The Puppet Show (Washington Poe Book 1)

by M. W. Craven

  ‘What have you got, Sergeant?’ Flynn asked, making it clear she was back and in charge. It was how it should be. The DI organised the show; the DS ran it.

  ‘He’s gone,’ Reid said.

  ‘Montague Price?’ Poe asked.

  ‘Yep. I was on the raid. His house was empty but it looks like he left in a hurry.’

  ‘And?’ There was always an ‘and’ with Reid. He was a natural showman.

  His face cracked into a smile. ‘And . . . it’s him. CSI found traces of blood on some of his clothes – the DNA is being fast-tracked. There was an empty bottle that we think contained some of the accelerant he used, and there was also a vial of an unknown liquid. Looks medical. It’s been sent to the lab.’

  He reached out and shook Flynn’s hand. ‘I’m to officially thank you, ma’am. DCS Gamble’s busy obviously, but he didn’t want it left unsaid. He knows it wouldn’t have happened without SCAS.’

  He turned to Poe. ‘Even you, Poe. He asked me to tell you that he still thinks you’re a bit of an idiot but—’

  ‘An idiot. That’s what he called me, an idiot?’

  ‘I’m paraphrasing. His actual words were “massive bellend” but there are ladies present.’

  Bradshaw giggled. Even Flynn smiled.

  He’d been there before; the silly season right after a case finished. It was a natural high. Everything was funny. Price hadn’t been found yet but he would be. Gamble would use everything at his disposal. He’d be on the news later that day and he’d have already circulated Montague Price’s picture to the press. It’s what Poe would have done. Close the net. Leave Price thinking there were eyes and ears everywhere. That he had nowhere left to hide. He might be intelligent as far as psychotic lunatics went, but Montague Price had no idea he was about to become the most famous man in the country.

  Poe walked to the bar. They all deserved a drink. While he waited for the barman to take his order, he turned to look at his friends. They were laughing and joking. Enjoying a job well done.

  So why didn’t he feel the same?

  He knew what it was. Like a pea under his mattress, Carmichael’s money was bothering him.

  The amount withdrawn from his secret bank account when he closed it, and the amount found in his official bank account didn’t add up. The six men on the cruise had given Carmichael eight hundred thousand pounds. Only five hundred thousand had been found. Not counting the nine thousand pounds donated to Seven Pines, almost three hundred thousand pounds was still unaccounted for.

  And there was still no reason why his name had been carved onto a victim’s chest.

  Poe didn’t like loose ends. They were untidy. Sometimes they unravelled.

  While everyone else celebrated, Poe brooded and pondered.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Poe and Reid stayed up late. Flynn left early to begin writing SCAS’s report. Bradshaw stayed until one a.m. but eventually cried off, saying she had stuff to be getting on with.

  Reid raised his eyebrows after she’d gone. ‘What stuff does she have to do at this time of night?’

  ‘Computer games, I expect,’ Poe replied.

  Reid decided to stay the night. He booked a room and they drank whisky and smoked cigars until the early hours. They discussed how Gamble would handle the search for Montague Price. Earlier, they’d all watched the ten o’clock news where Gamble had made the first of what Poe was sure would be many public appeals. Although he’d privately thanked SCAS, it must have slipped his mind to do it publicly. If you believed what he said, it was only because of his determined and unwavering leadership, along with the extraordinary skills of his detectives, that the breakthrough had been made.

  Oh well, Poe had never been in it for the glory.

  A late night and a bellyful of whisky did not make for a pleasant morning. Edgar woke him at eight. His look said, ‘A piss, breakfast and a walk, please.’

  He groaned out of bed and threw open the front door. The harsh stab of sunlight he’d expected didn’t happen. Instead, thick tendrils of fog crept into the croft. Putting on some old trainers, he dawdled outside to see how bad it was. The fog at Shap was legendary and could trap the fells in a thick blanket at any time of the year. Today’s was a beauty; like looking out of a 747’s window as it flew through cloud. Edgar ran off and disappeared in the vast whiteness. Visibility was down to a handful of yards; like a giant eraser, the fog had eradicated everything from view. He couldn’t see Shap Wells. He could barely see his own hand.

  Poe wasn’t leaving the house until it cleared; it was too dangerous. He got a few slices of bacon frying and toasted some bread. Edgar would find his way back by smell.

  His phone rang. It was Flynn.

  ‘Morning, boss.’

  ‘They’ve got him.’

  Poe’s stomach flipped, and it was nothing to do with his hangover. ‘Price?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘They didn’t catch him. He walked into Carlisle police station with his solicitor three-quarters of an hour ago.’

  Thrown by the unlikely scenario of the Immolation Man handing himself in, Poe could manage no more than, ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Flynn.

  ‘What’s he saying?’

  ‘Nothing yet. He’s still locked in a room with his solicitor. Gamble wants to know if you want to be there when he starts talking?’

  Poe didn’t, and luckily he had the perfect excuse; every Cumbrian knew of the Shap fog. Gamble would understand.

  ‘It is a bit thick this morning,’ Flynn agreed after he’d politely declined. ‘I’ll go and represent our interests. I think I can just about make out the road from here.’

  ‘OK, boss. Keep me updated?’

  ‘Will do.’

  * * *

  After his breakfast, he sat outside with a coffee while Edgar exercised. Around 10 a.m. the sun began burning through the fog and Poe reckoned it would be safe to have a wander over to the hotel to see if Reid had surfaced.

  He was halfway there when his phone rang. It was an 020 London number. He answered and the director of intelligence, Edward van Zyl, bade him a good morning.

  ‘Who are you speaking to, Poe?’ van Zyl asked.

  Poe stopped, looked at his handset in confusion before replying. ‘Er . . . you, sir. Director of Intelligence van Zyl.’

  Van Zyl replied, ‘You must be mistaken, Poe. The last time we spoke was just before you went on leave.’

  ‘OK . . .’

  ‘You’ve heard Price is in custody?’

  ‘I have, sir.’

  ‘What’s your take?’

  Poe composed himself before answering. ‘The discrepancy in the money worries me, sir. Best part of three hundred grand just disappeared.’

  There was a pause before van Zyl spoke again. ‘Do you think Price is the killer, Poe?’

  Poe took a moment. ‘It’s possible, sir.’

  ‘Only possible?’

  ‘There might be physical evidence, sir, but I haven’t found a motive. It might have been over money but, if it were, why wait until now? I think we all need to wait until he’s been interviewed, sir.’

  ‘Hmm . . . That’s certainly an option, Poe. Have you spoken to DI Flynn about our trip to the minister’s office?’

  ‘Not yet, sir.’

  ‘Well, don’t. That list you got from the bank has set the cat among the proverbial pigeons, I can tell you. There are people of influence down here who are getting anxious about what else you might uncover. They want this finished quickly and quietly, Poe.’

  Poe couldn’t work out if he was being threatened or encouraged.

  Van Zyl continued. ‘Quentin Carmichael threw more than one party and some of the men who attended them now hold positions in government. They don’t want to be dragged into anything. Some very senior civil servants have reviewed the case file and have decided that now Montague Price is in custody, everyone should focus on ensuring he is convicted. They’re putting
pressure on the CPS to do exactly that, and anyone who tries to stand in their way will be crushed. The official line will be that Quentin Carmichael was an early victim of Price.’

  ‘That’s what they say, is it, sir?’

  ‘It is, Poe. Despite the concerns we share, Montague Price is the man they want. A convenient full stop.’

  The director didn’t add anything for a few moments. Eventually he said, ‘But that’s not the way we do things is it, Poe?’

  ‘No, sir, it is not.’

  ‘And now that the case is finished and SCAS are no longer involved, I’m sure you’ll be keen to resume your leave.’

  ‘Yes, sir, and thank you.’

  ‘Why are you thanking me, Poe? We haven’t spoken for ages, remember . . .’

  Bradshaw was up, headphones on, eyes glued to her tablet. She waved when she saw him. There was no sign of Reid. Poe got his room number from a porter and gave him a knock.

  ‘Piss off.’

  Poe knocked again.

  The door opened and Reid peered through the crack with bloodshot eyes. Poe hoped he felt better than he looked.

  ‘Come on,’ Poe said, ‘I’ll buy you something to eat.’

  ‘I’m not getting up.’ His breath stank of stale whisky.

  ‘Montague Price is in custody. Handed himself in this morning.’

  Reid’s red eyes snapped open. ‘Give me ten minutes.’

  ‘Take fifteen,’ Poe replied, ‘and brush your teeth.’

  Twenty minutes later, a freshly showered Reid met them in the restaurant. Bradshaw was still on her tablet. Poe didn’t know if she was fighting crime or goblins; her concentration level seemed to be the same for both. Poe poured hot drinks for everyone and threw Reid a box of paracetamol.

  Reid dry-crunched a couple of tablets while he waited for his coffee to cool. For several moments he stared into space. He was quiet. Far too quiet for a detective just after their only suspect had been apprehended. He turned to Poe and said, ‘Does any of this feel right to you?’

  Reid was a great cop with even better instincts. With them both feeling nervous about Price, someone should be thinking about what to do if things didn’t go the way Gamble wanted. Van Zyl had told him to stay on leave. He wondered if that were premature. Gamble might authorise some ancillary investigating. It would need to be done anyway and Poe wanted to keep moving.

  ‘There are two possibilities as far as I can see,’ Reid said. ‘Either Price is being set up by the real killer or—’

  ‘Or he is the real killer and he thinks he can beat it,’ Poe finished for him. ‘And if he thinks he can beat it, then we need to assume that he can beat it. Either way, I don’t think we’re finished.’

  ‘What are we going to do then?’

  ‘Something we should have done yesterday,’ Poe replied. ‘We’re going to pay Hilary Swift a visit.’

  Reid looked worried. ‘I don’t know about that, Poe. We can’t question someone who may end up being a key prosecution witness. We should at least wait until Price has been interviewed.’

  Poe stared at him.

  Reid sighed. ‘I’ll call Gamble. It’s his investigation at the end of the day.’

  He was right, of course. It was the SIO’s call, not his. ‘I’ll call him,’ Poe compromised.

  ‘Go ahead. He’ll tell you to piss off, though.’

  Poe moved to the window to get a better signal and called Gamble. He must have been holding his mobile, as he answered immediately. ‘Sir, I know SCAS are no longer actively involved but DS Reid and I thought we’d go and speak to Hilary Swift.’

  ‘Why, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Background information. Tidy a couple of loose ends, that sort of thing. She might not have been there on the night but she probably knew Price was going to be there.’

  ‘Wait until we’ve spoken to Price, Poe. He’s in with his solicitor now trying to construct a deal.’

  ‘A deal?’

  ‘Yeah, can you believe it?’ he replied. ‘But he’s entitled to try, I suppose. We’ll listen to what he has to say, then the CPS will put him away for the rest of his life.’

  ‘Hopefully, sir,’ Poe said.

  ‘You’re not convinced, are you?’

  ‘Like you say, sir, we need to listen to what he says.’

  ‘Despite our differences, Poe, I know we wouldn’t have him without you,’ Gamble said.

  Poe didn’t need his arse wiped; he needed permission to continue investigating. But he had to play the game.

  ‘Kind of you to say, sir, but all I did was come in with a fresh pair of eyes. You’d have got there in the end.’

  ‘Go and see her, then. But take Reid and you’re not to do it under caution. Background questions only. If there’s anything we can use against Price, I want to know immediately.’

  Poe thanked him and returned to Reid and Bradshaw. ‘We’re on,’ he said.

  Reid looked at him. ‘He said yes? You won’t be offended if I check?’

  ‘I will be offended if you check, but do it anyway.’

  Reid waved him off. ‘I trust you, Poe.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We’d better have another brew before we set off. Neither of us will be fit to drive yet.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Reid drove. He said he didn’t want to be in the passenger seat feeling as rough as he did. Poe didn’t argue.

  Despite the children’s home being sold years ago, a quick check of the electoral roll told them that Hilary Swift still lived in Seven Pines. Poe was surprised they found it. The satnav said they’d arrived when they were still three miles away – one of the joys of living in Cumbria – but Reid called Ambleside police station and got directions.

  Seven Pines was located between Ambleside and Grasmere and was a magnificent building. Detached, full of character and the size of a small hotel. The external wood was painted yellow – for some reason traditional Lake District houses all seemed to have brightly painted wooden beams. It was tucked up a small lane, and had views of Rydal Water.

  Poe’s antennae started twitching. He looked across at Reid and saw the same sense of unease. They were both aware of how much property cost in the area. It was on a par with London.

  Before they got out of the car, Poe sent Bradshaw a text. They waited until she replied and when she did Poe grunted in satisfaction.

  He knew how to start the interview.

  They’d called ahead so Hilary Swift was expecting them, although they hadn’t told her what it was about. Poe and Reid walked up the immaculately raked shale path and knocked on the door. It opened immediately. They presented their identification and she studied each one carefully.

  Hilary Swift had the type of accent that grated. An affected upper-class drawl that she’d perfected over the years. Poe suspected he knew more about her than she wanted him to know. She’d been born and brought up in Maryport, although if anyone ever asked, she’d rewritten her history and claimed a more upmarket Cockermouth heritage. Poe was all for people bettering themselves – it was how the human race advanced – but snobbery wasn’t the way to do it.

  She was wearing a knee-length skirt and matching jacket, and her hair was a perfect Margaret Thatcher rip-off. Poe knew she was in her sixties but in questionable lighting she could have passed for fifty.

  Inviting them inside with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, she guided them towards the lounge. It was clearly her showstopper room. The view out of the bay windows was stunning. Through a tunnel of trees, the eyes were guided to distant views of the lake. The interior wasn’t in tune with the exterior, though. Where the outside was governed by National Park regulations, the inside was proof that good taste couldn’t be bought. It looked like a bottle of Pepto-Bismol had been mixed with glitter then sprayed everywhere. And the hideous colour theme aside, Swift didn’t believe in clean lines or the minimalist approach to interior design either; Poe had never seen a room with so much furniture. Innumerable tables were heaped with lamps and bowls and clocks. T
he walls were jammed with bookcases and shelving units. They were adorned with expensive-looking tat. Her philosophy seemed to be, if it shone, she should own it.

  Poe was scared to sit down in case he knocked something over.

  A social worker’s salary didn’t come close to paying for all this.

  ‘I can’t give you long, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘My grandchildren came back from Australia with me, and my daughter follows in a fortnight. We’re having a family holiday. They’re upstairs, playing nicely for now, but I don’t know how long that will last. I’ll get us some tea.’

  ‘I’ll give you a hand, Mrs Swift,’ Reid said.

  He knew Reid had gone with her so that Poe could have a nosey. He approached the window and counted the pines. There were five. He was still looking for the other two when Reid and Swift returned with a fully laden tray. She saw where he was looking.

  ‘Storm Henry, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘We lost two of them in February 2016.’

  He’d long been of the view that if you wanted people to take storms seriously, they needed names like Roof Wrecker or Bastard rather than Henry or Desmond. No wonder the public were constantly surprised by them.

  ‘Can you tell me how you came to live here, Mrs Swift?’ Poe asked.

  ‘Can I rephrase that question for you, Sergeant Poe?’ she smiled. ‘Because what I think you meant to ask was, “How can I afford to live here?” Am I correct?’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘When the charity closed the home, I was given first refusal on the sale of the property.’

  ‘I was more interested in—’

  ‘In how I paid for it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Poe said. The text from Bradshaw had confirmed there was no outstanding mortgage. Swift owned Seven Pines outright.

  A flash of temper lit her eyes. ‘My late husband. He knew when and where to invest our money, Sergeant Poe.’

  Although he’d read about her husband – he’d worked for some accountancy firm in Penrith – it was a vague answer. Accountants were well paid but they weren’t massively well paid. He decided to leave it for now. A noise from upstairs was followed by the sound of a child crying. Swift left her seat and walked to the door. She raised her voice. ‘Annabel! Jeremy! Grandma’s downstairs talking. Can you keep it down, please?’