria have a lower GDP than the Czech Republic. Just how many millionaires do you think we have?’

  The only sound was Bradshaw’s keyboard.

  ‘But we’re sure they didn’t know each other,’ Flynn insisted. ‘Unless you’re saying we’ve all missed something?’

  Poe shrugged. ‘Sort of, but it comes back to my first point. Why was there such a big gap between the first and second victims?’

  He waited.

  ‘What if these men did know each other but had made concerted efforts to hide it? And what if these men would know if they were being picked off? A pattern only they could see. Now, when Graham Russell’s murdered, so what? He’d overseen the hacking of the phones of murder and paedophile victims all over the country – the list of people who wished him harm must have been huge. And whatever the file might say now, we know that’s the line of enquiry Gamble initially took. If I’m right, it’s entirely possible the others simply put it down to bad luck on Russell’s part. But when victim number two is killed in the same way, even the most optimistic of them would know what was happening. The Immolation Man has no reason to take it slowly any more; in fact, if he’s working through a list, he has every reason to speed up.’

  Flynn frowned. ‘But if they knew they were being targeted, why didn’t they go to the police?’

  ‘They couldn’t,’ Reid said. ‘If Poe’s right then they might be linked by something they couldn’t speak about.’

  ‘And given their individual wealth, it’s almost certainly something illegal,’ Poe added.

  ‘But we’re not sure when the men were abducted,’ Flynn said. ‘It’s possible they were all taken before anyone was killed.’

  No theory was perfect, thought Poe.

  ‘Three-point-six per cent,’ Bradshaw said, looking up from her computer.

  They stared at her.

  ‘Using a program I’ve just written, I’ve calculated that the odds of three men from that social group, in a county with a population of seventy-three-point-four people per kilometre squared, not knowing each
other are three-point-six per cent. There are some variables that take it as low as two per cent and as high as three-point-nine, but the maths is sound.’

  Reid was staring open-mouthed. ‘You wrote a program?’ He looked at his watch. ‘In under five minutes?’

  Bradshaw nodded. ‘It wasn’t hard, DS Reid. I simply adapted an existing tool I have.’

  Poe stood up. ‘That’s settled then. We don’t argue with Tilly and maths.’

  Bradshaw gave Poe a shy, grateful glance.

  ‘Let’s get to work then,’ Flynn said.

  Twelve hours later and they were all in a foul mood.

  They hadn’t found the slightest hint that the men might have known each other. They hadn’t been in the same golf clubs, they hadn’t sat on the same charitable boards and, on the few occasions they’d eaten at the same restaurants, it was at different times. Bradshaw had managed to get their supermarket loyalty-card details, and they hadn’t shopped in the same stores. Reid rang Gamble who promised to re-interview their neighbours and friends to see if anything was missed, but Poe’s theory wasn’t looking good.

  Adding to their misery was the fact that the room wasn’t working. Due to the constant interruptions, they couldn’t put anything confidential or graphic on the wall. Tea and coffee being delivered, the events manager checking they didn’t need anything, and on three separate occasions residents walking into the room thinking it was the dining room. One numbskull twice.

  And at the end of the day they had to take everything down and pack it away as it wasn’t a secure room.

  Although this was only the first time they’d sat down with everything laid out, the sense of despondency was palpable.

  There was a knock on the door and the events manager popped her head in. ‘I know you said you didn’t want to be disturbed, but can I just check you don’t want menus brought in for the evening meal? The dining room’s about to shut.’

  ‘Can I make a suggestion?’ Poe asked after she’d left. ‘Why don’t we work from my house tomorrow? Downstairs is open plan and about the same size as this room. I don’t have rules about pinning things to my walls, and it’s more secure than this place. Plus, most of the time I’ll be there anyway.’