by M. W. Craven
‘I don’t know about that, Poe,’ Flynn said. ‘You’re supposed to be the next victim, remember.’
‘All the better that I don’t have to travel back and forth to the hotel every day then. If anyone’s going to try and grab me, it’ll be when I’m out on the moor on my own.’
There was a moment’s silence while Flynn considered it. ‘Tilly?’ she asked. ‘Would you get a signal up there?’
‘If I don’t, I’ll tether my phone to anything we need internet access to.’
‘How would we get there?’ Flynn asked Poe. ‘I was happy to tramp across as a one-off but I’m not doing that every day.’
‘I’ll leave you and Tilly my quad. Any stuff you need to bring can go in the trailer.’
‘What about me?’ Reid asked.
‘You? You can fucking walk,’ Poe said.
Reid grinned.
Everyone looked at Flynn, waiting for her decision. ‘Well, it’s got to be worth a try. Today was a disaster.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Poe collected Edgar then returned the quad to the hotel. The walk across the fells to Herdwick Croft was invigorating. The fading light had turned everything a rich shade of crimson. Edgar ran off to chase a rabbit but soon came bouncing back. Poe doubted he’d know what to do if he ever got near one.
He fixed himself a simple supper: a cheese and pickle sandwich, a bag of crisps and a cup of strong tea. The day might not have been a success but Poe was sure he was right; the Immolation Man was targeting his victims using more than just age and wealth. He reordered the thoughts in his mind. He hoped he was right. If he weren’t, then somewhere out there was an organised, forensically aware, technically proficient serial killer who liked to castrate and burn people.
And he was next.
Although Edgar would howl like a wolf if anyone approached the croft at night, for the first time since Poe had lived there he locked the door and shuttered the windows. Surprisingly, he slept well. Not a single nightmare.
As soon as he woke, Poe knew they were in for another glorious spring day. He boiled an egg, walked Edgar, then waited for the team to arrive. Reid had walked over from the side of the road and got there first. Flynn and Bradshaw arrived on the quad moments later.
Bradshaw shouted with delight when she saw Edgar.
‘You didn’t tell me you had a dog, Poe!’ she squealed. For the next ten minutes work was forgotten, as Bradshaw and Edgar became best friends. The spaniel, who’d always been an attention junky, made a beeline for her and lathered her in licks and dog hair. Bradshaw shrieked with laughter and hung her arms around his neck as if afraid he’d run off. Poe passed Tilly some treats to give Edgar and their friendship was cemented.
‘Remember, Tilly, if he shows you his lipstick, don’t touch it,’ Reid said, winking at Poe.
Bradshaw buried her head in the spaniel’s neck. ‘You don’t have any lipstick do you, Edgar? What a silly goose DS Reid is. He must mean your penis.’
After they’d laughed at Reid’s open-mouthed look of astonishment, Flynn called them to order. ‘You can play with Edgar later, Tilly. We need to crack on.’
Poe had opened all the windows and spring sunlight beamed into the room. The ground floor of Herdwick Croft was rectangular, without fancy nooks and crannies. Two windows at the front, none at the back and one door. Poe explained that, years ago, during bad winters the shepherd lived upstairs while the sheep sheltered in the room they were in now. It offered them protection from the cold and warmed the building. The walls were the same on the inside as they were on the outside: exposed, roughly quarried stone. The ceiling beams were old and sturdy and black after a century of smoke. A wood-burning stove dominated the room. It had wood inside but it hadn’t been lit yet. Despite the warm day, Poe would light it later; it was how he heated his water.
Poe put a pot of coffee in the centre of the table and they got to work. As it was his line of enquiry, Flynn let him lead the first session.
‘Back to basics everyone. I want us to assume these men did know each other at some point. They may have been hiding that fact, but that’s what we detectives do; we detect things.’
Bradshaw stuck her hand in the air.
Poe waited but she said nothing. He looked at her, confused, until he remembered that up until a year ago, her entire life had been spent in classrooms and lecture halls. ‘Tilly, you don’t have to put your hand up. What is it?’
‘I’m not a detective, Poe. I’m an employee of the National Crime Agency but I don’t have the power of arrest like you, Detective Sergeant Reid and Detective Inspector Stephanie Flynn.’
‘Er . . . thanks for clearing that up, Tilly. Good to know.’
Bradshaw nodded.
For the next four hours they delved into the lives – and deaths – of Graham Russell, Joe Lowell and Michael James. At midday, Reid took a phone call.
‘We have a name for victim number four. Clement Owens. Sixty-seven years old. Retired solicitor. Worked in the private sector and represented the banking industry. Apart from his wealth, there’s no obvious connection to the others. We’ll have more info soon.’
Flynn called a break. They were all getting hungry and she’d brought sandwiches with her. Poe suggested they ate outside.
Although Poe enjoyed the harsh beauty of a Cumbrian winter, he’d lived at Shap for over a year now and felt qualified to say that spring was his favourite season. Other than the omnipresent sheep, winter stripped the fells of life. Left acres and acres of bitter, colourless landscape for as far as the eyes could see. Spring seemed like resurrection. The days were longer, dormant plants pushed green shoots through the warming earth and the heather blossomed. Exotic gardens of lichen and moss burst into life. Ferocious, freezing winds became warm, richly scented breezes. Birds nested, animals bred and there was a renewed sense of optimism in the air. It was the time of year that made you appreciate the beauty and slower pace of life in rural Cumbria.
While Flynn was off making a phone call, and Bradshaw chased Edgar all over Shap Fell, Poe turned to Reid and said, ‘It’s good to see you again, Kylian. How long’s it been?’
‘Five years,’ Reid grunted through a mouthful of ham and egg.
‘Five years? It can’t be. The last time I saw you was—’
‘My mother’s funeral,’ he said accusingly.
A burst of blood coloured Poe’s cheeks. Reid’s mother had died of motor neurone disease, after years of illness. He was right, the funeral had been the last time Poe had seen him.
‘I’m sorry, mate,’ he said, but Reid waved away his apology. ‘How’s your dad keeping?’ asked Poe.
‘You know him, Poe. He only retired because mum told him he had to. Still does a bit for a stable in Lancashire. Not even sure they pay him, he does it to fill his time. If he’s not doing that, he’s napping in front of the fire or reading books on racing.’
Reid’s father had been a highly respected vet specialising in racehorses. As a boy, Poe had loved visiting George Reid’s veterinary practice. There were always animals to fuss over.
‘How’s your dad?’ Reid asked, smiling. ‘Still a beatnik?’
Poe smiled. It wasn’t far from the truth. His father lived to travel, and rarely came back to the UK. The only time he’d lived in one place for any length of time was when he was raising Poe. His mother, unable to handle the vanilla life, had abandoned them both when he was a toddler. His father had temporarily sacrificed his nomadic spirit and brought him up alone. As soon as Poe joined the Black Watch, he was off again. They kept in touch via email but they hadn’t seen each other for almost three years. As far as Poe knew, his father was in Brazil somewhere. Doing what, he had no idea. He could be deep in the rainforest or running for political office, there really was no way to tell. He loved him dearly but he’d never been what you’d call a ‘traditional’ parent.
Poe’s mother had died a few weeks after he’d been suspended, killed by a hit-and-run driver. He only found out when his fa
ther emailed him five weeks after she’d been cremated. He’d been saddened by her death, just as he was saddened by anyone’s death, but he hadn’t lingered on it. She’d made a choice to put her own needs before his a long time ago.
‘You seeing anyone?’ Reid asked.
Poe shook his head. He’d always found it hard forming relationships. When he’d been down in Hampshire, there’d been a few women, but nothing that lasted for more than a few weeks. A therapist might have told him it was because he had a deep-seated fear of abandonment, but Poe would have told them they were wrong: he wasn’t scared of abandonment: it was all he’d ever known . . .
‘You?’ he asked.
‘Nothing permanent.’
‘Well, aren’t we a pair of romantic bastards?’ Poe smiled.
Flynn returned from her phone call. ‘I’ve just spoken to Director van Zyl,’ she said. ‘He wants us to stay up here for as long as it takes. I told him about our new line of enquiry and he agrees it’s worth pursuing.’
She sat down, poured herself a coffee and grabbed a sandwich. She looked tired and Poe knew the investigation was getting to her. None of it made sense – especially his connection – and SCAS were supposed to answer questions, not pose them.
The sun was bright and the view as stunning as always. Uneven ground, treeless hills and jagged rocks for miles in every direction. Edgar tried to beg Flynn’s crusts, but unlike Bradshaw, who’d given him virtually all her lunch, she seemed immune to the sad-eyed, puppy-dog routine. When he realised the treats were over, Edgar wandered off and before long there was a screech. A curlew panicked into the air. Edgar reappeared, looking pleased with himself.
‘Leave the birds alone, Edgar!’ Poe shouted, before he could find the ground nest. The last thing he needed was the spaniel coming back to Bradshaw with a mouth full of hatchlings. Edgar reluctantly returned to the croft.
Flynn brushed some crumbs from her jacket. She was wearing the suit she’d had on the first day she’d been there, the one with the pinstripes. Bradshaw was wearing her usual cargo pants and T-shirt. Reid was immaculately dressed; he’d always been a clotheshorse and never dressed casually. Even when they’d socialised together, Reid wore a suit and Poe suspected he considered his own lack of effort a burden and disgrace. Poe was still wearing the clothes he had on yesterday, which reminded him – his mail was still unopened in his pocket.
He retrieved the bundle and glanced through it. There was a letter from his gas supplier letting him know that the delivery time for his fresh tank had been changed, and one from the borehole-pump suppliers telling him his warranty had expired. If he wanted to renew it, it would be six quid a month. Poe didn’t.
The last envelope was plain brown. His name was typed on the front and the postmark was local. He slid a knife under the flap and slit it open. He shook out the contents.
It was a postcard. A generic picture of a cup of coffee. The foam on top had been fashioned into a design by someone with too much time on their hands. Latte art, he thought it was called. Something they did in London, not Cumbria.
He flipped it over. He must have let out a gasp, as Flynn, Reid and Bradshaw all turned to stare.
‘What is it, Poe?’ Flynn asked.
He turned the card so they could all see what was written on the back.
One symbol, two words.
؟
Washington Poe
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘What the hell?’ Flynn muttered. She turned to stare at Poe. ‘What is this?’
Poe didn’t take his eyes from the postcard. ‘I have absolutely no idea,’ he managed.
It was clear no one else did either. The only sound that could be heard was Edgar gnawing on a bone he’d found. No one wanted to know where he’d got it from.
‘And what the hell’s that reverse question-mark thing?’ Flynn added. She placed the envelope and postcard into a clear evidence bag while Reid called Gamble to let him know. He promised to get someone across to take it for a forensic test, although none of them was holding out hope. The Immolation Man didn’t make mistakes at chaotic crime scenes – he was hardly likely to make one when he wasn’t in a hurry.
Bradshaw scanned both sides through the evidence bag so they had an electronic copy. She stared at her tablet for almost ten minutes, occasionally touching the screen and pulling her fingers apart to zoom in on something. She started to frown and mutter to herself.
‘What is it, Tilly?’ asked Flynn.
‘I need to go inside,’ she replied. She got up without another word. By the time they’d caught up with her she had her laptop open. She was searching for something. She turned to Poe and said, ‘Do you have a white bedsheet you can hang on the wall, Poe?’
He did, and luckily it was clean. Reid helped him put it up while Bradshaw set up the projector she’d brought with her.
When they’d finished, Bradshaw was ready. She aimed the light at the hanging sheet. She moved to Google’s home page and typed in ‘Percontation Point’. Nothing happened and she apologised for the slow internet connection.
A picture came up. It was the same symbol; the reverse question mark: ؟
Underneath was the definition:
The Percontation Point, sometimes called the Snark or the Irony Mark, is a little-known notation used to indicate that the sentence is to be taken rhetorically, ironically or as sarcasm. It can also be used to indicate that there is another layer of meaning in a sentence.
‘Tilly,’ Flynn said, ‘where are you going with—’
‘Let her speak, boss,’ Poe said. ‘I think I know.’
Bradshaw looked at him gratefully. ‘Thank you, Poe. The point I am trying to make, DI Stephanie Flynn, is, if I do this,’ she fiddled with the projector until it was out of focus, ‘what does the percontation point look like?’
Poe squinted, although he already knew. He watched Flynn to see if she could see it as well.
‘It looks like a number five,’ she said.
Bradshaw nodded excitedly. ‘We’d assumed the killer had carved a number five into the chest of Michael James, but what if that was simply apophenia, which means—’
‘We know what apophenia means, Tilly,’ Flynn said.
‘—seeing patterns when there aren’t any,’ Bradshaw finished regardless. ‘What if we saw the number five because we’re conditioned to look for numbers? And my program works on probability – it wouldn’t have recognised a percontation point so would have simply inserted the nearest thing to it.’
‘The number five,’ Poe said.
‘Yes, Poe,’ she replied. ‘The number five would be the nearest match to the program’s reference points. The letter “S” would have been the closest after that.’
‘Is there any way to check the original wounds?’ Poe asked.
‘Yes, Poe. I still have the data on my laptop.’
She pressed a few buttons on her laptop and the 3D image of his name appeared on the wall. It was the clearest one of his name; the letters were all taken from different slides to ensure each one was the optimum for viewing.
‘Can you separate the symbol?’ Poe asked. In his mind, he’d already dismissed the number five.
Bradshaw fiddled some more. There were fifty images of the symbol, each one taken at a slightly different depth. She put them on a slideshow, shallowest first. Because of the damage caused by the burnt flesh, the first few did look like the number five. The deeper she went with the image, the clearer the cuts became. The last few weren’t clear at all, just some nicks in the breastbone. She came back up a couple of slides.
‘There,’ Reid said. ‘That’s the one.’
Bradshaw stopped the slideshow.
They stared at the screen. What they’d earlier assumed had been the bottom part of the number five was in fact a separate, albeit smaller, wound. The Immolation Man had added a single stab wound under the curved part of the percontation point to represent the dot. Probably stabbed then twisted to add depth and definition. When the
fire caused the flesh to split, the wound at the bottom had taken the path of least resistance and joined the bottom of the percontation point. While the top MSCT images had looked like a number five, the lower ones most certainly didn’t. It wasn’t a perfect explanation but Poe suspected that the Immolation Man, when trying to carve an elegant and obscure symbol into the chest of a wriggling, screaming victim, had simply done the best he could.
And because everyone had missed it, he’d followed it up with a postcard.
If they were right – and Poe thought they were – then he wasn’t the intended fifth victim. That was good news. The bad news was that the Immolation Man knew where he lived.
He said, ‘Well, boss, I don’t know about you but if I had to put my money on it, I’d say that wasn’t a number five after all, I’d say that was a perforation point.’
‘Percontation point,’ Bradshaw corrected.
‘Agreed,’ Flynn said. ‘It’s too much of a coincidence not to be.’
Poe felt a prickle of excitement. Bradshaw had said one of the percontation point’s uses was to denote that a sentence or passage had another layer or meaning. He picked up the evidence bag. ‘Do we all think this was sent because we didn’t get the first message?’
Flynn paused. ‘There’s nothing else we can think.’
‘And there was definitely nothing on the first two victims?’ he asked.
‘Nope,’ Reid replied. ‘They’ve been retrospectively checked.’
‘And SCAS were called in after the second victim, but after the post-mortem?’
Flynn nodded.
‘So it would be fair to say, if you did have a message for SCAS, the body of the third victim rather than the first would be the one to use.’
‘Logically, I can’t argue with that,’ Flynn said. ‘What do we need to do next?’
‘I think we should look at Michael James’s chest again,’ Poe said. ‘All the slides, not just the highlights. But this time we put on our lateral-thinking pants.’
