by M. W. Craven
His eyes snapped open as he made connection after connection, each bit of evidence now slotting neatly into an unfolding nightmare. Melody Lee’s words filled his mind: ‘When you think you’ve figured out what the Curator’s up to, you’re normally exactly where he wants you to be.’
Poe had made a terrible mistake.
Atkinson wasn’t the target.
He was the bait …
Sixty miles away on Montague Island, Stephanie Flynn looked out to sea, her eyes tired and gritty – a by-product of staring through thermal imaging equipment for hours at a time. She was currently sheltering from the blizzard under the lean-to Atkinson used to keep his logs dry. It wasn’t a perfect view but she was confident no one could approach her side of the island without being seen.
Her feet were swollen but so far she’d managed to stay on them. She was starting to agree with what Poe was clearly too scared to say: that she shouldn’t be at work. That she should have started her maternity leave a month ago. It had been stupid to keep going for as long as she had.
She’d see this shift through, then ring Director van Zyl when she was back on the mainland. Tell him she was going on leave and that he needed to cough up some NCA officers. There was a building full of them in Manchester. She knew he’d comply with her request. When it came to maternity leave, van Zyl was firmly in the Poe, Zoe and Bradshaw camp. She’d only been putting it off to annoy her sister. If Jess said cake was nice, Flynn would never eat it again – it was just the way it was between them.
A noise made her turn.
Her eyes widened in shock.
‘You!’
‘Me,’ the Curator agreed.
He then punched her in the face.
Chapter 72
‘We leave in one minute!’ Poe shouted, racing down the stairs to get Bradshaw.
She looked at his expression, nodded once and ran up the stairs to get dressed.
Good girl. No messing about, no asking why.
Poe tried to call Nightingale.
‘Pick up, pick up,’ he urged.
Nothing. Not even a dial tone.
He checked the screen. It said, ‘No service’.
‘Shit!’
He didn’t waste time trying again. Signals going down were a common occurrence around Shap at the best of times and entirely predictable in extreme weather. He knew he wouldn’t get a signal until he was nearer a different cell-phone tower.
He gathered everything he could think of for what was going to be a dangerous journey to Shap Wells. He was confident that if he could reach his car then he could make it to the M6. As the only motorway in Cumbria it would still be open and, if the weather in the south of the county wasn’t as bad as it was in Shap, he’d be able to get to Snab Point on Walney Island within an hour.
He grabbed his coat and pulled on his boots. They had thick treads and wore well. He only had one pair of gloves and he’d have to give them to Bradshaw. He took the stairs three at a time and ran into his bedroom, yanking a pair of green army socks out of his chest of drawers. They were heavy and woollen and would work as mittens in an emergency. He stuffed them into his pocket. As he left his bedroom, Bradshaw emerged from the bathroom, fully dressed, a determined but scared look on her face.
‘What’s happening, Poe?’
‘I’ll tell you in the car but I think DI Flynn’s in trouble, Tilly. Serious trouble.’
She set her jaw and her myopic eyes turned to steel.
‘I’m with you all the way, Poe.’
A mile from Herdwick Croft and the quad slowed then stopped. Its wheels span without gaining traction.
He always had a shovel in the back in case he became an ‘unexpected item in the boggy area’ but the tyres were useless in snow this thick. He could spend fifteen minutes digging the quad out only to get stuck again a couple of yards farther on.
He turned to Bradshaw, shielded his eyes with his arm and shouted above the noise of the storm.
‘We’re stuck, Tilly! We’re on foot from here.’
She tightened the straps on her satchel and zipped up her jacket so it covered the lower part of her face. She nodded.
Poe bent his head, narrowed his eyes until they were almost shut and started walking.
The quad had taken them a mile, so Poe reckoned another mile on the same bearing would bring them to Shap Wells. He was worried, though. The swirling white dust had hidden his usual landmarks and he’d already veered too far to the left.
Bradshaw, lagging five yards behind him, was in danger of becoming part of the landscape – she was already little more than a crude outline of a human. He stopped and waited for her. Knew that if they were separated she’d get lost and freeze to death.
He removed his coat, took off his jumper and put his coat back on. He passed her one of the jumper’s arms and took hold of the other.
‘No arguing, I’m tethering you to me.’
No doubt like his own, her face was red raw. Although she was frightened, she smiled and gave him a double thumbs up. He knew she would keep going or die trying.
With the snow stinging his exposed cheeks and the wind’s savage blasts cutting through his sock-mittens and into his bones, Poe headed off in what he hoped was the right direction. He could barely see farther than his breath.
For ten minutes they slogged on, their feet crunching the snow and their breath fogging the air. They forced their way through snowdrifts and jogged down the side of slopes protected from the wind. Bradshaw was breathing heavily but so was he. The cold air was burning his lungs and, although he was used to physical activity, his recent illness had weakened him more than he’d realised. He was soon wheezing. Bradshaw, who had never knowingly exercised, didn’t complain once. Each time he caught her eye she smiled and gave him another thumbs up. He took strength from her.
He put his head down and kept going.
A tug on the jumper they were using as a tether made him turn. Bradshaw was pointing at something. He looked but couldn’t see anything. His eyes were permanently watering. Bradshaw’s were dry, probably because her glasses were shielding them from the worst of the wind. For once she could see farther than he could.
‘There’s the hotel, Poe!’ she yelled into his ear.
He strained but could see nothing.
‘You lead, I’ll follow,’ he told her.
With renewed purpose they headed off again.
Chapter 73
With a fixed bearing to walk towards, they finished the last half mile in good time and were soon in Poe’s X1, heater on full, edging out of Shap Wells Hotel. The wind was blowing the snow off the tarmac and into the gorse and bracken and his winter tyres and four-wheel drive were more than a match for the steep road leading up to the A6.
They were soon on the relatively quiet M6 and, as they had moved off the high ground of Shap, the weather began to ease. It was still snowing but at least visibility was above zero. Poe tried Nightingale again but there was still no service. He pressed his foot down hard on the accelerator and the BMW responded.
Sixty.
Seventy.
Eighty.
He kept it there, as fast as he was willing to go in these conditions. Anything above would be reckless and he had Bradshaw to think of as well as Flynn.
‘What’s happened, Poe?’ Bradshaw said. ‘Why is DI Stephanie Flynn in trouble?’
He told her what he knew.
When he finished he glanced across. Bradshaw was trying out the words. Silently, as if she wouldn’t believe them until she’d tested them on herself.
‘But why, Poe?’
He told her what he thought. Couldn’t believe what he was being forced to say. It was horrific but it was the only thing that worked all the way to the end.
When he was done, she looked at him and then at the dashboard.
‘So why are we going so slow?’
He pushed his foot to the floor and they watched the speedometer hit one hundred and keep moving clockwise.
He tried Nightingale again. This time he got a dial tone.
‘Poe?’ she said. ‘Everything all right?’
He told her what he knew. She didn’t interrupt.
When he’d got to the end, she said, ‘Let me get back to you.’
Five minutes later she rang back. Her voice was hoarse, as if she’d been yelling instructions. She was outside now and on the move. She had to shout to be heard.
‘What the hell’s going on, Poe? We can’t raise DC Coughlan or DI Flynn!’
Poe nodded grimly.
‘And let me guess: DC Coughlan volunteered to do an extra shift?’ he said.
Nightingale paused. ‘How the hell could you know that? I’ve only just found out myself. He radioed to say he would do a double. My inspector saw no reason not to let him.’
Poe said nothing.
It was happening now.
Chapter 74
Nightingale had called in armed response but Poe’s worst fear had been realised: the tide had only just started to come in and it wasn’t yet deep enough for them to take a marine unit RIB across the Walney Channel. They were stranded at Snab Point for at least another hour.
‘Try not to worry, Poe. The storm’s playing havoc with our comms,’ Nightingale said. ‘It might not be what you think.’
But it was, he knew that. Knew that Nightingale knew it too.
‘We can’t get a chopper in the air but armed response will get across as soon as the water’s deep enough,’ she added. ‘Hopefully they’ll be in—’
Poe ended the call. He indicated and left the M6 at junction 36. When he was on the Barrow road he turned to Bradshaw and said, ‘Find a way to get us onto that island, Tilly.’
While Bradshaw worked Poe said nothing and did nothing. He didn’t beat a drum on the steering wheel and he didn’t fidget in his seat. He didn’t sigh and he didn’t ask her how she was getting on. He drove and kept quiet. Bradshaw had an impossible task and she needed silence.
He glanced across.
She had her laptop open and she was doing maths, her fingers dancing across the keyboard, her lips pressed together in concentration.
Five more minutes passed.
‘There might be a way, Poe,’ she said, ‘but you’re not going to like it.’
She told him.
She was right. He didn’t.
Poe drove into Barrow ignoring the speed restrictions – the storm had cleared the town anyway – and headed towards the dock area. Bradshaw wanted him going no slower than fifty miles an hour at this point.
A traffic light ahead of him turned red. A cab and a silver Audi stopped for it. Poe didn’t. He swerved round them and carried on.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ he muttered when a car coming the other way sounded its horn.
He was soon in the dock area.
Bradshaw was glued to her laptop, plotting their progress.
‘How we doing?’
‘It’s going to be tight, Poe,’ she said. ‘We can’t afford to stop.’
The phone rang. Poe pressed the answer button on the steering wheel, his eyes never leaving the road.
It was Nightingale.
‘Where are you, Poe?’
‘Just crossing the bridge to Walney Island.’
‘We’re assembled at Snab Point,’ she said. ‘The marine unit has agreed to leave in less than ideal depth conditions. They estimate an hour. You can’t go with them but I can get you on the second boat.’
Poe said nothing. He turned left off the bridge and sped south along the promenade on Walney Island. He was soon through the isolated village of Biggar and had a clear run along Mawflat Lane. The worst of the storm either hadn’t reached Walney yet or it had already passed. A weak moon offered pale light through cracks in the low cloud. Poe grunted in satisfaction. It should be enough for them to see Montague Island’s silhouette.
Walney was eleven miles long but the distance between the bridge and Snab Point was less than five. Poe ignored the unsuitability of the road and the conditions and put his foot down again. Bradshaw kept her eyes on her computer.
‘I’ll be at Snab Point soon,’ Poe said. ‘Stay on the line.’
‘Why?’ asked Nightingale.
Poe ignored her.
‘How we doing?’ he whispered.
Bradshaw shrugged.
Even if he hadn’t been to Snab Point before, Poe wouldn’t have needed directions to find it. The air was flashing like a rock concert. Nightingale had called in the cavalry. There were at least twelve police cars, two of which Poe recognised as armed response vehicles. They all had their blue lights on.
He slowed as he approached them. He had to. He could see Nightingale on her phone, her neck craning to see where he was. He flashed his headlights.
‘I see you,’ she said. ‘Park where you can and we’ll get you kitted out. Everyone’s wearing a stab-proof vest.’
Poe said nothing.
He had no intention of wearing a stab-proof vest.
He had no intention of stopping …
Chapter 75
Bradshaw’s solution had been simple.
Simple but reckless, the type of thing he usually came up with.
The tide was coming in too fast to drive across but it wasn’t yet in far enough for the marine unit to get an RIB afloat.
Bradshaw’s answer was to drive out into the Walney Channel as far as the tide would allow, abandon the car on the sand flats and then do the rest on foot. A variation on what they’d done with the quad on their way to Shap Wells not an hour before.
She said the maths worked. If they were in luck, and if it wasn’t an aberrant tide, there was a 60 per cent chance they wouldn’t drown. Unfortunately there was a 100 per cent chance he would lose his car to the Irish Sea and a zero per cent chance he’d be able to make a claim on his insurance.
Poe trusted Bradshaw’s maths and, as he couldn’t see another option, instead of following Nightingale’s directions to park and collect a stab-proof vest, he accelerated past her, ignored the shouted instructions and the warning signs about not driving on a Scene of Special Scientific Interest and drove straight into the sea …
‘Poe!’ Nightingale screamed into her phone. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?! Get back here now, that’s an order!’
‘Sorry, ma’am,’ he said, ‘this is an NCA operation now.’
‘Poe, you listen to—’
He ended the call. He hadn’t enjoyed that. He had a great deal of respect for Nightingale and would have preferred to do as she asked.
He turned to Bradshaw.
‘Just you and me now, Tilly.’
‘We’ll get there in time, Poe,’ she said.
As soon as he was into the Walney Channel proper, when grass ended and the sand started, Poe slowed down and engaged the four-wheel drive function. Speed wasn’t their friend any more. Speed would get them stuck before they’d reached where Bradshaw had calculated they could abandon the car and still have enough time to get to the island without drowning. She told him he had to keep to a steady twenty for as far as he could but he kept it at thirty while he dared. Tried to build a bit of a safety margin.
It was a surprisingly smooth ride.
Poe was scared. Terrified even. He glanced across at Bradshaw, still staring at her laptop screen, and drew strength from her again. If she could face the incoming Irish Sea and whatever lay at the end, then he damn well could. He set his jaw and, fighting every instinct he had to go faster, found the courage to slow down.
Sheep Island was now in his rear-view mirror and Piel Island was coming up straight ahead. Poe bore left. Two minutes later Montague Island came into view. It was already surrounded by water. At least fifty yards.
Poe reckoned they still had half a mile to go and the BMW felt sluggish as the wheels dug into the wet sand.
He slowed to ten miles an hour.
‘We might have to swim the last bit, Poe,’ Bradshaw said.
‘Tilly, you can’t swim,’ h
e said.
‘It can’t be difficult,’ she said. ‘I’ll just paddle like Edgar does.’
Poe ignored her hopelessly naive remark.
‘Why didn’t you tell me we’d have to swim the last bit?’
She folded her arms and ignored him.
‘Because you knew I’d kick you out before I drove into the sea,’ he said, answering his own question.
He raced through his options. Decided he didn’t have any. Sending her back was a death sentence, as was leaving her with the car. Even if she could swim, the Walney Channel was treacherous when the tide came in.
She would have to come with him.
The BMW juddered, then stopped. Poe selected reverse and tried to ease out of the rut he’d created. Managed to move back a few inches. Selected forwards and tried rocking the car out.
Nothing.
‘You ready to get your feet wet?’ he said to Bradshaw.
She grabbed a plastic bag and wrapped her laptop in it before stuffing it into her rucksack. She removed her Converse trainers and put them in too.
‘It’ll be easier to walk barefoot,’ she said. ‘Simple physics.’
Poe had nothing he needed to take with him. He left his keys with the car in case the unlikely happened and one of Nightingale’s cops was able to salvage it.
By the time they got out of the car the water was already lapping at their feet.
Chapter 76
Poe fixed his eyes on the horizon and forced himself to keep moving forwards. He was exhausted. The cold dead sand shifted with every step. It sucked at his boots and tested his laces to their limits. After a hundred yards his jeans were soaked through and felt like they’d doubled in weight. After two hundred yards it felt like his boots were encased in concrete. He was sucking in air harder than he thought possible, his ribs heaving in and out like bellows, but he couldn’t seem to fill his lungs. His thigh muscles were trembling and he was close to a major cramp.
And it was cold.
The water was stealing the little heat he’d recouped in the car. His feet were numb and he had pain in his fingertips. His teeth were chattering and his whole body was violently shaking.