The Puppet Show (Washington Poe Book 1)

by M. W. Craven

  Most of what the document said, Poe already knew from the newspaper article. Usually the site would list details like approximate age, height, build and an estimated date of death. The page he was holding had ‘unknown’ listed beside every one of those identifiers. Hair colour was listed as brown. What he was wearing was listed but it was unremarkable. Certainly nothing that would make someone jump and shout out: ‘That’s old Jim that is! He used to wear a top hat and a green cape!’

  No possessions were listed.

  Bradshaw logged into the database and brought up the non-public information but it didn’t add much value. There was a photograph on the NCA-only part of the site, but it looked more like a prop from a horror movie than a human being. Poe wasn’t expecting to recognise him.

  ‘At some point we’re going to need to see the body,’ Poe said.

  Flynn looked at him.

  Poe shrugged. ‘We might not have a choice. If this is linked then it probably wasn’t an accident. We’ll need to put it through one of those machines of yours. Find out what really happened.’

  ‘The MSCT?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Do you have any idea how expensive that test is?’ Flynn asked.

  Poe knew he should. It wasn’t that long ago he’d managed the unit that commissioned them. He shook his head.

  ‘We have to book time with the hospital. And, by law they can’t bump a living patient for a dead one. The consultant, radiographer and any number of other medical staff are all paid overtime. At night.’

  Poe wasn’t concerned about the cost. He’d fund it himself if he had to.

  ‘It costs about twenty grand . . .’ she said.

  Maybe not . . .

  ‘And I’m not blowing our entire diagnostic budget on a whim.’

  ‘It’s hardly a whim,’ Poe muttered. ‘It has to be connected.’ To be fair to Flynn, even he thought he sounded desperate.

  ‘Aren’t you the one who used to bang on about knowing the difference between facts, opinions and guesses,’ she snapped. ‘This is a guess, Poe, nothing more. And I can’t waste money on guesses.’

  He felt like saying, ‘Never quote me to me,’ but held his tongue. He knew part of the DI’s job was curbing the enthusiasm of some staff, but the age Tollund Man would be now was too much for him to dismiss.

  ‘We’re supposed to do what’s right, not what’s easy,’ he said.

  ‘What did you just say?’ she snarled.

  Poe knew there were times when backing down was the right move. He also knew that sometimes shutting up was even better.

  They were still glowering at each other when Reid returned. He picked up on the atmosphere immediately. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing!’ Flynn barked.

  ‘Just a small disagreement,’ Poe said.

  Reid was shameless in the way he couldn’t be embarrassed. He retrieved the file from his rucksack and put it on the table. ‘I’ve not had time to read it.’

  Flynn made no move to take it.

  Poe picked it up and read the summary. There were photographs of the body in situ; he’d study them later. The last few pages were chronological entries of the actions taken. The superintendent from Kendal had signed off the case. The final entry was dated less than a month ago.

  ‘Bollocks.’

  Flynn, despite herself, asked, ‘What is it?’

  Poe ignored her and directed a question at Reid. ‘I thought Cumbria’s protocol was for unidentified bodies to be kept for a year before being disposed of?’

  ‘It was. It’s just been changed. They’re kept for eighteen months if they’re to be cremated, nine months if they’re going in the ground.’

  Poe looked at Flynn.

  ‘No fucking way!’ she exploded.

  ‘It’s the only way we can be sure,’ Poe countered.

  ‘Sure of what, you idiot? Even if I felt like throwing away my career, the coroner declared it death by natural causes and it’s their fucking office that authorises exhumations! What? You think we can waltz in there and tell them they were wrong because Tollund Man would have been an old man now? They deal with facts, Poe, not lunatic conspiracy theories.’

  ‘We need one,’ Poe persisted.

  ‘We don’t fucking need one!’ she barked. ‘And we’re not asking for one, so put that idea out of your mind right now. I will not embarrass the agency by applying for an exhumation order we almost certainly won’t get and don’t need. And that’s final.’

  Poe expressed his frustration with silence. She was right; unless DCS Gamble was prepared to link the two cases and apply for it himself – and there was nothing in the way he ran investigations that suggested he’d even entertain the idea – they’d never get permission. Forensic exhumation orders were rarely applied for – the police and the pathologist were expected to do their jobs properly the first time around.

  Yet he knew there had to be a link. His name hadn’t appeared on the chest of Michael James by accident. Someone was drip-feeding him information and he wasn’t prepared to give up on the latest offering just yet. He’d concede for now, but when they ran into a dead end he’d have another go. Eventually she’d see reason.

  He returned to the file and reread the summary. Some kid, whose dad had wangled a job for him with the council, had panicked when they’d found the body in the machine’s bucket, and instead of lowering it to the ground he’d dumped it all over his colleague, a Mr Derek Bailiff. Bailiff had suffered a stress-induced heart attack and died at the scene.

  ‘I want permission to speak to the witness then,’ he told Flynn.

  ‘What witness?’ she asked.

  ‘Francis Sharples. The one who accidentally killed his mate when they found the body. If I can’t examine the corpse, at least let me have a word with someone who saw it. There might be something that seemed irrelevant then but doesn’t now.’ Poe pressed his advantage, ‘Come on, Steph, part of being the boss is knowing when to compromise.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said eventually. ‘But I’m coming with you.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Bradshaw was happy to keep working at Herdwick Croft so Poe didn’t have to dump Edgar with his neighbour. She promised she wouldn’t give him too many treats. Poe left out a handful but hid the rest; Edgar had begging down to an art form and Bradshaw had already proved to be a pushover.

  Reid texted Poe the address for Sharples. Since the incident at the Hardendale Salt Store, he’d moved out of his parents’ house and into a flat in Carlisle. What he did for a living was anyone’s guess.

  Poe knew where he was going and Flynn didn’t so they took his car. They were soon speeding along the A6. A few miles later they were at the turn-off for the M6, but instead of entering the northbound traffic, Poe drove over the motorway bridge and stopped beside a wrought-iron gate. He turned off the engine and said, ‘That’s the Hardendale Salt Store. That’s where the so called Tollund Man was found.’

  They got out of the car and wandered up to the depot. It was only a stone’s throw from the motorway. From the outside, the domed building looked like a planetarium or a modern concert hall. Tens of thousands of motorists passed it every day, wondering what it was. The metal gates were locked; Poe doubted it was open much during the warmer months, but the small detour had served a purpose. The journey had taken less than ten minutes and it emphasised – in his opinion, at least – the possible link between himself and the body.

  ‘And back there,’ he said, pointing the way they’d come, ‘is where I live. As the crow flies it’s less than eight miles.’

  Flynn didn’t see it that way. ‘It doesn’t mean anything, Poe. As DS Reid said, this depot almost certainly wasn’t the one he died in.’

  Poe said nothing.

  Forty minutes later Poe pulled up outside Francis Sharples’s flat. It was in a converted townhouse in affluent Stanwix, an area that was all delis and bouncer-less pubs.

  ‘North of the river,’ Poe said. ‘Very posh.’
/>   ‘Is it?’ Flynn asked.

  ‘For Carlisle, yes. The city doesn’t have the wealth of the towns and villages in the Eden Valley or the National Park, but most areas aren’t too bad.’

  She shielded her eyes and craned her neck to look at the house. ‘What do you think Sharples does for a living?’

  ‘God knows. He’s a philosophy graduate: I’m assuming he’s on the dole.’

  She smiled and pressed the button on the intercom with the typed name ‘Sharples’. Poe noticed that BPhil had been added in biro.

  A tinny voice answered, ‘Yah?’

  They looked at each other. Flynn rolled her eyes.

  She leaned in, and, in a clear voice, said, ‘National Crime Agency, Mr Sharples. We’d like a word, please.’

  There was a significant pause. There always was after they announced themselves. They might not have the status of the FBI – their American equivalents – but their name was still enough to spook people. Eventually the door clicked open.

  Sharples’s flat was on the top floor and he was waiting by the door. He was a tall and stringy man. He didn’t ask for their ID but they showed him anyway. He turned around without glancing at them. They followed him in.

  The townhouse might have been Georgian but the interior was all twenty-first century. The large living room had polished oak floors. Modern pictures hung on the whitewashed walls. A large desk with an Apple laptop dominated the window wall. A bookcase displayed a selection of highbrow books. Tolstoy’s War and Peace, Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment, an Old English edition of Beowulf: none of the spines were creased and Poe instinctively knew they were for show only.

  He offered them his hand. ‘My friends call me Frankie.’

  This time it was Poe’s turn to roll his eyes. He made sure Sharples saw.

  After inspecting the rest of the room, Poe said, ‘Can I ask what you were doing when we knocked?’

  ‘I was working,’ he said.

  Poe doubted it. The laptop was in sleep mode and he noticed the Blu-ray player was powered up. The case for a Transformers Blu-ray was open and there was a cup of coffee on the table in front of the large TV. Poe didn’t wait to be asked; he sat down on the nut-brown leather sofa.

  Sharples tried to give him the evil eye. He was a strange-looking man. A pubic beard covered his chin and his moustache could have been made of eyelashes. His Adam’s apple was so big it looked like he’d swallowed a triangle. His thinning hair was tied back into a ponytail. He wore shorts, a T-shirt and leather sandals. A black tattoo was just visible on the bone behind his ear.

  How had a Grade-A dickhead like this ever worked for the council’s road department? Nothing Poe had seen fitted with him ever having had a manual job.

  Flynn explained why they were there and Sharples stiffened. The memory appeared fresh. He touched his ear when Flynn asked him if he knew anything that might be of help to them. Poe looked closer and saw he was running his fingers over his tattoo. He continued touching it while he recounted the sequence of events at the Hardendale Salt Store.

  He admitted releasing the JCB load instead of lowering the bucket. Derek Bailiff had been his friend and mentor. That he’d caused his death had devastated him. And, no, he couldn’t remember anything useful about the body that he hadn’t already told the police. He hadn’t seen much of it. It was just the hand sticking out initially, and even when he’d mistakenly tipped the load on top of Bailiff, most of the corpse had stayed buried. He hadn’t been there when the body had been taken away. He’d resigned before he was fired.

  It was clear that he’d told the story many times. He didn’t need to pause while he remembered details. It sounded rehearsed and Poe couldn’t help feeling that Sharples was leaving something out. He knew witnesses frequently did this; they tried to present themselves in the best possible light, and a peacock like Sharples even more so.

  He needed to put him off his stump speech. ‘What’s with the ink, Mr Sharples?’ Poe would rather eat petrol-station sushi than call someone Frankie.

  Sharples turned so they could see it. Flynn leaned forward. ‘Looks like a circle.’

  ‘It’s an ouroboros. A snake eating its own tail. Symbolises the cyclicality of life. It means—’

  ‘I know what it means,’ Poe cut in.

  ‘I had it done after the incident. It’s a private reminder of the fragile nature of life.’

  ‘I wish I could remember what my personal philosophy was,’ Poe muttered. He needed to take him away from the Francis Sharples appreciation society. Needed to needle him, get him talking without thinking. ‘And it’s a private reminder my arse. You have it behind your ear so people will ask about it. You love talking about what happened. Probably the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to you.’

  ‘No!’

  Don’t let him settle; keep him on his toes.

  ‘What do you do, Mr Sharples?’

  ‘I told you, I was working.’

  ‘No, what do you do for a living? What is your profession?’

  ‘I’m an author. I’m writing about how philosophy’s increasing in relevance in a shrinking world.’

  ‘Published?’

  ‘Not yet. But I’ve had some very promising responses to my proposals.’

  ‘May I see them?’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘Letters from publishers and agents.’

  ‘You clearly don’t understand the publishing industry, Sergeant Poe. It’s all done verbally these days.’

  ‘Yep. You’re talking shit,’ Poe said. Before Sharples could protest, or Flynn could intervene, he asked, ‘What aren’t you telling us?’

  Sharples paled and glanced at Flynn. Her eyes bore into him.

  ‘N-n-nothing,’ he stuttered.

  ‘How long have you lived here?’

  ‘About three months,’ he replied.

  ‘And before then?’

  ‘I lived at home.’

  ‘So, what aren’t you telling us?’ Poe asked. ‘You know we’ll find out.’

  Sharples stood firm. Poe suspected there was a risk–reward thing going on, and without a stick to beat him, and with no carrot to tempt him, he had no reason to say anything. He was an over-educated dickhead, though; Poe reckoned another half hour would probably crack it. Unfortunately, Sharples thought that too. He stood and said, ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help, but I really must be getting on.’

  Poe remained seated but Flynn thanked him and waited for her colleague.

  ‘I could have had him,’ he said as they walked down the stairs.

  ‘Possibly. The reality is he isn’t a suspect. Just because pseudo-intellectuals rub you up the wrong way, it doesn’t mean they’re hiding something from you.’

  Poe had no response. She was right; Sharples had pressed all his buttons.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s call it a day.’

  Poe would have offered to take her out for an Indian meal in Carlisle but he just wanted to get home. He had some thinking to do. He knew they were stagnating. The Immolation Man was too clever and too well organised to be caught by a rigid adherence to the murder manual. But the murder manual and predictable investigation strategies were all Gamble and Flynn had.

  He had to change that somehow.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Poe arrived at Herdwick Croft to find Bradshaw immersed in her computer. Edgar was curled at her feet, snoring like a fat man. She’d found nothing more on Tollund Man. He was sure that she’d have been quite happy to continue working, but he insisted on driving her to the hotel. He’d have quite liked the company but he needed to think.

  When he returned to the croft, he whistled for Edgar and set off on a long walk – the best way he knew of clearing his head.

  He walked hard until he’d built up a bit of sweat, then slowed and settled into a pace he could keep for hours. He reckoned he had another two hours of sunlight. He found a flattish stone on a rocky outcrop and sat down. Pulling a pork pie from his pocket
, he broke it into two equal pieces. He nibbled at one; the other he passed to Edgar. It was gone in less than a second.

  He was in an area he knew well. His thinking zone, he called it. It was a part of the fell where two boundary walls met. Two different craftsmen had worked on them because the difference in style was stark, although both were equally impressive and beautiful.

  He stared at the wall he was facing and allowed his mind to focus on it. Dry stone walls – being made without any form of binding agent – were basically large-scale, three-dimensional jigsaw puzzles. Two walls, with smaller stones filling the gap in the middle. Poe reflected on how much they resembled the two facets of solving complex murders.

  One side was Gamble and Flynn, methodically building their case, stone by stone. Carefully and thoughtfully. And on the other side were officers like him and Reid. More instinctive, throwing stones into gaps, twisting them until they fitted. Trying different ideas. And although Poe knew that his side of the wall would collapse without the one Flynn and Gamble were building, he also knew that without his side certain cases were never solved.

  And there was another similarity before Poe would have to admit he was stretching the analogy too far, and that was the ‘through stones’; stones that went through both walls, locking them together. And it was a through stone that Poe was looking for; one bit of evidence that connected both sides of the investigation.

  He was convinced the body in the salt store was one of those stones. He either had to find a way to look at it somehow or he had to be allowed a proper go at Sharples.