The Puppet Show

by M. W. Craven

  Unless . . .

  The thought had first occurred to him as he was driving back from Carlisle with Flynn. In the red mist of a lying witness and an awkward boss, it had seemed the logical thing to do. In the cooling evening air, it seemed anything but.

  He knew some people thought his reputation for following the evidence wherever it took him was because he felt he held some sort of moral high ground. That he had a calling to a purer version of the truth that was unattainable to other, lesser, cops. The truth was simpler – if he thought he was right, the self-destructive element to his personality took over. It frequently allowed the devil on his shoulder to shout down his better angel. And at the minute, the angel couldn’t get a word in edgeways . . .

  His face turned to granite. If he didn’t do it, who would? Sometimes someone had to step up. Do the unpalatable so others didn’t have to.

  He reached into his pocket, made sure his mobile had a signal and dialled a number. Reid answered on the third ring.

  ‘Kylian, I need you to do me a favour and you can’t mention this to anyone.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Poe made his way back to Herdwick Croft. He got another pie, split it with Edgar again, and then sat down to wait. It didn’t take long. Half an hour later Reid called him. He had what Poe needed and he told Reid why he wanted it. He made a note, thanked him and hung up.

  Leaving the BlackBerry on, he scrolled down until he found van Zyl’s number. He tossed up a few scenarios and came down on the side of simply telling the truth.

  Van Zyl answered on the first ring and Poe told him what he wanted. The director didn’t waste time on amateur dramatics – he was a wily man and still a great cop. He asked Poe some searching questions and he answered them as honestly as he could.

  When he was finished, van Zyl went silent. After a few moments, the director spoke. ‘Are you sure, Poe?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Van Zyl grunted. ‘But you’re as sure as you can be?’

  How sure was he? Was it an educated guess or was it one last desperate grab by a man out of options? He mentally reviewed what he knew.

  ‘Poe. . .’ van Zyl growled.

  ‘Sir,’ he said finally. ‘I am as sure as I can be.’

  ‘And there’s no other way?’

  ‘I don’t believe so, sir.’

  ‘Fine,’ he sighed. ‘Give me what you have.’

  ‘It’s a twelve-page form, sir,’ Poe said. ‘I’ll fill it in, then email it to you.’

  ‘You’re at home, right?’

  ‘I am, sir.’

  ‘By the time you get to that hotel of yours to use their wi-fi, you’ll have wasted half an hour,’ van Zyl said. ‘I assume you want this to happen sooner rather than later?’

  Despite being on the phone, Poe nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I’ll fill it in then. You need my signature anyway, and if you want this expedited, I’m going to need that extra half hour to get the right people out of bed.’

  ‘What do you need from me, sir?’

  ‘I suggest you get some sleep, Poe. I’ll call you if I need additional information. Otherwise you can expect a copy of the fax to go to the hotel.’

  It was only after he’d hung up that Poe realised that van Zyl hadn’t referred to Flynn once.

  Poe was glad. He hadn’t had to lie.

  And although it would be tricky, if everything went in his favour, he might get away without anyone else finding out.

  Two hours later and Poe hadn’t heard anything more. He decided to go to the hotel and wait. He had a stomach full of nervous energy and the pages of the novel he was reading weren’t registering. Sleep was out of the question.

  He wasn’t expecting the fax that early but he could check if Bradshaw was still up. If she were, she might be willing to find some dirt on Sharples. He hadn’t finished with that prick yet.

  He put on his coat and said to Edgar, ‘You want to go and see Tilly?’

  The spaniel’s tail started wagging. Apparently, he did.

  * * *

  Poe told the receptionist he was waiting for a fax. He asked her to ring Bradshaw’s room. She wasn’t answering. He checked the clock in the office. It was ten o’clock and he suspected she was asleep with the phone off the hook; just because he was an insomniac it didn’t mean everyone else was.

  He was about to see if he could beg a coffee when Darren, one of the hotel’s barmen, ran up to the desk.

  ‘Where’s the duty manager?’ he asked.

  ‘Dealing with guests in the Bath House,’ the receptionist replied. ‘Why?’

  The Old Bath House had been exactly what it sounded like: a bathhouse. A detached building at the front of the hotel, it was now used for guests who wanted additional privacy.

  Darren looked agitated.

  ‘What’s up?’ the receptionist asked.

  ‘There’s some trouble in the bar.’

  Poe didn’t work for the local constabulary any more but he was still a cop at heart.

  ‘Show me,’ he said. His tone didn’t invite discussion. He followed the barman through to the main bar area. It was old-fashioned, a bit worn, resembled a working men’s club and attracted a strange mix of clientele. When Poe was having a drink in the hotel he tended to use the smaller bar to the left of reception. He only used the main bar when he needed the free wi-fi.

  ‘I’ve asked them to leave her alone, sir,’ Darren said, ‘but they told me to “fuck off”.’

  Poe looked where he was pointing. His breathing quickened. The animal inside him stirred. And Bradshaw was just starting to come out of her shell . . .

  She was seated near the window, trying to play a game on her laptop; Poe recognised the headphones she’d slip on when she conversed with other players. Three men surrounded her. They were wearing nametags. He hated conference goers; as soon as they were away from home they seemed to think the rules of society no longer applied, and these clowns had clearly been drinking all day. As Poe watched, one of them lifted the headphones off Bradshaw’s head and whispered something into her ear.

  ‘Stop it!’ she said, snatching them. Her eyes were wide as she stared at her laptop. The man who’d removed her headphones did so again. Bradshaw again took them back. All three men laughed.

  Another man pushed a bottle of lager to her mouth and tried to encourage her to take a drink. She shook her head and it spilt down her T-shirt. The men laughed again.

  ‘Shall I call the police, Mr Poe?’

  ‘I’ve got this, Darren.’

  He walked over. One of the men noticed him. He whispered something to the others and they turned. All three looked like they’d been caught wearing their mother’s knickers. Bradshaw looked small and fragile yet . . . there was steel. She wasn’t crying and she wasn’t screaming for help. She was facing up to them.

  ‘What’s up, boys?’ Poe asked. His voice was calm but there was no mistaking his intent. When Bradshaw saw him, he knew the look of relief on her face would stay with him forever.

  The man who’d been trying to take Bradshaw’s headphones said, ‘Just having a bit of fun with Mrs Mouse here.’ He had a southern accent and was slurring.

  Poe ignored him. ‘You OK, Tilly?’

  She nodded. Her face was paler than usual but she was bearing up. She had guts, he’d give her that. He’d known cops who’d have bottled it by now.

  ‘Tilly? How come this streak of piss knows your name but you won’t tell old Karl?’ the drunk asked. ‘It’s almost as if you don’t like me. I don’t like it when people don’t like me.’

  Jesus . . .

  ‘Why don’t you go and wait by the bar, Tilly? I’ll be with you in a second,’ Poe said.

  Bradshaw tried to stand but the man who called himself Karl put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her down. ‘You’re going nowhere, darling.’

  The animal inside Poe got to its feet. It cracked its knuckles and rolled its shoulders . . . He knew he could stop the situation from escalating by
producing his NCA ID card. He also knew he wasn’t going to do that; some lessons have to be delivered physically. ‘Everything’s fine, Tilly,’ he said. ‘These men are about to leave.’

  ‘Are we now?’ Karl said. He stood to emphasise his height and bulk. He grinned when he saw Poe sizing him up.

  ‘Why don’t you fucking jog on, mate?’ he said. ‘I’m not leaving until I’ve found out whether this frigid bitch spits or swallows.’ He lifted an empty bottle by the neck. The threat was clear.

  Poe turned to face him but he was speaking to all three. ‘Put down your drinks. Leave now. Don’t ever come back.’ His voice was a growl.

  The man who was comparatively sober – Poe could see a nametag with the words ‘Team Leader’ – said, ‘Come on, let’s go.’ Poe knew he’d recognised trouble even if his drunken colleagues hadn’t.

  ‘Sit down!’ Karl hissed. ‘We’re going nowhere. I’m teaching this northern monkey a lesson.’

  Poe smiled politely.

  ‘Look, you cunt, you’re nausing me right up. Fuck off.’

  Poe continued to say nothing. Smiling.

  Karl’s forehead was now beaded with sweat.

  ‘This is your last chance,’ Karl said. ‘Just walk away.’

  Last chance? Whatever happened to the first chance?

  ‘I’m counting to five,’ Poe said. ‘That’s how long you have.’

  ‘Karl!’ said one of his friends. ‘Let’s go!’

  Karl was past the point of no return. ‘And what happens at five?’

  ‘One,’ Poe said.

  ‘I’m shitting myself,’ he sneered.

  ‘I know,’ said Poe. ‘Two.’

  Men like Karl seldom had a Plan B.

  Poe said, ‘Three . . . four . . .’

  Karl’s brow furrowed. Poe had backed him into a corner. He was going to fight.

  Good.

  Poe might have been giving away height and weight but he’d been a Cumbrian cop for almost a decade. Gutter fighting came easily, and he knew what to do when someone was threatening to glass him. With muscles moving ahead of his mind, Poe grabbed Karl’s hand. Karl tightened his grip.

  Big mistake.

  Poe wasn’t trying to disarm him. He wanted him holding it. He lifted Karl’s hand then slammed it onto the table.

  The bottle shattered.

  Shards of glass flew across the table. Apart from Bradshaw lifting her laptop out of the way, no one moved. The few people left in the bar looked across. They went back to their drinks when Poe glared at them.

  Poe continued to grip Karl’s hand. He began trembling. His expression changed from lager-fuelled rage to agonising pain. His face whitened. He began to whimper.

  Breaking a bottle to use as a weapon isn’t like it is in the movies. Banging it against a table to leave a nice smooth neck to grip, and a bunch of deadly shards to stab someone with doesn’t work in real life. As Karl had just found out, glass is brittle and unpredictable. When it shatters, you have no control over how much of it shatters. Karl had been holding a deadly weapon, now he was gripping a handful of razor sharp glass. Blood poured from between his fingers.

  Poe squeezed.

  Karl screamed.

  Poe knew the risk of permanent damage was real but he didn’t care; you didn’t trade punches with people like Karl. And they needed to understand that retaliation would be met with a disproportionate, life-changing response.

  Poe brought his hand down low. Karl dropped to his knees like he’d been shot. He screamed again. With his spare hand Poe retrieved his ID card, and flipped it open.

  ‘Evening, gents,’ he said. ‘My name is Detective Sergeant Poe and the lady you’ve just assaulted is my friend. We both work for the National Crime Agency. Now, do we all agree that you three are in deep shit?’

  The soberest man nodded.

  Poe leaned in to read his nametag. ‘MWC Computer Engineering? Never heard of you—’

  ‘We’re a company who—’

  ‘I don’t need part two, dickhead,’ Poe said. ‘But if Karl here ever wants to use that hand again, he needs a hospital right now. Not in the morning when you’ve all sobered up.’

  The silence was broken by Karl’s sniffling.

  ‘Now, please fuck off out of this hotel.’

  Guiding Karl by his ruined hand, he led them back through the bar into the reception area. The sober man turned towards the stairs. ‘Where the hell are you going?’ Poe asked.

  ‘I’m getting my bag.’

  ‘No, son,’ Poe said. ‘I told you to fuck off and that means now, not when it suits you.’

  ‘But our stuff. I have computers up . . .’ He trailed off under Poe’s gaze.

  Poe called to the receptionist. ‘Zoe, can you order these gentlemen a taxi? Tell the driver he needn’t bother driving down to the hotel, these three idiots will meet it on the A6. I think they could use the fresh air.’

  He turned to the three men. ‘The taxi will take you to hospital. I’d get a move on if I were you, it’s at least a mile to the main road.’

  Poe let go of Karl’s hand and they staggered into the car park. ‘Before you go, how much money do you have?’

  ‘You’re robbing us?’ the sober one asked.

  Poe said, ‘Karl’s blood is on the carpet in the bar. I don’t think the hotel should have to pay for it. Do you?’

  Bradshaw was still in the bar. She was trembling but smiled when Poe walked back in. She was stroking Edgar who’d been quiet throughout the whole shebang. He ordered drinks. The barman didn’t want his money.

  ‘You OK, Tilly?’ he asked. ‘Sorry you had to see that.’

  ‘Why do you keep rescuing me, Poe? That’s twice now.’

  Poe laughed. Bradshaw didn’t. She was being serious.

  ‘It was hardly that,’ he replied. ‘And anyway, I can’t stand bullies.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. She looked a little bit deflated.

  ‘And come on, Tilly, we may have had a rough start but you’re my friend. You must realise that?’

  She didn’t reply and for a moment Poe thought he’d said the wrong thing. A single tear was running down her face.

  ‘Tilly—’

  ‘I’ve never had a friend before,’ she said.

  He couldn’t think of anything to say, so he settled for, ‘Well, you do now.’

  ‘Thank you, Poe.’

  ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘it’s your turn to rescue me next.’

  ‘I will.’ She frowned, ‘Spit or swallow what, Poe? Whatever did he mean?’

  He was saved by the receptionist; she’d entered the bar area with a sheaf of papers. He raised his eyebrows and she nodded.

  His fax had arrived. He read the cover sheet.

  For some reason it was happening at eighteen minutes past five, but the preparatory work would begin in the next few hours. He wasn’t required to be there for that, but he wanted to be.

  ‘I’m going to have to get away, Tilly.’ He stood, all thoughts of asking her to delve into Francis Sharples forgotten. ‘You going to be OK?’

  ‘Yes, Poe.’

  He paused. ‘And try not to worry about those idiots, Tilly. If it wasn’t you, it would have been someone else. Look at it this way, you’re in the NCA. Imagine what it would have been like for someone who wasn’t. Look at it as a glass half-full kind of thing.’

  Bradshaw removed her glasses and polished them with a special cloth she kept in her bag. When they were back on, she tucked some hair behind her ear and said, ‘The glass isn’t half full, Poe. And neither is it half empty.’

  ‘What is it then?’

  She grinned. ‘It’s twice as big as it needs to be.’

  She was going to be fine.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Parkside was one of two cemeteries the district council ran in the Kendal area. Poe had been to funerals there so didn’t need directions. It was huge, extended to both sides of Parkside Road, and was sectioned according to denomination and religion.

&nbs
p; He needed K-section. It was the furthest from the chapel and the car park; and why wouldn’t it be? No one would ever visit it.

  Finding the grave was more difficult than he imagined it would be. The cloud covering – while keeping the ambient temperature warm – made the blanket of blackness shrouding the cemetery complete. It robbed him of his senses and he cursed himself for not having had the foresight to bring a working torch. He had one in his car but it was little more than a tube for carrying dead batteries. The BlackBerry’s torch was barely making a dent in the darkness.

  After half an hour of stumbling, tripping over exposed tree roots and walking through cobwebs, he eventually found K-section. Some of the sections were situated in light woodland but K-section was in one of the more open areas.

  He began reading headstones. It was an old section of the grounds and most of the graves were simple monuments; weathered stones with fading inscriptions. Names, dates and simple messages of love. The occasional military rank. Some were clean, and others were stained green; half a dozen or so had the full moss overcoat. Some of the older ones leaned together like old friends. He shuddered; how could a place be so full and yet so empty at the same time?

  Eventually he found it. It was at the very edge of K-section in a small area he hadn’t noticed earlier, hidden from view by a large mausoleum. The reason he’d missed it earlier was because none of the graves had headstones.

  The area was slightly covered by a maple tree. He looked down and saw seven wooden plaques in a neat row. Poe knew this was what he’d been looking for.

  Logic – and in this part of K-section logic probably did play a part – dictated he should start at the end of the row. He could smell freshly turned earth, and when he shone his light on the plaque to the far right, he found what he’d come for.

  The plaque simply said, ‘Unknown Male’. The date of interment was there in smaller writing along with an eight-digit reference number that matched the one Reid had told him. The number that was now on the fax van Zyl had sent.

  Poe stepped back and viewed the surrounding area. He didn’t know what he was looking for and found nothing amiss. It was one of the reasons he’d wanted to get there before the council cavalry arrived; he wanted to look at the area before it was molested and trampled on. See if it had been interfered with. It didn’t look as though it had; the grave of Tollund Man was fresh but not new fresh.