The Puppet Show

by M. W. Craven

  Over lunch Bradshaw showed him what she’d bought. The dress was all reds, golds and greens. When he peered closer he saw it was a mosaic of comic-book covers. It would suit her.

  ‘Very nice, Tilly. Very colourful,’ he said. He reached into his own bag and threw her a T-shirt. ‘Here, I bought you something.’

  She opened it up and giggled delightedly when she saw the ‘Nerd Power’ design. Before long the giggles disappeared and Poe thought he’d fucked up.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said softly. ‘I thought you’d like it.’

  ‘I love it, Poe!’ she said fiercely. She folded it and made sure it was safely at the bottom of her bag. Her superhero dress was on top. Poe could see Spider-Man looking at him.

  Tonight was going to be fun . . .

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Poe had never been to the Theatre by the Lake. It was a contemporary building, and although it looked a bit like a local authority office, by using Lake District stone, the theatre had managed to retain a certain amount of charm. The setting made up for the uninspiring building. It was on the edge of Keswick, near the shores of Derwentwater, and sat under the Western Fells. Poe had always thought the fells around Keswick, Grasmere and Ambleside were just a bit too perfect, almost as if someone had photoshopped them into the background. He preferred the wilder fells further west and further south. The tourists he saw on the fells around Shap were either seriously lost or seriously keen.

  It was a very pretty setting, though.

  The good and the great of Cumbria – or at least those who thought they were – had descended on the theatre in droves. Half of the men were in black tie and the other half were in a dazzling display of modern suits. Blues, greens, even purple. One man was wearing a fez.

  The arty-farty set, Poe thought, always trying to be different, always looking the same.

  Despite the crowd’s eclectic dress sense, he and Bradshaw stood out like they were backlit. Poe knew he was underdressed. His suit looked cheap because it was cheap. Even the man checking people’s invites was wearing something more elegant.

  Bollocks to them. He was hunting a serial killer, not trying to make friends.

  Bradshaw was faring a bit better. Her comic-book dress had the advantage of making her look a bit quirky. And because she’d made an effort with her hair – it was now lying gently on her shoulders rather than being pulled back into a severe ponytail – and had discarded her ever-present Harry Potter glasses in favour of contact lenses, she was drawing admiring glances from some of the men. She was oblivious to it.

  Poe’s eyes focused on a figure in the distance. ‘Heads up,’ he said to Bradshaw, ‘the bishop’s here.’

  When Nicholas Oldwater had said it was Poe’s lucky week, he’d been referring to a gala dinner to raise money for disadvantaged children in the old county of Westmorland. The evening was being hosted by the children of Quentin Carmichael.

  It was how he’d answered Poe’s question about what they’d done with the money: they had created the Carmichael Foundation.

  ‘In 2007 the children each took one hundred thousand pounds and the rest was put into the not-for-profit foundation,’ he’d said.

  ‘Generous of them,’ Poe had acknowledged.

  ‘Not really. In 2007 anything over three hundred thousand pounds was subject to forty per cent inheritance tax. By taking a hundred thousand each and putting the rest into their foundation, they avoided paying any tax at all.’

  ‘And I’m assuming they’re all on the board. Directors as well probably.’

  ‘With nice yearly salaries to boot,’ Oldwater finished. ‘You can’t blame them, I suppose. Their father had dealt them a pretty rotten hand. They were only protecting what was theirs as best they could. And the foundation does do some good.’

  The Right Reverend Bishop of Carlisle was having a night off, as he wasn’t in Church attire. He was wearing an old-style suit but still looked twenty times smarter than Poe.

  Oldwater winked when he saw them, and if he were disappointed by what they were wearing, he didn’t show it. He approached them and said, ‘Typical ex-Black Watch, always punctual.’

  Interesting. He’d been checking up on him. And he’d still turned up. Poe wondered if he had an ally.

  Removing a gilt-edged invitation card from his inside pocket, Oldwater said, ‘Shall we?’

  The event was a celebration of the first ten years of the foundation. Poe didn’t know how the disadvantaged children of Westmorland would have felt if they could have seen the spread of canapés and champagne laid on for everyone, but it certainly made him feel uncomfortable.

  ‘Obscene, isn’t it?’ Oldwater said.

  Poe nodded.

  ‘It’s not as bad as it seems. These people,’ he waved his arms, ‘won’t part with their money if they haven’t been pampered. It’s an old charity trick. Make them think the organisation has so much money, only large donations will be noticed. The more they spend on vol-au-vents and caviar, the bigger their return.’

  If that was how it worked, then that was how it worked. Charity had never been a big part of Poe’s life. He had a standing order to the Royal British Legion and always gave away his clothes to the local Oxfam shop, but he’d never attended anything like this.

  Oldwater said, ‘I have a few hands to shake and then I’m giving a speech. Why don’t we meet at the bar and have a whisky afterwards? I can introduce you to anyone you want to meet then. In the meantime, I suggest you take advantage of the Carmichaels’ hospitality for an hour or so.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Poe’s experience at the buffet was dismal. The Carmichaels had laid on food that he neither understood nor liked; as far as he was concerned, eating oysters was one step away from eating salty phlegm, and lobsters were nothing more than massive prawns. With the vegetarian options being equally pretentious, he and Bradshaw decided to take advantage of the free bar instead. Poe had a pint of Cumberland Ale and Bradshaw had a glass of sparkling water.

  Drinks in hand, they wandered through the theatre. Most areas appeared to be open. There was a podium set up on the stage in the auditorium. To the left and right, along the walls, were linen-covered tables. People taking donations staffed the tables on the left, and they were doing a steady trade. The tables on the right had display cabinets extolling the virtues of Quentin Carmichael and of the foundation established in his honour.

  Poe walked over to the left and picked up a donation envelope. There was a section for him to write his postcode; they would get tax relief on anything inside if he did. Something called the Gift Aid programme. He didn’t write anything. He didn’t have a postcode and he didn’t want one. He slipped a twenty-pound note inside and sealed it. He left the name blank. A man in a tuxedo saw his donation and looked him up and down.

  ‘Problem?’ Poe said. He stared at him until the man reddened and backed down.

  Prick.

  He sensed someone else looking at him from across the room. He was about to give them the same treatment, when he recognised who it was.

  ‘Shit,’ he muttered.

  ‘What is it, Poe?’ asked Bradshaw.

  ‘It’s Cumbria’s chief constable.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘So what?’

  ‘He hates me.’

  ‘Wow, what are the odds?’

  Whoa . . . who was this sassy girl? Bradshaw had just taken the piss; the first time she had. He grinned to show he didn’t mind. ‘He’s a spite-filled fool. Wanted me to stay in Cumbria and tried to block me joining the NCA.’ He paused. ‘Bollocks, he’s coming over.’

  The chief constable walked like a man badly in need of a stool softener. He was in full uniform – including medals Poe was sure he hadn’t earned – and carried his hat under his arm. His hair was thinning and subject to a criminal comb-over. He had a drinker’s nose and his upturned chin resembled a jester’s boot. His name was Leonard Tapping and he had all the charm of an East German border guard.

  ‘Poe,’ he sai
d.

  ‘Leonard,’ Poe replied.

  His nostrils flared. ‘That’s Chief Constable to you.’

  Poe could have said he wasn’t his chief any more, but decided not to have a fight. He put his new-found maturity down to Bradshaw’s influence.

  ‘What the hell are you doing at an event like this?’ Tapping asked. Before Poe had a chance to respond, he added, ‘I thought the Carmichaels had standards.’

  ‘Obviously not,’ Poe replied. He took a sip of his pint and said, ‘Tilly and I are here as guests.’

  Bradshaw offered her hand but Tapping ignored it.

  ‘Which moron invited you, Poe? I’ve a good mind to have a word with them.’

  ‘Feel free, sir,’ Poe said. He turned to Bradshaw. ‘Tilly, could you see if the Bishop of Carlisle’s free?’

  The colour drained from Tapping’s face.

  She nodded, ‘May I tell him what it’s about, Poe?’

  ‘Certainly. You can say that the Chief Constable of Cumbria wants to have a word with him.’

  Tapping paled even further. He glanced at Bradshaw then turned back to Poe. ‘You wouldn’t dare!’ he hissed. ‘And you were told not to approach the bishop!’

  ‘Oh, was that what DCS Gamble’s message was? It was a bad signal, sir.’

  Bradshaw began walking towards the bishop.

  ‘The Bishop of Carlisle has the ear of the archbishop doesn’t he, sir? I wonder how he’ll feel about you calling him a moron?’

  Tapping’s jaw tightened.

  ‘And doesn’t the archbishop sit on the advisory board for the Met’s vacant deputy commissioner position?’

  Tapping’s ambitions were well known. They didn’t include staying in Cumbria.

  ‘Stop!’ he cried. People looked at them.

  Bradshaw looked at Poe for guidance. He said nothing.

  ‘Please,’ Tapping whined.

  ‘Tilly,’ Poe said.

  ‘Yes, Poe?’

  ‘After you’ve asked him to come over, can you get me another pint of Cumberland while you’re near the bar?’

  ‘Of course, Poe.’ She turned and made a beeline for the bishop who was momentarily standing on his own.

  In silence they watched her approach Nicholas Oldwater. She gently tapped him on his arm and he turned. He bent down to hear what she had to say and they both looked at Poe and Tapping. Poe waved. Tapping didn’t. Bradshaw and Oldwater began walking over. It wasn’t a quick process. Everyone wanted to talk to the bishop.

  ‘Fuck you, Poe,’ Tapping muttered under his breath. ‘Fuck you very much.’

  ‘I reckon you have about thirty seconds,’ Poe said.

  ‘Thirty seconds for what?’ He wasn’t trying to hide his panic.

  ‘To convince me,’ Poe replied.

  ‘Convince you of what, man?’ Tapping couldn’t tear his eyes away from the approaching bishop.

  ‘Not to tell the bishop you insulted his guests and called him a moron.’

  ‘How?’ he snapped.

  ‘I want back on the Immolation Man case.’

  Two more seconds. The bishop got closer.

  ‘OK!’

  ‘Tonight,’ Poe said. ‘I want a phone call from my DI telling me that Cumbria has had a rethink. Same access as before.’

  Tapping gritted his teeth. ‘Fine.’

  ‘I’d smile if I was you, Leonard. The bishop’s very influential, you know . . .’

  ‘Well, that was fun,’ Poe said to Bradshaw. The bishop had just left to go over his speech, and Tapping was making his phone call.

  ‘Come on,’ Poe said, ‘let’s go and see if we can learn something about the Carmichaels. By the end of the night I want to have spoken to all three of them.’

  That was easier said than done. Notwithstanding the Bishop of Carlisle, the Carmichaels were the stars of the show. As soon as one sycophant finished talking to them, another two took their place. While they waited for an opportunity to present itself, they idly walked along the right-hand side of the auditorium. The side with the display cabinets.

  Starting at the end furthest from the stage, they worked their way along. Whoever had arranged the display had done it chronologically and Poe realised he’d started at the wrong end. The first item he read was the invitation card for that evening. The next few cabinets seemed to be the Carmichaels posing with various dignitaries and C-list celebrities, holding oversized cheques or champagne flutes.

  Poe had almost finished the most recent decade when he felt a polite tug at his elbow. It was the bishop.

  ‘Sergeant Poe, can I introduce you to Jane Carmichael?’

  She was a tall woman in her forties. Her blonde hair was piled high on her head, beehive style, and her understated gown probably cost more than Herdwick Croft.

  Carmichael smiled politely and offered her hand, not in the standard vertical position, but palm down as if she were royalty. Poe resisted the urge to bow. He lightly shook her fingers. She ignored Bradshaw, who wandered off, oblivious to the snub.

  ‘Charmed,’ Carmichael said. ‘What brings you to my event, Sergeant Poe?’

  Poe didn’t answer. He was watching Bradshaw.

  Carmichael coughed. She clearly didn’t like being ignored, but that was a burden with which she’d have to learn to live. Bradshaw was staring at something in the display cabinet and her face had turned ashen. She turned and looked at him.

  She’d seen something.

  ‘What is it, Washington?’ Oldwater asked.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Poe said and walked off to join Bradshaw. The bishop followed him.

  ‘What’s up, Tilly?’ Poe asked as soon as he reached her. His phone rang. He looked at the caller ID. It was Flynn. The chief constable had kept his side of the bargain. He switched the BlackBerry to silent.

  Bradshaw couldn’t tear her eyes away from a photograph in the cabinet. It was of a boat, one of the steamers that ran up and down the more touristy lakes by the looks of it. Poe leaned in and studied it. He frowned. He couldn’t see what had got Bradshaw so rattled.

  The bishop leaned in to look as well.

  ‘What’s in the photograph, Tilly?’ Poe asked. ‘Tell me what you see.’

  ‘Look, Poe.’ She pointed, but it wasn’t the photograph she wanted him to look at. It was the invitation card underneath. It was for another charity event, a boat ride round Ullswater. It predated the foundation, and was probably one of the last Quentin Carmichael had arranged.

  Poe leaned in again and read it. It was what today’s invitation would have looked like if it had been printed – Poe looked at the date – twenty-six years ago. It was for a charity auction. The beneficiary was a local children’s home and the name of the event was called, ‘Are You Feeling Lucky?’ It was the kind of charitable event held up and down the country. A self-catered bash where businesses donate things and rich people bid on them. There was the usual mix of dinner for two at posh restaurants, weekends away, that kind of thing. Nothing that got Poe’s heart racing.

  The card said, ‘By Invitation Only’.

  ‘What is it, dear girl?’ Oldwater asked.

  And then, as if the clouds had just parted and the sun had shone through, realisation dawned on Poe. He knew what Bradshaw was looking at.

  It was the title, ‘Are You Feeling Lucky?’ He’d read it the first time without seeing it.

  ‘Holy hell,’ Poe whispered. He’d expected stilted conversation and snobbery at the gala; instead he’d found something else entirely.

  ‘What is it, Washington? What have you seen?’ Nicholas Oldwater asked.

  ‘Everything, Nicholas,’ Poe replied quietly. ‘I’ve seen everything.’

  Because ‘Are You Feeling Lucky?’ didn’t end with a question mark.

  It ended with a percontation point.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Poe had assumed his discovery of the victim inside Quentin Carmichael’s coffin would be his bridge to the truth. He was wrong. Regardless of the obstacles he’d faced, in Poe’
s opinion, the Immolation Man had pointed him towards the Kendal graveyard. He probably hadn’t expected Poe to get there so quickly, but he had expected him to get there.

  Up until that evening, Poe was convinced everything they’d discovered had been orchestrated, but he didn’t care how clever the Immolation Man was; Bradshaw’s discovery of the percontation point on the twenty-six-year-old invitation wasn’t part of his plan. And if it weren’t, then for the first time in the investigation, the Immolation Man wasn’t in full control. Poe wasn’t yet sure if the Immolation Man had made a mistake, but if he hadn’t, he’d come close.

  Every document in every display case was now evidence and he asked the chief constable to use his authority and declare it a crime scene. While Tapping flapped about achieving nothing, Jane Carmichael called her brother Duncan over and shouted that Poe was trying to ruin their evening.

  He was a fleshy man with a pouchy face.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ he said.

  Poe bristled. He knew he shouldn’t, but he turned to Bradshaw. ‘Tilly, can you call the mental health team? We have someone here who doesn’t know who they are.’

  ‘I will, Poe.’ Out of the corner of his eye he saw her remove her tablet and turn it on.

  ‘Tilly.’

  ‘Yes, Poe?’

  ‘Put your tablet away.’

  ‘OK, Poe.’

  The three Carmichael children – by then Patricia had joined them – protested Poe’s intrusion on their big day. He wouldn’t budge.

  ‘Damn it, sir! You are a rank bad hat!’ said Duncan Carmichael.

  Poe doubted it would be the worst thing he’d be called that night. He tried to call Flynn. He pointed at his phone and said, ‘Shh.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sick of this obnoxious little man!’ Patricia Carmichael complained. ‘I’m asking Nicholas to put an end to this nonsense.’

  ‘I’m here at his invitation,’ Poe replied. He still hadn’t managed to get through to Flynn.