The Curator (Washington Poe)

by M. W. Craven

  A detective called Pearson met them at the gate.

  ‘Anything?’ Poe asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘No sign of a break-in.’

  ‘How’d you get in?’

  ‘Smashed a window.’

  ‘No sign of a struggle?’

  Pearson shook his head.

  ‘And she’s not just out on the piss with the girls?’ Flynn asked.

  ‘Until we get a DNA match, all we’re going on is that she’s had a finger tattoo removed and she isn’t at home.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Flynn said. ‘Can we go inside?’

  ‘I’ll get you some suits.’

  Rebecca’s front door was rustic and huge. It was painted white and hung from three iron hinges. Pearson was right: no way could it have been forced. Poe doubted even the battering rams the police used would have had any effect on it. It had an old-style keyhole, stark black against the white paint. Above it was a modern dead-bolt lock. The windows were double-glazed, the type you can’t force from the outside without leaving a mess of evidence.

  Poe hadn’t seen the whole of the house yet but he knew the back would be just as secure as the front. He wasn’t surprised by the level of security – Nightingale had told them that Rebecca Pridmore was a Ministry of Defence contracts manager at BAE Systems in Barrow. BAE was one of the largest defence and security companies in the world. They had fifty sites in the UK alone. The site at Barrow had produced all but three of the Royal Navy’s nuclear submarines.

  When they were suited and booted, Poe and Flynn walked into Rebecca’s bungalow. It was the polar opposite of Howard Teasdale’s bedsit. Whereas his had been a glorified man cave, this was a home.

  It had country charm but with the modern conveniences of city living. Modern paintings hung from the wall in the narrow hallway. It bisected the bungalow. A door on the left led them into an open kitchen and lounge area.

  The kitchen was at the rear. It was lit by wall-mounted, half-globe lamps and had stainless steel appliances, an American-style double-door fridge and a polished marble counter. Utensils hung from ceiling hooks; an island in the middle had a large chopping board and a professional knife set. Fresh herbs lined the windowsill and a spice rack was fixed to one of the walls.

  The only nod to the past was the Aga. It was squat against the wall, in between the double sink and the Bosch dishwasher. Peeling cream enamel but cared for nonetheless. Heavier than the car they’d arrived in. Solid and dependable, you didn’t get an Aga if you wanted to do precision baking: you got an Aga when you wanted the kitchen to be the heart of the home. If Poe had had enough room he’d have bought an Aga years ago.

  The floor was tiled but the stepping plates had rubber feet and didn’t slip. Poe opened a few cupboards but nothing stood out. The fridge was stocked, but not in the way most fridges were this time of year. There were no leftovers, no drinks chilling. No fancy cheeses or chocolate truffles. If Rebecca Pridmore had celebrated Christmas, it hadn’t been at home. He made a note to check her computer for hotel bookings.

  The lounge area was at the front of the bungalow. It was a room for living in. Seats and a sofa pointed at a wall-mounted LCD television. Her glass coffee table had a Jo Malone diffuser and some silver coasters on it.

  A beautiful mahogany desk with a closed laptop in the middle was clearly her home office. The stepping plates only went up to the front of the desk but Poe wanted to check the drawers. He waited for CSI to put down more plates.

  The desk had six drawers, three either side of the leg space. Poe pulled them, only the top right was unlocked. It was empty save some foam lining.

  ‘May I?’ he asked, pointing at the laptop.

  ‘It’s been photographed but the contents haven’t been checked,’ Pearson said. ‘We’re not even allowed to move it. The MoD are sending someone to collect it tomorrow.’

  Poe picked up the laptop, turned it upside down and studied the foam in the drawer. He nodded in satisfaction then turned to Flynn.

  ‘Please tell Superintendent Nightingale that Rebecca Pridmore has been abducted.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘The drawer’s where her laptop lives when it’s not being used.’ He pointed at four round indentations in the foam. ‘You can see the witness marks from the adhesive feet. No way someone this security conscious leaves her laptop out when she’s away.’

  ‘It does suggest abduction rather than a spa break,’ Flynn admitted. ‘I’ll call Jo now.’

  Poe studied the family photographs on the mantelpiece. They were mainly of her kids mugging for the camera. Some were of their birthdays, some were school portraits. Others were fragments of their lives. Rebecca was in all the family ones, Andrew, her ex-husband, was in a few. Probably included him so the kids didn’t get upset.

  Poe stepped into the kitchen area and looked out of the back window. Flynn walked in, eyes down as she navigated the stepping plates. She was still on the phone.

  ‘That’s what he thinks as well,’ she said.

  Poe raised his eyebrows and Flynn gestured towards the laptop.

  He glanced over to the mahogany desk. He hadn’t looked at the lounge area from the back of the house. The angle was different and this time he could see the shadows of indentations in the carpet. Four of them, square-shaped, not unlike the indentations in the foam in the drawer.

  He frowned. There was nothing obvious in the lounge that could have caused them. But there was from where he was standing.

  ‘Hard to say at this point,’ Flynn said, giving him a ‘what’s up’ reverse head nod. ‘She’s been reported missing by her ex-husband and the laptop indicates she left suddenly. On the other hand, there’s no sign of forced entry. And believe me, this isn’t a place you can get into without leaving evidence.’

  Poe carried over one of Rebecca’s high-backed kitchen stools and held it above the indentations. The legs matched exactly. He tried to look out of the front and rear windows. He couldn’t – the stool had been positioned so it couldn’t be observed from outside the house. He studied the stool but saw nothing obvious. He brought it back to the kitchen bar and checked the other one.

  There was a one-inch scuff mark on the varnish on each arm and the front two legs. If someone had been struggling while zip-tied these were the marks they’d have left.

  It looked like the killer had been in the house. But he’d then waited before moving her somewhere else. Why take the risk? Why hadn’t he moved her straight away?

  His thought process was interrupted as a tractor rattled its way past the front of the house. The silence it left was immediately filled with the sound of people chatting. Poe walked over to the window. He could just see the top of a bus-stop sign. The bus must be due soon.

  And that, of course, was the answer: he hadn’t been able to move her, not during daylight. Dalston was a busy village – if he’d tried to move her during the day he’d have been seen. But, if he’d had the balls to wait until the sun had set and the buses stopped running, he’d have had a better chance of getting her out unobserved.

  Flynn was still talking to Nightingale. ‘I’d say she could be who we’re looking—’

  ‘Boss,’ Poe interrupted.

  ‘Just a minute, Jo. What is it, Poe?’

  ‘I’m almost certain Rebecca Pridmore is one of the victims. Our man found a way to get inside, zip-tied her to this kitchen stool and held her captive until nightfall.’

  Chapter 13

  Flynn got a lift with uniform to go and meet Nightingale.

  Poe stayed behind. He couldn’t work out how the killer had got inside. The door locks were anti-snap and drill resistant and, although an expert could have picked them, it would have taken time. From what Poe knew of the killer he didn’t expose himself like that. He preferred to blend in.

  He could have bluffed his way into her house. Pretended to be a utilities man or a courier service with a parcel. Certainly doable, but with someone as security conscious as Rebecca it would have needed
supporting logistics. A van with the right markings, a uniform and ID card. And a utilities or courier bluff would have had to be carried out during the day on a busy road in front of nosey neighbours with nothing else to do but remember things.

  Poe retraced his steps. He left the lounge and went outside. The wind wasn’t strong but it was biting. Ice crystals had reformed over the footprints they’d left on the doorstep. Poe reckoned the temperature was still a few degrees below zero. He hoped whoever was in charge of securing the crime scene took that into account and put everyone outside on shorter shifts. Nothing sapped vigilance like cold feet.

  He checked the windows on the side of the bungalow. They were all closed and undamaged. There was no access to the back garden from the front, not without climbing a six-foot wall. He was wondering what to do next when the house phone rang.

  Poe made his way inside, removing his BlackBerry as he did so. He began recording. He checked his watch.

  ‘House phone ringing at 15:05. Detective Sergeant Washington Poe answering it.’

  The house phone was wireless and slim. Poe pressed the green button and held it and his BlackBerry to his ear.

  ‘Hello?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Er … hello, who’s this?’

  Poe told him.

  ‘This is Andrew Pridmore, Rebecca’s ex-husband. I called the police earlier today. I didn’t think you’d take it this seriously.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Poe said.

  ‘Well … she’s not been missing that long. I thought the police had to wait forty-eight hours or something before they investigated.’

  ‘We take all calls of missing people seriously, Mr Pridmore. Is there anything you can tell us that may help? Anything we might not know.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘What contracts did she manage at BAE?’

  ‘Something to do with the strategic weapon systems on the new nuclear subs, I think.’

  ‘Did she ever talk about her work?’

  ‘Wasn’t allowed to. I doubt I would have understood anyway.’

  ‘Had she mentioned any new relationships or friendships recently?’

  ‘She hadn’t.’

  ‘Would she have?’

  ‘We had a rough time when the family court judge gave me custody of the kids but she’s quite pragmatic. She has no family in Cumbria and works incredibly long hours – in her heart she knew she couldn’t offer them the home they deserved. She’d have told me if she was seeing anyone.’

  ‘So you get on?’

  ‘Better than we did when we were married. The pressure was off to impress each other all the time, I think.’

  Poe took a moment to gather his thoughts. ‘Did she have any interests outside work?’

  ‘Not unless feeding birds counted. If she wasn’t at work she was reading about work.’

  ‘Birds?’

  ‘She liked to feed the birds in the garden. She would sit in the kitchen with her laptop sometimes and watch them. Spent a fortune on seed, mealworms and fat balls.’

  Poe hadn’t been in the utility room yet. If Rebecca kept bird food it would be in there. He couldn’t see how it was relevant but he would check anyway.

  He finished with Pridmore and hung up.

  CSI hadn’t yet put stepping plates in the utility room and Poe called them in to do so. Pearson, the detective in charge, followed them.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

  ‘Probably nothing,’ Poe replied. ‘Just dotting an I.’

  After CSI had readied the utility room and completed a cursory search and video walkthrough, Poe and Pearson were cleared to enter.

  The room was narrow and an obvious extension to the main building. A large bench ran the length of the wall with the windows. Underneath sat a washing machine, a tumble dryer and two closed units. Coat hooks lined the wall that – pre-extension – would have been external. Some had jackets on, most didn’t. Underneath were wellies and outdoor shoes. The door to the back garden was on the right. The wall on the left had a wall-mounted ironing board.

  Poe opened the unit next to the washing machine. It contained washing powder and fabric softeners, two bottles of bleach and spare toilet rolls.

  Pearson watched without comment.

  Poe opened the other unit. He’d been right. It was where she kept the bird food. There was enough to suggest it was a serious hobby. She had pre-bought mixes but also Tupperware boxes with handwritten labels: finches (winter); wood pigeons (breeding season); high fat (extreme cold).

  Poe counted ten boxes, all with different concoctions. There were spare plastic feeders and books on garden birds and wildlife. There was also a pair of binoculars and a notepad recording the species she’d seen in her garden. Poe flicked through it. She had been visited by over one hundred species, it seemed, from the humble sparrow to a goshawk.

  ‘What’s it mean?’ Pearson asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Poe said, putting everything back. ‘It was just something her ex-husband said. Thought it was worth checking out.’

  Poe looked into the back garden. The light was fading but he counted eleven feeders hanging from trees and shrubs, and another seven on the dedicated bird feeder she had. More fat balls than anything else – fat was what the birds needed at this time of year.

  A large, stone birdbath dominated the middle of the lawn.

  With the birdwatching hobby a dead end, Poe followed Pearson back into the kitchen.

  ‘What do you think happened here, Sergeant Poe?’ Pearson asked.

  ‘I’m not sure. Nothing makes sense. If he’s selecting victims at random, why choose a hard target like Rebecca? Security conscious and lives in a village with high foot traffic. And why take her, but leave Howard Teasdale in situ?’

  ‘Teasdale was a fat man. Perhaps he was too heavy to abduct. Or he could be adapting,’ Pearson said. ‘Maybe killing Howard Teasdale didn’t do for him what he thought it would.’

  ‘Possibly. Although we can’t assume that the order the fingers were found is the order the victims were killed or abducted.’

  ‘Maybe Rebecca Pridmore is the only one that matters then. He’s hiding her murder among two others?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Poe agreed. He’d heard worse theories. He thumbed Bradshaw a text asking her to profile BAE. He also told her that she would be with him in the morning. If he wasn’t allowed to remove Rebecca’s laptop from her home, Bradshaw would have to forensically examine it where it was.

  Before he read her immediate response his phone rang. It was Flynn.

  ‘They’ve identified the third victim, Poe.’

  Chapter 14

  The third victim was called Amanda Simpson. ‘Mandi’ to her friends. She was twenty-five years old and worked as a retail assistant in Barrow. Her boyfriend was in the Duke of Lancaster’s Regiment. He was serving in Cyprus and hadn’t heard from her over the Christmas period. He’d called her estranged family and asked if they would check she was OK.

  They couldn’t find her.

  Her boyfriend then emailed a mate he’d gone to school with who was now a cop. The cop had called it in and Nightingale had sent two of her team to check it out. Amanda lived in a one-bedroomed flat in a part of Barrow with a large student population. Poe knew the area but not well.

  After they’d established that she was missing, the detectives checked the photographs on her fridge and the borders of her dressing-table mirror, searching for anything that could identify her as a potential victim. There weren’t many photographs as she lived her life online. Nightingale hadn’t sent two idiots, though. They contacted the boyfriend and got the passwords for her electronic devices.

  It was in a photograph on her iPad that they found what they hoped they wouldn’t. Amanda and her boyfriend were having a meal out somewhere. Abroad, judging by their clothes and suntans.

  She was holding a glass of fizz.

  And one of her fingernails was pierced with the same teddy bear stud they’d found in the font
in Saint Luke’s Church in Barrow …

  As soon as he ended the call with Flynn, Poe’s phone rang again. It was Nightingale.

  ‘How you getting on at Rebecca’s house?’

  ‘I’ll be back with Tilly tomorrow to check her laptop, but otherwise I’m nearly done.’

  ‘And you’re OK?’

  ‘I am.’

  For several moments she was silent.

  ‘What are you after, ma’am?’ Poe asked. No way was this just a welfare call.

  ‘I’m a good superintendent, Poe,’ she said eventually. ‘And that means I know when to say I’m struggling.’

  Poe said nothing. That couldn’t have been easy.

  ‘I’ll follow the murder manual and I’ll call in all the specialists I can think of. I’ll run a thorough, methodical investigation and if that’s how we catch this bastard then great, but me and you both know there’s something odd going on here.’

  ‘To put it mildly,’ Poe agreed.

  ‘How has he chosen his victims? Why did he abduct two of them? And why did the female victims have anaesthetic in their system? Why use a surgical tool on one but not the others? Why stage body parts over three consecutive days and then go quiet? Is he sending a message? Has he finished? Is he only just getting started? And what the hell is hashtag BSC6?’

  Poe let her vent. It was useful to hear someone else voice what he was thinking anyway.

  ‘What can I do for you, ma’am?’

  ‘DS Ian Gamble told me you’re the best he’d ever seen at finding what doesn’t want to be found. At following the evidence, not the story.’

  ‘I’m sure he was exaggerating,’ Poe replied.

  ‘I’m bloody not. He said you’re a contrarian but I think that’s what I need right now. My team and I will continue to investigate but I want you … I want you to do the things we won’t. Talk to the people we can’t, look for the things we’d miss. In short just do what you did in the Immolation Man case.’

  ‘I hardly—’

  ‘Find me something I can fucking use, Poe,’ she snapped, and hung up.

  He stared at his phone for almost a minute. He then sent a text to Bradshaw saying he would pop into the North Lakes Hotel soon and could she meet him in the lobby. He sent another to Flynn asking if she had time to meet when she was finished with Amanda Simpson. Finally, he sent a text to his neighbour, Victoria, asking if she could keep hold of Edgar for an extra night.