The Puppet Show (Washington Poe Book 1)

by M. W. Craven

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

  That didn’t stop them marching on the bishop. Oldwater did his best to placate them but it was clear he was on Poe’s side.

  It seemed he trusted his judgement.

  In the end the chief constable did too. He might have been an isolated careerist, but he wasn’t stupid. When Poe told him that the Immolation Man’s identity might be hidden among the display cases, and that being seen in the company of the Carmichaels might not be politically advantageous for too much longer, he did his job and rang for uniformed backup. When the Carmichaels continued to make a fuss, he threatened to arrest them.

  He sidled up to Poe and whispered, ‘You’d better be fucking right, Poe.’

  Through the glass cases Bradshaw began photographing the items. It meant they had their own records and weren’t relying on Gamble to share everything. It didn’t matter; Poe knew it was all going to come down to that one obscure punctuation mark.

  ؟

  It was innocuous, and in the context of a charitable auction, completely appropriate. But . . . the last percontation point they’d found had led them to dark places. Poe knew this one would too.

  He didn’t know how easy it’d be to uncover information on a twenty-six-year-old charitable event, but, if it were online, Bradshaw would find it. He doubted the Carmichaels were going to be much help; potentially they had much to lose. In any case, they’d been children at the time.

  A gruff voice made him turn. DCS Gamble was now on the scene. Reid was with him. Flynn would be there soon. Gamble ignored Poe as he strode over to his chief constable. Poe couldn’t hear what was being said, but judging by his flamboyant gesticulation, Gamble didn’t get whatever it was he was after. He stormed across to Poe.

  ‘I don’t know how you’ve managed it, Poe, but the chief says that you should be given full access again.’ His lips were pressed together.

  For a few seconds the two men glared at each other. Poe knew Gamble’s heart wasn’t in it, though. He was angry but a large part of that was misdirected; his own officers shouldn’t have been so far behind this. Poe didn’t want to fall out with the man so a peace offering was the right move.

  ‘Sir, as far as I’m concerned this is your investigation,’ he said. ‘I’m happy to help in any way I can, but I would urge you to consider using SCAS as it was designed; to offer analytical support and advice.’

  ‘Fine,’ Gamble replied. He gestured for Reid to approach. ‘Sergeant Reid, you’re back on SCAS liaison, but this time do it properly.’

  ‘Sir,’ Reid acknowledged with a deadpan face. That Poe had exhumed a corpse and gate-crashed a gala had hardly been his fault, but he was wise enough not to protest.

  Bradshaw interrupted. ‘Everything’s scanned, Poe.’

  He nodded. ‘Let’s get out of here then.’

  ‘Where to?’ Reid asked.

  ‘The pub,’ Poe replied. ‘I need a drink.’

  The Oddfellows Arms in Keswick was still serving food – real food this time – and they grabbed a quiet table in the paved beer garden that overlooked one of the town’s car parks. Poe ordered giant Yorkshire puddings filled with lamb stew for himself and Reid, and a vegetable lasagne for Bradshaw.

  ‘What do we need to know next?’ Poe asked.

  Reid said, ‘I don’t know what we know now, mate.’

  ‘Fair point,’ Poe said. For the next half an hour he and Bradshaw ran through the sequence of recent events. By the time they’d finished, the food had arrived, and rather than spit gravy at each other, Poe called a halt until they’d eaten.

  After they’d refreshed their glasses, Bradshaw, who’d been on her tablet since they’d sat down, said, ‘There were two companies running cruises on Ullswater twenty-six years ago. One of them ceased trading a few years ago. The father died – of natural causes before you ask – and the children didn’t want to keep it going so it folded. The other’s still going strong and has been for the last one hundred and fifty years.’

  Poe said, ‘OK. If we assume that the cruise is important, then both companies need to be checked out.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Reid said. ‘I can access Eden District Council’s licence department and look into it. If anything needs chasing up I’ll put a couple of detectives on it.’

  Poe nodded. He’d hoped Reid would take on that task. It would be easier for a Cumbrian to do it.

  ‘You think something happened on that cruise? An accident maybe?’ Reid said. ‘Rich men are never that bright when they’ve done something stupid. Their first thoughts invariably turn to covering it up.’

  Poe shook his head. ‘No, if something happened, then the percontation point on the invitation means it was planned. At least one person knew about it in advance.’

  ‘Quentin Carmichael?’ Reid asked.

  ‘Probably. Not definitely.’

  ‘Best guess?’ Reid asked.

  ‘Most murders have their roots in money or sex, and at the minute, I see no reason to look any further. Quentin Carmichael died with almost half a million pounds in his bank account. Money that was never accounted for.’

  ‘So . . .?’

  ‘So, I think we need to go and speak to someone at this children’s home. See if they actually received anything from this auction or not.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  It was the morning after the night before. Bradshaw, Reid and Flynn met Poe at Herdwick Croft at eight. Flynn was leaving for Hampshire later that morning; there was a political storm brewing over Quentin Carmichael. Unsurprisingly, his children were kicking up a stink and trying to stop the investigation going anywhere near their father. They had connections in Westminster – some of whom were equally as keen to preserve the good Carmichael name lest they were tarred with the same brush – and some junior minister had summoned the NCA director. He wanted Flynn at his side.

  She wanted to take Bradshaw back down to SCAS but she’d refused. ‘We can’t justify the expense of a hotel room, Tilly,’ Flynn had argued. ‘You can do just as much good back at SCAS.’

  ‘I can stay with Poe and Edgar, can’t I, Poe?’ she’d countered.

  Poe was spared having to explain to Bradshaw why perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea for a naive young woman to stay with a cantankerous middle-aged man, when Flynn rolled her eyes and caved. ‘OK. A few more nights.’ In the meantime, she asked them to carry on, and to try not to upset everyone they met.

  Poe grinned wryly and said he couldn’t promise.

  Bradshaw had been up half the night on the internet and she’d found somewhere to start. The children’s home named as the beneficiary on the invitation card had been called Seven Pines and it no longer existed. Although it had been owned by a Cumbrian faith charity, like all children’s homes, the local authority had overseen it.

  The fact that it no longer existed had raised Poe’s suspicions, but when he spoke to the duty social worker at Children’s Services in Carlisle, she’d said, ‘Cumbria hardly has any homes now, Sergeant Poe. Most of our children are placed with foster families. Better value and a far better environment for them. If a Cumbrian child can’t be placed and does need a home, they’ll usually go out of county. Costs a fortune, though.’

  ‘OK,’ Poe said. He was learning something. ‘And if I wanted to speak to someone about Seven Pines and a charity event that was held to raise funds for it, who would be the best person to speak to?’

  ‘Before my time,’ she said. But she wasn’t a negative-ninny and promised to speak to someone who’d been there longer. She took his number and said she’d get back to him.

  While they waited, Poe put a jug of strong coffee on the table and they all took a cup, even Bradshaw. Reid had brought doughnuts, and a bag of freshly ground coffee to replace what they’d used in the last few days. Poe smelled them and sighed. They were nice beans. Guatemalan and hand-roasted by the shop Poe used. He thanked him although it hadn’t been necess
ary; never in his life had he run out of coffee. His reserves had reserves. Still, it was a nice gesture. He put it to the front of his stash. He’d open it next.

  Along with the coffee and doughnuts, Reid had also brought a copy of the Quentin Carmichael file and they spent half an hour familiarising themselves with its contents. Nothing stood out and Poe was happy the original investigation hadn’t missed anything obvious. The money was unaccounted for but there was no evidence of illegality. Bradshaw scanned everything into her tablet so they didn’t need to carry the paper file with them.

  Reid’s phone rang. He looked at the screen and held his finger to his lips and whispered, ‘It’s Gamble,’ before answering, ‘DS Reid.’

  Poe was trying to eavesdrop when his own phone rang. The number began with 01228: Carlisle’s area code. He pressed the green telephone icon to receive the call.

  ‘DS Poe?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘My name’s Audrey Jackson and I am the assistant director for Looked After Children. I gather you spoke to one of my duty social workers a while ago. You were asking about the Seven Pines Children’s Home?’

  Poe confirmed he was.

  ‘Would you mind telling me what this is about?’

  ‘It’s come up in a murder investigation.’

  ‘I see,’ she said. It was obvious she hadn’t been expecting that. ‘I gather you’re not with Cumbria police.’

  After explaining that he was with the National Crime Agency but attached to a Cumbrian murder investigation, she said, ‘Are you mobile? Because if you can get to the Civic Centre in Carlisle at midday I can meet with you. I’ll have retrieved the home’s records from archives by then.’

  ‘Will that include the financial records?’ he asked. If it did, there could be a paper trail to follow.

  ‘I’ve not seen them. But I’ll get onto finance when I put the phone down and make sure we get records going back . . .?’

  ‘Twenty-six years,’ he answered.

  By the time he’d finished with Audrey Jackson, Reid’s call was over. ‘That was the boss,’ he said. ‘The body found in Carmichael’s coffin has been identified as Sebastian Doyle, sixty-eight years old. Everyone thought he’d moved abroad to be with his family in Oz, which was why he hadn’t been reported missing.’

  ‘He fit the same profile?’ Poe asked.

  ‘That’s all I have. Gamble said he’d keep me updated throughout the day.’

  Poe didn’t respond. Another victim, another older man and, at the minute, all roads were leading to Quentin Carmichael’s charity cruise. He stood up. ‘Come on, we’ll need to get a shift on if we want to make that midday meeting.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  It didn’t matter how many charity abseils it hosted, Carlisle’s Civic Centre remained the most soulless building in Cumbria. Poe believed that uninspiring surroundings led to uninspired thinking, and it didn’t get any more uninspiring than the twelve-storey tower block in which Cumbria’s leaders worked. In the county that inspired William Wordsworth and Beatrix Potter, Poe found it shocking that planning permission had been granted to the monstrous eyesore that overlooked the city’s historic quarter. The imminent plans to knock it down and start somewhere else couldn’t come fast enough.

  They were shown into Committee Room C, a characterless room that contained nothing that could cause offence: just an oblong table, plastic chairs and some Perspex-covered posters promoting the council’s mission statement. The ceiling light was dim and flickering. Tea and coffee had been arranged for them, along with some biscuits. Reid opened a three-pack of chocolate bourbons and they had one each.

  Audrey Jackson arrived promptly at midday. A bespectacled man was with her. Poe introduced himself and everyone else did the same. When Jackson sat, he noticed she did so on the other side of the table. The man took a seat beside her.

  The other thing he noticed was that neither had any records with them.

  The man with Jackson began. ‘My name is Neil Evans, and I’m with the council’s legal services, Sergeant Poe. I must insist that you tell me what Seven Pines Children’s Home has to do with a murder investigation.’

  ‘I told Mrs Jackson over the phone,’ Poe replied.

  ‘And now you’re going to have to tell me, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘Even though it wasn’t one of our homes, Cumbria County Council has a duty of care for every child housed in Seven Pines, and although they’re now all over twenty-one, they remain entitled to certain services; one of which is confidentiality.’

  ‘This is a murder investigation,’ Poe said.

  ‘That may be so,’ Jackson cut in. ‘But there’s still a stigma attached to care leavers, Sergeant Poe. We’ve had it before. Rather than look for real evidence, the police simply round up all the kids in our care and see which one most fits the suspect profile.’

  Poe didn’t respond. It was probably true.

  ‘So, if you’re on nothing more than a fishing expedition, Mr Evans will ensure we aren’t bullied into giving out the names of our children.’

  Poe summarised what they knew and how they’d ended up at the Civic Centre with the assistant director of Looked After Children. He ended with, ‘And I have no interest in the children who stayed at Seven Pines, Mrs Jackson. At the moment, I am only interested in that cruise, and the only person we know who was definitely on it is dead. Quentin Carmichael, have you heard of him?’

  From the looks that flashed between them, Poe knew they had. Neither tried to deny it.

  Evans said, ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant Poe, but you haven’t passed the reasonableness threshold. I cannot expose the council to the risk of you seeing our records. I appreciate your candour, and I will note that at no point have you asked to see anything to do with the home’s former occupants, but if you want to see these records, you’ll need a warrant.’

  Ordinarily, Poe would have been punching the wall, but Evans had a point. He said, ‘If I were to get a warrant, would it be worth my while?’

  Evans stared at him. Almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

  Poe turned to Reid. ‘How long will it take your lot to get one?’

  ‘You’ve seen them in action. Gamble’s a good SIO but he’s thorough. He won’t rush a decision.’

  It was what Poe had expected. He had neither the time nor the inclination to wait for Gamble to keep catching up. He left the room and dialled Flynn.

  She answered immediately. It sounded as though she was driving.

  Poe updated her on the legal roadblock they’d just hit and how he thought there might be something in the records worth seeing.

  ‘Steph, I need a search warrant and I can’t wait for Gamble. Can you get van Zyl to authorise one? If it’s faxed to the Civic Centre in Carlisle, I’ll get DS Reid to march it straight over to the magistrates’ court. They’re on the other side of the road so it’ll be a two-minute job to get it signed.’

  ‘And they definitely won’t release them without a warrant?’

  ‘Nope. They’re scared of the legal repercussions.’

  ‘What repercussions?’

  ‘That’s what I’m wondering,’ Poe said.

  ‘Leave it to me,’ she said.

  Poe returned to the small conference room and explained what was happening. Evans agreed to wait.

  ‘The magistrates will be more open to a Cumbrian cop, Kylian. You OK going downstairs and waiting for it to come in?’

  ‘You want me to tell Gamble?’

  Poe shook his head. He wanted first crack at whatever was in those files. ‘We’ll tell him if we find something.’

  ‘He’s going to be furious,’ Reid said, ‘. . . again.’

  ‘Yep,’ Poe nodded. He didn’t care.

  Neither did Reid, apparently. He left to wait by the fax machine in reception. Poe knew that within five minutes he’d have the receptionists eating out of his hand. They’d be falling over themselves to bring him drinks and cake. By the time the fax arrived he’d know all about them: their husban
d’s foibles, their children’s dreams and where they’d be having a cheeky wine after work if he fancied joining them . . .

  Poe asked some general questions about the home.

  ‘If it was a charity that ran it, why do you have the records?’

  ‘It’s the law,’ Evans replied, feeling he was on safer ground. ‘Officially we don’t buy bed spaces from privately run homes; we go into partnership with them. That means all funding has to be signed off at director level.’

  ‘It’s a way of ensuring the council remains accountable for their waifs and strays,’ Jackson added. ‘We can’t just buy services and forget about them. We remain heavily involved.’

  It made sense.

  ‘Who was in charge twenty-six years ago?’ Poe asked.

  Jackson looked at Evans. He nodded.

  ‘We seconded a woman called Hilary Swift. In those days the manager of a children’s home had to have a social work qualification.’

  ‘She still with you?’

  ‘Retired.’

  Poe had expected more: either an endorsement of her attributes or a damnation of her failings. It was rare to mention an ex-colleague and then leave it hanging. There was something he wasn’t being told.

  Jackson hadn’t got to senior management by gossiping, though. She folded her arms and refused to elaborate.

  Evans helped her. ‘Employees and ex-employees are entitled to the same level of protection, Sergeant Poe.’

  The door opened and Reid walked in. He passed a document to Poe, who examined it. It was a warrant to recover and seize all records pertaining to the Seven Pines Children’s Home going back thirty years. He handed it to Evans, who removed his spectacles and replaced them with some readers. He studied it, then said, ‘All in order. Now, I have everything in my office because I assumed we’d get to this point. I’ll need a hand carrying it over if I can borrow someone . . .’

  ‘Kylian?’ Poe asked.

  ‘On it.’ Reid stood, ‘Lead the way, Mr Evans.’

  Before leaving the room, Evans turned and spoke to Jackson. ‘Audrey, I am fine if you want to talk to Sergeant Poe now.’