The Puppet Show

by M. W. Craven

  ‘Smile all you want, Poe. Van Zyl’s made a mistake reappointing you. You’ll fuck up again and he’ll go the same way as the last director.’ He turned to Flynn. ‘And when he’s gone there are going to be some big changes around here, DI Flynn.’

  Without a further word, he left the office. King of the token gesture, he couldn’t resist slamming the door.

  Flynn had arranged a meeting with Human Resources; the sooner Poe could be formally reinstated, the sooner they could both get back up to Cumbria. A senior HR officer was on his way down to the SCAS building. They took a seat at the small conference table and waited.

  Poe took the time to look at what Flynn had done with his old office. Before he’d sneaked in, he’d noticed the highly polished brass plate with Flynn’s name. Poe had had a sheet of A4 with his details written in flip-board marker pen. Blue, if he remembered correctly.

  The chaos in which he’d worked had been replaced by a sense of calm and order. Blackstone’s police manuals were lined up on the shelf. Right at the end was her well-thumbed copy of the Senior Investigating Officers’ Handbook. Poe had owned a copy of the pocket-sized book – all detectives did – but he’d discarded it after reading it once. It was useful but unremarkable. It led senior detectives through logical and thorough investigations. The problem was that everyone ended up investigating crimes the same way, and while he agreed there had to be standards, the handbook didn’t help with catching the extraordinary killers.

  He scanned the rest of the office. All very corporate. Nothing personal on show.

  When he’d worked at SCAS, the clear desk policy was something that happened to other people. Flynn’s desk was predictably uncluttered. A computer and a notepad with a clean page on top. A cup with the NCA logo was filled with pens and pencils.

  Her phone rang. She pressed the speaker function and answered it. Diane said, ‘Ashley Barrett from HR is here.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Flynn said. ‘Send him in.’

  Barrett came in smiling, suited and booted, carrying a brown leather briefcase. He was a tall, thin man. He sat at the conference table.

  ‘Sorry to be curt, Ash,’ Flynn said, ‘but can we do this quickly? We need to get back up to Cumbria.’

  He nodded, glanced at Poe and removed some documents from his briefcase. He placed them on the table in front of him. He coughed gently before launching into a pre-prepared speech. It sounded as though he was talking on autopilot. ‘As you know, DS Poe, suspension is considered a neutral act and it is up to the organisation to decide whether the suspension remains justified. Yesterday, Director of Intelligence Edward van Zyl decided that, despite the IPCC case remaining active, the end of the internal investigation means your suspension should be lifted.’ Barrett searched through his paperwork. Handing Poe a one-sheet document, he said, ‘This is confirmation in writing. Can you please sign at the bottom?’

  Poe did. It had been a long time since he’d had to write his ‘work’ signature – a careless scrawl he wouldn’t have dared use on a cheque. It felt strange but in a comforting way. He slid the document back across the table.

  The desk phone rang and Flynn got up to answer it. While she spoke quietly, Barrett busied himself with asking Poe if he wanted employee assistance like counselling, or refresher training on the IT system. Poe answered no to everything, as they both knew he would.

  With another box ticked in the big book of HR rules, Barrett got down to the good stuff. From his briefcase he removed a succession of things that Poe considered the tools of his trade. He handed Poe a work mobile; an encrypted BlackBerry. Barrett explained it was pre-programmed with some contact details he might need and his online calendar had been synced to it. It meant anyone with authorised access to his e-diary could enter appointments. Poe made a mental note to disable it as soon as he found out how. The BlackBerry was internet enabled; he’d be able to surf the web, receive his secure emails and text messages. He could even make phone calls with it.

  ‘The BlackBerry has the Protect app installed and it’s switched on,’ Barrett said.

  Poe looked at him blankly.

  ‘It means its location can be logged from a website.’

  ‘You’re spying on me?’

  ‘Deputy Director Hanson insisted, I’m afraid.’

  Poe slipped the BlackBerry into his pocket. He would disable that later as well.

  Barrett gave him a small, black leather wallet that contained Poe’s warrant card and NCA ID.

  Poe casually opened it, checked it was the right one, then put it in his inside pocket. He felt whole again.

  It was time to get back to work.

  He glanced over at Flynn. She was frowning as she listened to whoever was on the other end of the phone.

  ‘Since you’ve been gone, Detective Sergeant Flynn has been promoted into the temporary detective inspector role at SCAS,’ Barrett said. ‘Director van Zyl has made it clear that this is to remain the case. The conditions of your suspension being lifted are that you will return to work in your substantive post of detective sergeant. In effect, you will report to DI Flynn.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ Poe said.

  Flynn put down the phone and turned to Poe. Her face was ashen. ‘There’s been another one.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘Where?’

  ‘A hill walker stumbled into him somewhere near a town called Cockermouth. You know it?’

  Poe nodded. It was a small market town in west Cumbria. He was surprised the Immolation Man had already changed his MO. ‘You sure?’

  Flynn said she was, and then asked why.

  ‘There aren’t any stone circles in Cockermouth. Not to my knowledge anyway.’

  She checked her notepad. ‘Cockermouth. That’s what the SIO said.’

  Poe stood. ‘Let’s get going then.’ It was getting serious; if the fourth victim had just been found, then he was next on the conveyor belt.

  Barrett said, ‘I’m supposed to give you a reorientation tour before you start . . .’ He withered in front of their combined looks. ‘. . . but I suppose under the circumstances it can wait.’

  ‘Good man,’ Poe said. ‘I want to take an analyst with us. Someone who can do a bit of everything, I have an idea where to start and there’ll be a lot of data mining to do. Who’s the best we have?’

  Flynn hesitated and her face coloured. ‘Jonathan Pierce.’

  ‘And he’s the best, is he?’

  ‘Well, officially Tilly Bradshaw is the best. She has a skill set like no other here. She’s the one who found your name in all that medical data.’

  Poe thought he’d recognised the name. ‘What’s the problem then?’

  ‘She’s one of our special people. She refuses to leave the office.’

  Poe smiled. ‘What you need, DI Flynn, is a sergeant . . .’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Poe marched into the open-plan office and shouted for Tilly Bradshaw. A small thin woman stood up. She looked shy and bookish, a typical cube-dweller. She pouted and sat back down when she saw who’d shouted for her.

  He turned and spoke to Barrett. ‘Can you stay there a moment, Ash? I might need some help.’

  Poe had loved being a sergeant. In hindsight he shouldn’t have taken the temporary inspector role. It came with more management responsibility than he was comfortable with. He’d been good at being a sergeant and by the looks of things SCAS had been without one for too long . . .

  ‘Miss Bradshaw, my office now.’

  Bradshaw slouched along to the sergeant’s office. As it had recently been Flynn’s office, it was scarily tidy. Poe sat behind the desk.

  Bradshaw didn’t shut the door behind her and that was fine. The unit would do well to pay attention to the new way of working. He gestured to the seat in front of the desk and she perched on the end.

  Poe studied her; 90 per cent of being a sergeant was managing people. She wore no makeup and behind her gold-coloured Harry Potter glasses were grey, myopic eyes. She was fish-belly pal
e. The front of her brightly coloured T-shirt showed the logo of the all-girl Ghostbusters remake. Her canvas trousers were khaki with large side pockets. Cargo pants, he thought they were called. Her fingers were long and fine-boned. The nails were chewed to the quick. Despite her earlier show of defiance, she looked apprehensive.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’

  She nodded. ‘Your name is Washington Poe. You’re thirty-eight years old and you were born in Kendal, Cumbria. You transferred from Cumbria Constabulary to SCAS and it is believed that a mistake you made led directly to the torture and death of a suspect. The IPCC are investigating you. You’re on suspension.’

  Poe stared at her. His piss-taking radar wasn’t beeping; she was being serious. This was how she talked. ‘Wrong. As of,’ he said, checking his watch, ‘five minutes ago, I’m Detective Sergeant Washington Poe. And from now on, if I ask you to do something, you do it. Are we clear?’

  ‘DI Stephanie Flynn says I’m only to do what she says.’

  ‘Did she now?’

  ‘She did, Detective Sergeant Washington Poe.’

  ‘Poe’s fine.’

  ‘She did, Poe.’

  ‘I meant you should call me Sergea . . . actually . . . you can call me what you want,’ Poe said, realising he didn’t have the energy for a meaningless discussion over forms of address. ‘And why did DI Flynn tell you that?’

  ‘Sometimes people like to joke with me. They tell me to do things I’m not supposed to,’ she replied, pushing her glasses back up her nose and tucking an errant lock of wispy brown hair behind her ear.

  A flickering of understanding crept up on him. ‘OK. But I’m your new sergeant so you do have to do what I tell you to do,’ he said.

  She stared at him.

  Eventually Poe said, ‘Wait here.’

  He walked into Flynn’s office. She was talking to Barrett. ‘That was quick,’ she said.

  Poe could have sworn she was suppressing a smile.

  ‘Can you pop into my office and tell Miss Bradshaw that she is also to do what I tell her?’

  ‘Of course.’ She followed him into his office.

  ‘Tilly, this is Washington Poe and he’s our new sergeant.’

  ‘He wants to be called Poe,’ she replied.

  Flynn glanced at Poe, who shrugged in a what-you-gonna-do kind of way.

  ‘Well whatever, you’re to do what he says as well now. OK?’

  Bradshaw nodded.

  ‘But no one else, Tilly,’ Flynn added before leaving them alone.

  ‘Now we’ve got that sorted, Tilly, I’d like you to go home, pack a suitcase and meet me and DI Flynn back here in an hour,’ Poe said. ‘We’re going on a road trip for a few days.’

  ‘I can’t,’ she said immediately.

  Poe sighed. ‘Wait here.’

  A minute later he was back with a NCA standard contract of employment. He slid it across the desk.

  ‘Show me where it says that, because all I can see is the paragraph that says, “There may be occasions where you are required to work unsocial hours and away from your office base.”’

  Bradshaw didn’t look at it.

  Poe continued, ‘I certainly can’t see anything that says Tilly Bradshaw is exempt.’

  Bradshaw closed her eyes and said, ‘Section three, paragraph two, subsection seven states that discretionary benefits – in my case not working away from the office – can be considered a binding term of an employment contract if well-established over a period of time. The legal definition is “customs and practices”.’ She reopened her eyes and looked at him.

  Poe was vaguely aware of the HR rule that said if someone had been doing something for a long time it could be considered part of their job, even if it was in direct contradiction to their contract of employment. As stupid as it sounded, people had been awarded money in employment tribunals on that rule.

  He stared at her open-mouthed. ‘You memorised the employment manual?’

  Bradshaw frowned. ‘I read it when I signed it.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Eleven months, fourteen days ago.’

  Poe stood up again. ‘Wait here, please.’

  He walked round to Flynn’s office.

  ‘Jonathan Pierce will be happy to get out of the office for a few days,’ she said.

  He wasn’t giving up so easily. ‘Is she all there?’

  ‘She’s fine,’ she replied. ‘She’s had a sheltered upbringing and can sometimes be taken advantage of. She’s very literal and tends to believe everything she’s told. As much as I can, I keep a close eye on her. When you learn how to handle her she’s the most important asset you’ll have.’

  ‘But she’s not field ready?’

  ‘She has an IQ close to two hundred but probably can’t boil an egg—’

  ‘Ash, is there any legal reason why I can’t take her?’ Poe asked.

  ‘If she claims customs and practices, we’d defend it and she’d lose.’

  Poe looked at him. He waited for a yes or no answer.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing in employment law that offers her any protection.’

  ‘That’s settled then,’ he said, ‘and this time last year, I couldn’t boil an egg.’

  Poe walked back into his office and sat down. He steepled his fingers and leaned forwards to face Bradshaw. He’d try something Flynn had tried on him the day before and hope Bradshaw wasn’t in the mood to bluff him. ‘You have two choices. One, you go home and pack a bag for a Cumbrian spring, or two, I accept your notice right now.’

  Bradshaw looked even more nervous than before.

  I’m missing something, Poe thought. ‘What is it, Tilly? Why can’t you leave the office?’

  Eventually she stood, her eyes brimming with tears. She stomped out of his office without a backwards look.

  Poe watched as she made her way to her desk. She got to her workstation and slumped in her chair. She put on some headphones and began typing.

  He followed her over. Perhaps she hadn’t understood the urgency.

  ‘Miss Bradshaw, DI Flynn tells me you’re the best we have. I need you up in Cumbria. You’re no use to me behind a desk.’

  ‘Duh,’ she said, ‘what do you think I’m doing?’

  An arrogant-looking young man laughed insolently. Poe gave him a look that would’ve withered a thistle. He read what Bradshaw had typed into Google’s search bar: What to pack for a Cumbrian spring?

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding me?’ he said.

  She looked up. It was clear she wasn’t.

  There were no personal items around her workspace. Flynn had tidied up the office since he’d left, but everyone else had managed to personalise their workspaces. Mugs with ‘World’s Best Dad’, cheaply framed photographs of partners and kids, the odd risqué calendar. Bradshaw’s was empty.

  ‘Have you just moved to this desk, Tilly?’

  She looked confused. ‘No. I have been here almost twelve months, Poe.’

  ‘Where are all your things then?’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘You know, your mug, a cuddly toy, a novelty pen,’ he replied. ‘In other words, where’s all your shit?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I used to bring things in but people took them for a joke. I never got them back.’

  Poe’s heart missed a beat. ‘Look, just pack as if you’re going away for a few days: a change of clothes, some toiletries, that type of thing. I also need you to bring all the gear you need to catch a serial killer,’ he said. ‘And be quick. There’s been a fourth murder.’

  ‘You don’t understand how much trouble I’m in,’ she muttered.

  An hour later, Poe understood.

  Bradshaw had left to pack – Flynn had needed to authorise a taxi as Bradshaw didn’t have a car and her mother usually dropped her off and collected her – when Diane, the receptionist, walked over. She was smiling and Poe already recognised that as a bad sign.

  ‘Phone call for you,’ she said. ‘I�
��ll put it through to your office.’

  ‘DS Poe,’ he said when he picked up the phone. It felt strange to have a rank in front of his name again. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Hello, Sergeant Poe, this is Matilda’s mother.’

  There was a pause and Poe filled it. ‘I’m sorry but are you sure you have the right number? I don’t know any Matilda.’

  ‘You’ll know her as Tilly. Tilly Bradshaw,’ she said. ‘My daughter’s just been on the phone saying she’s had to go home to pack a suitcase but she couldn’t find the tent. She wants me to leave work to go and buy one. She also said she’d need some canned goods and a tin opener. She wants me to bring it all to the office. You’ve got her awfully excited, Sergeant Poe.’

  ‘A tent . . . canned goods . . . I’m sorry, Mrs Bradshaw, but I’ve got no idea what she’s talking about. She’ll be staying at the same hotel as the rest of the team. I’d assumed that was obvious.’

  ‘Well, that makes a lot more sense, I suppose. But why is she going up to Cumbria at all? It sounds dreadful up there.’

  ‘Hey, I’m from Cumbria!’ he protested.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. But it does sound awfully bleak.’

  Poe was about to reply, ‘That’s because it fucking is’, but thought better of it. He settled for, ‘It’s Cumbria, not Baghdad, Mrs Bradshaw. She’s going to be assisting on a murder investigation.’

  ‘And it won’t be dangerous?’

  ‘Not unless the Immolation Man decides to burn the hotel down.’

  ‘And is that likely?’

  ‘No, I was joking,’ Poe said. At least he knew where Bradshaw got her social skills from. ‘She’ll be perfectly safe. She’s coming up for analytical support only, I doubt she’ll even leave the hotel.’

  That seemed to mollify her.

  ‘OK, I’ll allow it,’ she said, ‘on one condition.’

  Poe bit back a sarcastic response. He thought about Bradshaw, worrying because she didn’t think she’d be allowed to go. She hadn’t been deliberately awkward at all. ‘Name it.’

  ‘She rings home every night.’