The Puppet Show

by M. W. Craven

  As soon he’d sent the text, his phone rang. It was Flynn. ‘What you got, Steph?’

  It sounded as if she was running. ‘Poe, Reid signed Montague Price out of Carlisle police station two hours ago!’

  Shit!

  ‘Escorted him personally to a—’

  ‘Four-cell GU Security prisoner-escort van,’ Poe finished for her.

  ‘Exactly. Gamble’s staying at HQ to coordinate the search for him but he’s totally lost it now. I’m coming back down. It seems it’s only you and Tilly who have a grip on what’s going on.’

  ‘We’ll keep trying to find the address they’ve been using then. They won’t be at Reid’s or his father’s. Far too busy. Reid’s flat is in the middle of Kendal, and although his father has a small farmhouse, he converted and sold the two barns so he now has neighbours.’

  ‘You think the Scafell Group owns a property we don’t know about?’ she asked.

  Despite having this discussion over the phone, Poe shook his head. ‘Tilly’s checking but the company has literally nothing left. George Reid seems to have liquidated his assets. The only things he owns now are the vans.’

  ‘Best guess?’

  ‘No idea, Steph,’ Poe replied. ‘But they’ve obviously been planning this for years; no way do we find them because of a utility bill.’

  ‘Nope, I think . . .’ He didn’t get to find out what she thought, as at that moment her other phone rang. ‘Hang on, Poe,’ she said. ‘My personal mobile’s ringing.’

  Poe could only hear one side of the conversation. It didn’t sound good.

  ‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’ Flynn shouted. ‘Right, I’ll tell him to go there now.’

  Flynn tried to sound calm. ‘Poe, we need you to go and check something out for us. Apparently, a train passenger has reported seeing someone on fire in a field.’

  ‘Where?’ He thought he might know.

  ‘A short distance from where you are now. I’ve sent Tilly the coordinates. Go and check it out and let’s hope it’s just kids starting Guy Fawkes early.’

  He stared at the map Bradshaw had just put on her screen. It was as he feared. ‘Shit,’ he said.

  ‘What is it, Poe?’ Flynn asked.

  ‘Those coordinates are where the West Coast Mainline bisects the Kemp Howe stone circle. The train tracks run through the fucking middle of it. If someone did see something burning in the stone circle, they wouldn’t have been more than ten yards from it. Hard to mistake a burning body for a wheelie bin at that distance.’

  ‘Oh, shit,’ she whispered.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  When he’d been in uniform, Poe was frequently the first officer on scene. Beat cops were usually the first to see unexplained deaths, natural deaths and suicides. When panicked relatives discovered a body, or neighbours smelled something suspicious and organic, their first thoughts were invariably to dial 999. Poe knew how to secure a crime scene.

  Later in his career, when he’d moved into CID and had been on-call, he’d possessed a grab bag: a small rucksack containing things like crime-scene tape, a torch and batteries, a mobile-phone charger, forensic suits and warm clothing. His car was always fully fuelled and there’d be pre-packed food in the fridge.

  This time the only thing he had was a greenhorn analyst on her first field trip.

  Bradshaw had refused to stay at the hotel. ‘I’m coming with you,’ she said, and time was too important to spend on an argument he’d surely lose.

  On the way, he rang Flynn to determine it was the northbound Carlisle train the passenger had been on. Poe grunted in satisfaction. That meant they were on the right side of the railway track and there was no need for a long detour.

  Ten minutes later they were at the side of the narrow field that hosted what remained of the Kemp Howe stone circle. Poe stopped the car but kept it in gear while he searched for signs of Reid or his father. He hadn’t expected any; the abduction of Price was a bonus, an unexpected opportunity to get the full list of victims while Gamble’s briefing had everyone’s eyes elsewhere. Price’s murder would have had to be rushed; there wouldn’t have been the time for any elaborate staging or ritual. And it didn’t matter if Reid were observed or not. Everyone knew who he was now.

  Price’s murder wasn’t the endgame and Reid wouldn’t have hung around waiting. Poe checked anyway. There was a part of Reid that Poe hadn’t known about and there was no point taking unnecessary risks. He got out of the car, climbed onto the bonnet and recced the immediate area. It appeared clear.

  He cast his eyes towards the Kemp Howe stone circle. It was perhaps the strangest in Cumbria. Against a backdrop of ancient moorland, it formed part of the Shap Stone Row, a collection of rocks that ran for a mile and a half alongside the A6 and the West Coast Mainline. It would have been about twenty-five yards wide if the Victorians hadn’t bisected it when the railway was laid. More than half the circle was under the embankment. The remaining six pink granite stones were large and visible from both the road and the railway.

  In among them, something was smouldering.

  Poe jumped down, got in the car and moved it into the middle of the road to ensure no one could get past. He put on his hazard lights.

  Turning to Bradshaw, he said, ‘Until I tell you otherwise, you’re the outer cordon officer. That means no one gets into this field without my permission. Understand?’

  She nodded. ‘You can rely on me, Poe.’

  ‘I know I can, Tilly. There’ll be some help here soon. Get the first police vehicle to park twenty yards up that way,’ he pointed up the road, ‘so we’ll block off the road completely. If anyone gives you any shit, shout for me.’

  Bradshaw stepped away from the car and stood in the open entrance facing out. She looked resolute. Pity the idiot who tried to argue with her.

  Poe took a moment to make sure he’d done everything he needed to do. Conduct a quick risk assessment: check. Secure the crime scene: check. Allocate resources appropriately: check.

  Time to go and see if it was a burning sheep – kids did that sometimes in Cumbria – or a burning paedophile. If anyone had asked Poe for his preference, he’d have had to flip a coin.

  For Reid, haste would have become more important than subtlety. Poe suspected that he’d have driven into the field and directly up to the circle. Poe walked along the wall. He had no way of recording the route he’d taken, and this was as good a way as any of ensuring vital evidence wasn’t trampled on later. From this point on, everyone approaching the crime scene would use the same route.

  He was still fifty yards away when the possibility of it being a six-months-too-early bonfire-night prank disappeared.

  It was a body.

  Poe approached it cautiously. It was clear that the victim’s injuries were incompatible with life. His charred remains were blackened and smoking. The heat was beginning to crack the skin. Parts of his flesh glowed red. The smell was acrid. Poe bit down on his tongue to stop himself retching. He needed to pull himself together. People were relying on him.

  The body’s arm moved and, for one heart-stopping moment, Poe thought it was still alive. He was about to rush in and start . . . well, he didn’t know what, until he realised that it was the heat causing the muscles to contract. By the time it cooled, the body would be as twisted as a corkscrew.

  Although he’d have to be formally identified through DNA and dental records, Poe was certain it was Price. He wasn’t as badly burnt as the body at Elva Plain and he could see features he recognised from the video interview. It looked like Reid had been in too much of a hurry to stake him properly. He’d probably only had enough time to cover him with accelerant and set him on fire.

  As Poe neared the body, he reconsidered – Reid had also made his signature statement. Price’s trousers were round his ankles. Reid had castrated him. And judging by the amount of blood on the grass, Price had been alive and unrestrained when his genitals had been removed. Poe scanned the area, but couldn’t see the amputated flesh. He su
spected it was where everyone else’s had been: in his mouth.

  He looked back towards Bradshaw – he didn’t want her seeing this – and was relieved to see she was still facing the road. His phone rang and he answered it, unable to tear his eyes away from the horror unfolding in front of him.

  ‘Poe,’ he said.

  ‘It’s Ian Gamble. Are you there yet?’

  ‘I am, sir.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Bad news, sir. I think it’s Montague Price. He’s dead, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Mother of mercy,’ Gamble whispered. ‘What have I done . . .?’

  Poe understood. Gamble had Price in custody and now he was dead. Killed by someone under his command. There’d be investigations after this and Gamble would probably lose his job. He’d certainly never be an SIO again. Poe had a measure of sympathy for the man. No one could have been properly prepared to manage a case like this. A serial killer who was part of the investigating team? Poe had never even heard of anything like that before. Reid knew all the lines of enquiry. He’d helped shape strategy. He’d led on certain things. He knew where Gamble had deployed his mobile ANPR cameras. He knew which circles were being staked out. He knew what the police were doing and he knew what the NCA were doing. He knew everything.

  How could that possibly be countered?

  Yet Gamble had made mistakes. He should have doubled down on Montague Price’s security as soon as the Immolation Man’s method of abduction had been identified; the Prison Officers Association had long ago identified the possibility of ex-prisoner transport vans being used to facilitate escapes. As unlikely as it was, Gamble should have at least considered it.

  And yes, he should have listened to Poe more often, instead of trying to block him at every turn. Hindsight was a wonderful thing.

  ‘What do you want me to do, sir?’ Poe asked. ‘At the minute I’m protecting the scene and Tilly is acting as outer cordon. We could do with some professional support.’

  ‘Uniform will be there soon, Poe. Can you make sure they secure the scene? I’ve also rerouted a DS from the public protection unit. As soon as she gets there, hand the scene over to her. She’ll manage it until everyone arrives.’

  ‘Will do, sir.’

  ‘And, Poe?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘About what, sir?’

  ‘About everything.’

  Poe didn’t answer immediately. ‘Try not to worry, sir. This is unprecedented, just remember that. No SIO has ever had to deal with the killer sitting in their own briefing room.’

  ‘Thanks, Poe.’ The line went dead.

  He glanced across at Bradshaw. She was waving to get his attention. He could see blue flashing lights.

  The cavalry had arrived.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Before long, Poe and Bradshaw were superfluous. The well-oiled machine that is a murder investigation had taken over, and they were rightly characterised by the first detective on scene as being unauthorised personnel: people with no need to be on the inside of the cordon. Poe didn’t take it personally; if the chief constable had turned up, he’d have been told to get lost as well.

  More and more police and support staff arrived. They all changed into white forensic suits and the field looked as though it had a moving mushroom infestation.

  Poe and Bradshaw offered to help, but, in their civilian clothes and with no one to vouch for them, they were told everything was in hand. A gnarly old detective inspector who Poe had had a fight with over something trivial a few years ago arrived. He firmly told him he was relieved. They retreated to Poe’s car to avoid getting under everyone’s feet.

  Although they would be far more use back at Shap Wells trying to figure out where Reid was holed up, Poe knew he’d better wait for Flynn. At some point detectives would need to interview him. With Reid identified as the Immolation Man, Poe’s name being carved into Michael James’s chest and his subsequent connection to the case became clearer. They would want to know everything he knew. He had information that would be needed when the scapegoating began. Someone was going to get the blame for all this.

  Putting the political ramifications aside, Poe reviewed what had happened. He didn’t think Reid would kill Hilary Swift’s grandchildren; he was acting psychotically but up until now it had been cold and calculating. Everything had been done for a reason. Poe believed taking the children was tactical: leverage in case he was located before the job was finished.

  He also believed that Reid was somewhere near. He’d driven Price from Carlisle police station to Shap, ignoring all the circles in between. Poe suspected that Reid had set Montague Price on fire then driven straight to where he was holed up. It would be close by.

  Unfortunately, being in the right postcode didn’t help much. The Shap Fells were huge and remote. They could be anywhere.

  ‘Poe?’

  Bradshaw was staring at him. She was biting her bottom lip, a sign he’d come to recognise that she was worried about something. ‘What’s up, Tilly?’

  ‘If Reid is Mathew Malone, how are he and George Reid related?’

  How indeed?

  Where did George Reid fit into all this? How did Mathew Malone become Kylian Reid? They weren’t the only unanswered questions. How had Reid survived Quentin Carmichael and his cronies? When did he and George Reid decide to do something about it? Was it after Reid had joined the police or was it earlier? Had Reid joined the police so he could do something about it?

  There was so much missing information.

  What wasn’t missing, though, was the pain Reid must have been feeling for all the years he’d known him. That he’d managed to keep it hidden was almost beyond Poe’s comprehension. Would he ever see his friend again? Had he ever really been his friend?

  Had Poe been part of his grand plan from the beginning?

  A text alert wrenched him from his deliberations. He looked down at the display, expecting to see Flynn’s name. It was an unknown number; different to the one Gamble had used. Poe clicked on the message. His mouth opened in astonishment.

  Come alone and the two children live. Come with Gamble and they burn. When your satnav says you’re there, you’re not. Keep driving for .6 of a mile then take the next left. After one hundred yards you will see a sign for Black Hollow Farm. It is literally the end of the road. Park your car and walk towards the house. Kylian

  It finished with a postcode. Blood began pounding in his temple. This was it: the beginning of the end. Reid had asked for him and Poe knew he would answer.

  In his heart, he’d always known he’d end up facing the Immolation Man alone. He typed a single word reply – OK – and pressed send. He put the phone in his pocket and thought about what to do next. He didn’t have long; Flynn would arrive soon and no way would he get to sneak off then. If he was going, then he had to go immediately. Bradshaw was looking at him strangely. She inclined her head in a silent question.

  ‘Just need to run a quick errand, Tilly. You stay here and make sure DI Flynn has everything she needs.’

  ‘Where are you going, Poe? Who was that text from?’

  ‘Do you trust me, Tilly?’

  She stared at him, her myopic eyes burning fiercely under her spectacles. She nodded. ‘I do, Poe.’

  ‘I have to do something and I can’t tell you what.’

  ‘You’re my friend. Let me help.’ She said it so earnestly he nearly caved.

  ‘Not this time, Tilly. This is something I have to do on my own.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  The address Reid had given him was on the other side of the M6 but the satnav directed him to a nearby underpass. Poe wasn’t familiar with much of the area after Shap village; if he needed to go north, he took the M6 not the A6, but he was soon heading up into the fells.

  Cumbria was one of those counties where you could be on a single-lane track only a few hundred yards from a major motorway and the road quickly turned rural. Poe doubted he’d see any ot
her vehicles. The people who used this road lived on the fell. It wasn’t a route to anywhere and he suspected it would simply stop at some point. Sheep grazed freely, unencumbered by fences. Poe had driven over three cattle grids near the M6 but none recently. Before long he was high enough up to see the motorway below him. He was on Langdale Fell. The air was beginning to thicken with another ominous fog. It wouldn’t be long before visibility was reduced to zero. The satnav said he had another five miles to go. He crested Langdale and began navigating down a smaller road on the other side of the fell. Even though the satnav was working, he stopped to check his AA roadmap. He wanted to get his bearings. He was now on Ravenstonedale Common, the Cumbrian Deliveranceville. He’d never been there before in his life.

  The road and fog didn’t allow a speed much above thirty miles an hour. He followed the satnav’s instructions, and by the time it told him he was at his destination he couldn’t see a single sign he was on an inhabited planet. He couldn’t even see sheep any more.

  Poe stopped to check Reid’s instructions.

  In the distance, jagged peaks rose above the fog like headstones. Their definition was fading, though; the fog would reach him soon and then he would be cut off. Ravenstonedale Common was made up of crags, scree slopes and unyielding granite outcrops. It explained the lack of sheep; there was nothing for them to eat. The wind whistled down the slope and Poe could hear water trickling.

  And nothing else.

  It was eerie. The moors and fells that usually gave him a clarity of mind impossible in Hampshire, now seemed close and oppressive. The fog was low enough for it to have a dreamlike quality. He really was isolated.

  He put the car into gear and followed Reid’s instructions. He took the next left and after one hundred yards he saw the Black Hollow Farm sign, exactly where Reid had promised it would be. Large rocks on the drive and deep ditches either side blocked vehicular access to the farm. The earth was fresh and wet where the rocks had been dragged – the makeshift roadblock had been recently constructed. He wondered why Reid had bothered. It wasn’t as if Poe had planned to drive up to the front door. From now on, Mr Caution was his friend.