The Puppet Show

by M. W. Craven

  He sat back behind his desk and gestured towards the chairs dotted around the room. ‘Mrs Oldwater’s in London and the housekeeper has gone for the day. I can probably rustle up some coffee if you’re thirsty?’

  Ordinarily Poe would have declined but he wanted to keep it informal. ‘I’ll have a coffee please, if that’s OK? Tilly?’

  ‘Do you have any fruit tea, Nicholas?’

  ‘I believe Mrs Oldwater enjoys a cup of liquorice tea every now and then. Will that do?’

  Bradshaw shook her head, ‘No thank you, Nicholas, liquorice gives me diarrhoea.’

  Holy hell . . .

  The bishop smiled. ‘Quite right, young lady. Of course, at my age, I don’t really have that sort of problem.’

  ‘That’s right, Nicholas. Constipation is a common problem among the elderly,’

  Poe stared at her aghast.

  ‘What?’ she said, when she saw his expression. ‘It is. Thirty per cent of senior citizens have fewer than three bowel movements a week.’

  Poe put his head in his hands. He turned to the bishop and said, ‘It’s sometimes hard to get Tilly to say what she’s thinking, Nicholas.’

  Luckily Oldwater found it hilarious and he roared with laughter. He said, ‘Excellent. Can I get you a hot water instead?’

  Tilly said, ‘Yes please, Nicholas.’

  He left to get their drinks. Poe could hear him laughing to himself down the corridor. He turned to Bradshaw and gave her a thumbs-up and a way-to-go nod. ‘Nice,’ he said.

  ‘What is, Poe?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  The bishop returned five minutes later. He had a full tray: coffee, hot water and a plate of biscuits. Poe reached for one. Ah . . . rich tea, for when you fancy a biscuit but can’t decide between sweet or savoury. He put it on the side of his saucer and concentrated on the excellent coffee.

  Poe looked around. There were rare-looking books and manuscripts everywhere. Spilling a cup of coffee in this room could cause irreparable damage; a horrifying thought to Poe, who was in fact holding a cup of coffee. Oldwater saw where he was looking.

  ‘I’m speaking at the House of Lords shortly on what role the Church should play in the refugee crisis. Been boning up on some precedents. See if I can shame the government into doing what’s unpopular but right, instead of what’s popular but wrong.’

  ‘I’ll keep it as short as I can then, Nicholas,’ Poe said. ‘We’re here about Quentin Carmichael.’

  ‘What have you found?’

  He didn’t say it defensively and Poe knew that putting him on the back foot wouldn’t be the best tactic. If he handled it right, the bishop could be an ally. Poe had intended to restrict the outflow of information, but sometimes it was best to go with gut feelings . . .

  ‘I’m going to tell you a story about a missing watch, Nicholas. If possible, I’d like you to hear me out until the end.’

  Oldwater smiled. ‘Sounds like my evening’s not going to be as stuffy as I thought.’

  When Poe had finished – with Bradshaw chipping in when there was something technical – Oldwater leaned forwards and steepled his fingers. He asked a few insightful questions and Poe got the impression he’d fully understood everything, and some of what he’d been told had cleared up some long unanswered questions.

  ‘You know it was my predecessor’s predecessor who gave Carmichael that watch? A few of the charities he’d worked with had chipped in together for it. The Church wouldn’t spend money like that on a trinket.’

  Poe nodded.

  ‘And you know both the police and Church investigations found no evidence that he’d embezzled money.’

  Poe’s working theory was that the Church had covered it up so well that the police hadn’t been able to find anything. If the Catholics could cover up child abuse, the Church of England could certainly cover up a bit of theft.

  ‘Ah,’ Oldwater said. ‘You think we were protecting our reputation?’

  ‘The thought had crossed my mind.’

  Oldwater retrieved a slim file from a filing cabinet. He opened it and showed Poe. ‘The Church’s assets, Detective Sergeant Poe.’

  It was a glossy financial spreadsheet. The number at the bottom was staggering. It was in the billions, not millions. He had no idea the Church was that wealthy.

  ‘You’re wondering why I showed you that?’

  Poe was about to say that it was to demonstrate how powerful his organisation was, but the reply died on his lips. Oldwater didn’t seem angry. Perhaps it wasn’t that.

  ‘It’s not to show you how powerful we are, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  What was he, a bloody mind reader . . .?

  ‘Never occurred to me.’

  ‘No, it’s to show you how good we are. We have some of the finest accountants in the country. We don’t pay our clergy much and occasionally one or two are tempted from the path. My point is, we always find out. And when I tell you that the investigation was an investigation and not a cover-up, you can take that as fact. The Church protects its investments jealously.’

  Poe looked at the spreadsheet again. It was true, he thought. The very rich seemed to know where every penny was, far more so than people like him. ‘OK then, tell me what you know. Tell me why the press thought he’d been embezzling Church money.’

  Oldwater seemed to be trying to work things out in his mind.

  ‘Are you really a policeman, Detective Sergeant Poe?’

  ‘I am. Why?’

  ‘Because it appears you haven’t read your own files.’

  ‘We’re the National Crime Agency, Nicholas. We don’t always play well with others. We’re having some . . . communication problems at the minute.’

  Oldwater nodded. Poe suspected the wily bishop knew there was far more going on than he’d been told, but he seemed keen to help anyway.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Poe, when Mr Carmichael disappeared, he had half a million pounds in his bank account, and it wasn’t money he embezzled from us. To this day, no one knows where it came from.’

  Poe leaned forward. ‘Tell me everything,’ he urged.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  ‘Quentin Carmichael was an upstanding member of the Church,’ Oldwater said. ‘He was ambitious but that’s not always a bad thing.’ He had retrieved a large manila file from another room, probably a staff file. He read it to refresh his memory then launched into a summary.

  ‘He was a dean?’ Poe asked.

  Oldwater nodded. ‘He had the Derwentshire Deanery. Covers most of Allerdale. A very wealthy part of the county.’

  ‘And the charity work he was given the watch for?’

  ‘Above board and verified. The investigation found that at no point did any of the funds he’d raised pass through any bank account he had access to. He would take on a particular cause and act as a figurehead but leave the details to others.’

  Poe paused. ‘Any chance he took backhanders from the charities? A sort of “give me some money and I’ll raise you ten times the amount” kind of thing?’

  ‘The police investigation considered that. They were all reputable and all had flawless accounts. It wasn’t them.’

  ‘Accounts can be faked,’ Poe said.

  ‘They can, yes. But there were some serious boys in blue going through them. Are you telling me that over twenty charities all did enough to fool a team of forensic accountants?’

  ‘It doesn’t seem plausible, no.’

  ‘But as he was high profile, and the money had been discovered shortly after he’d disappeared, the media put two and two together and came up with a cliché.’

  ‘What happened to the money?’ Poe asked. If money were the motive, then following it might lead him to either the killer, or at least Carmichael’s connection to the other victims.

  ‘You heard what I said his children claimed?’ Oldwater asked.

  ‘That he’d found a calling to do missionary work in Africa?’

  ‘That’s it.’
>
  ‘Did you buy it?’ Poe asked.

  ‘I didn’t then and I don’t now,’ Oldwater replied.

  ‘Didn’t they say he died of malaria or something?’

  ‘Dengue fever. And there was never any proof.’

  ‘But his assets were released by the courts.’

  ‘They were.’ Oldwater sighed. ‘Look, you have to see it from the children’s point of view. Their father had disappeared and there was a lot of money in the bank. A police investigation couldn’t prove it was ill-gotten and, by rights, the law of intestacy applied. His wife had already died so the money would pass to them as soon as he was declared dead.’

  ‘So they faked it?’

  ‘Hard to say. Records indicate that the children got it rough at school when the press went after him. Perhaps it wasn’t surprising they came up with a story that explained his disappearance. I don’t know if they were thinking as far ahead as getting access to his money.’

  ‘You think they hid his passport and chequebook?’

  ‘They might have. And once they’d lied, they had no choice but to stick with it.’

  It would be unusual for three children to keep a lie going when being questioned by the police. More likely one of them had, and then lied to the other two.

  ‘I’ve read all the statements they made,’ Oldwater continued, ‘and they were very careful to avoid saying he had left the country. Rather they said they thought he’d left the country.’

  ‘And telling the police what you think isn’t a crime,’ Poe finished. ‘What about the dengue fever, though? Surely that could be checked?’

  ‘A lot of Christian missionaries go to Africa and a lot of them don’t come back. War, crime and disease are the big three,’ Oldwater explained. ‘But if the children were making it up, they were clever.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Do you know what dengue fever is, Detective Sergeant Poe?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Well, you only need to know two things. It’s an awful way to die and it’s highly contagious. In Africa, in those days, anyone who succumbed to a disease like that was immediately cremated.’

  ‘So—’

  ‘So all they needed was a record of an unidentified white male of the right age dying, and they could begin campaigning to have him declared dead. Records out in Africa, particularly in war zones, are virtually non-existent.’

  Poe said nothing.

  ‘And don’t forget, by that time he’d been missing for years. They applied to the courts, showed some circumstantial evidence, and in 2007 they got a death certificate. The estate was then theirs to do with as they wanted.’

  ‘So what, they just squandered it?’

  ‘Oh, no, nothing like that.’

  ‘What then?’

  Oldwater seemed to be coming to some sort of decision. ‘You don’t strike me as the kind of man who lets things go easily, Sergeant Poe.’

  ‘It’s not one of my strong points, Nicholas,’ Poe admitted.

  ‘Good,’ Oldwater said.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘It’s your lucky week,’ he grinned. ‘Can you get your hands on a suit?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  By the time Poe had left Bradshaw at Shap Wells, Cumbria was beginning to show its true colours. The weather had changed and an easterly wind was threatening to turn into a gale. Edgar growled at the dark skies but a long walk soon had his tail wagging.

  When the wind began rushing through Poe’s thin coat he decided he’d better turn back; there was no such thing as bad weather, only bad choices of clothing. As he did so, his phone alerted him to an incoming text. It was from Flynn: I’m on my way to yours, Poe. We need to talk.

  There were no prizes for guessing what Flynn wanted, and Poe idly wondered if he had enough time to build a moat round Herdwick Croft to keep her out. The light was already on as he approached. Despite it being his home, he knocked before entering.

  Flynn was furious. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

  Poe walked past her and opened the valve on a gas bottle. After lighting his stove and getting some water on the boil, he turned to her and said, ‘What was that? I’m sure you weren’t just telling me what I can and can’t do when I’m on leave.’

  She wasn’t fazed, as he knew she wouldn’t be. ‘Don’t give me that shit, Poe. With no authority at all, you went to see a witness.’

  ‘Which one?’ Poe asked before he could stop himself.

  Luckily Flynn seemed to think he was just trying to wind her up.

  ‘You know fine well who I mean. Francis Sharples rang Carlisle police station asking when they were coming to arrest him.’

  Shit . . . he’d forgotten about Sharples. He suppressed a grin.

  ‘It’s not funny, Poe! They looked a right set of tits.’

  ‘They are a right set of tits.’

  ‘No, Poe, they aren’t. They have an impossible job, and the world’s media are second-guessing everything they do. Gamble can’t have someone talking to witnesses willy-nilly.’

  ‘But van Zyl—’

  ‘Van Zyl wanted you up here so you could help strategise, Poe. So you could think of the things no one else can,’ she replied. ‘He doesn’t want you going rogue. He was on the phone for an hour to Cumbria’s chief constable.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You’re right; there’s no excuse. I should have told someone.’

  That seemed to mollify. ‘Tell me what you found out. Your voicemail about the watch was a bit vague.’

  Poe told her all about his day, although he forgot to mention the subsequent trip to see the bishop; no way could she ignore him disobeying a direct order. Not after he’d gone over her head for the exhumation order. Bradshaw might tell her later – he hadn’t told her to keep it a secret – although he hoped she wouldn’t. And anyway, he was on leave and Bishop’s House was on the tourist trail. Despite her simmering anger, Flynn seemed impressed.

  The kettle whistled and they took a break. While his coffee cooled, he took the time to secure all the shutters and make sure everything outside was tied down. He wasn’t concerned about Herdwick Croft; it had stood for centuries – builders in the past seemed to understand how to make things properly – and all his modifications were either inside or buried in the ground. He looked up and saw one of the inevitable Herdwick sheep. It was chewing the tough fell grass stoically and seemed untroubled by the gale. And why would it be? The breed was as tough as nails. They’d been known to survive in snowdrifts for weeks by eating their own wool; a little bit of wind wouldn’t bother them.

  Edgar came out to see what he was doing but soon dived back inside when his ears nearly flapped off. Poe tied the last thing down, a spare gas bottle, and finally he was finished. He went back inside and shut the door.

  Flynn was sipping her drink and looking at the board on the wall. Nothing had been added since she’d been there last.

  ‘It’s a bit breezy out there,’ he said as he took off his coat.

  She drained her coffee and put the mug in the small sink. ‘So, what’s your next play?’

  ‘You sure you want to know?’

  ‘No. But tell me anyway.’

  ‘Tilly and I are going to a charity event with the Bishop of Carlisle.’

  Flynn put her head in her hands and groaned.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  After he’d driven Flynn back to Shap Wells, Poe tried on his old work suit. It was frayed, shiny with grease and far too big. He didn’t know how much weight he’d lost since he’d come back to Cumbria, but the suit that had once been so tight it left him with flesh wounds was now hanging from him like he was a coat hanger. He looked like a before-and-after advert for a miracle diet pill, no doubt due to the hard physical work he’d been doing over the last year keeping Herdwick Croft viable.

  He clearly needed a new suit. Luckily the charity event wasn’t until the following evening. He had a whole day to buy something. He called Bradshaw to make sure she had a dr
ess.

  She told him she hadn’t.

  ‘Kendal will have something,’ Poe said. ‘Pick you up at ten?’

  ‘Yes please, Poe. Can we have lunch out again?’

  ‘Er . . . of course.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘You talked to DI Flynn?’ Poe asked.

  ‘Not yet. We’re having tea later.’

  ‘Well, remember if she asks you anything, don’t lie.’

  ‘I won’t,’ she promised.

  Despite the weather, which at some point in the night Poe upgraded from ‘breezy’ to ‘bracing’, he slept all the way through. When he woke, it was as if the storm had been a figment of his imagination.

  He opened the window shutters and let in some air. The sun was out and the sky was a flinty blue. The air was as warm as fresh bread.

  He threw on some old clothes and checked outside for damage. He nodded in satisfaction. The croft had survived without a scratch. The sheep from the previous night was still there. It barely bothered to look up from its foraging.

  He picked up the file he was compiling and reread the notes he’d made the night before to see if anything popped out with fresh eyes. Nothing did, and he settled on making sure he had a good breakfast. Ordinarily, he and Edgar would have walked across to Shap Wells and eaten there, but he didn’t want to bump into Flynn. They’d left on good terms the night before, and he didn’t want that to change.

  He settled on some good butcher’s black pudding, two fresh duck eggs and some buttered toast.

  An hour later, he was outside Shap Wells waiting for Bradshaw.

  They split up to shop and agreed to meet for lunch. Poe bought a suit in the first shop he entered. He’d considered getting something specifically for the gala, but his new obsession with living frugally persuaded him to get a sensible, machine-washable suit.

  With an hour to kill before he was due to meet Bradshaw, Poe popped in to Kendal police station to see Reid.

  He wasn’t in, and the desk sergeant made it clear he wasn’t welcome to come in and chew the fat with his old colleagues. ‘Fuck off, Poe’ left little room for misinterpretation. Instead, he had a walk around the town; it was a nice day and he was on holiday after all.