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Chapter 68

Poehadn’t wanted to risk going back to Herdwick Croft so he took a room at the North Lakes Hotel with the rest of the team. It also meant he could keep an eye on Henning Stahl. So far the journalist was doing everything asked of him, including having a small patch of his hair shaved off so a mic could be attached to his scalp. It had been Flynn’s idea. The Botanist knew Stahl would be wired for sound, and having a second, less obvious, mic in case the first was found seemed a good idea. Poe thought it was superfluous – the Botanist wanted to be heard – but didn’t raise any objections. Mathers had raided Counter Terrorism Command’s toy box and brought a small, flat, flesh-coloured listening device that, when glued to Stahl’s head, would be almost undiscoverable.

‘You OK about this?’ Poe asked.

‘I feel like that guy from theMission Impossiblefilms,’ Stahl replied.

‘You’re nothing like Ethan Hunt, Henning. Maybe EthanCu—’

‘Don’t be vulgar, Poe,’ Flynn said.

Poe said, as he was staying at the hotel, he might as well bunk up with Stahl. Make sure he didn’t sneak out for a drink during the night. Mathers readily agreed and sent someone off to change the room booking to a twin.

‘I’ll post a team outside your window and door,’ she said. ‘Just in case this has all been a ruse to get to him tonight.’

Poe slept fitfully and woke early. Stahl was already up, sitting at the dressing table, making notes again.

‘You’re an aggressive sleeper, Sergeant Poe,’ he said.

‘I am?’

‘You are. You were tossing and turning all night. Cried out once.’

Poe touched his T-shirt. It was damp and his skin felt clammy. ‘You get the nightmares you deserve, I guess.’

‘And there’s the title of the book,’ Stahl smiled, turning back to his notebook.

‘Just put the bloody kettle on.’

‘You had any overnight insight?’ Poe asked over the rim of his coffee mug. ‘Something you haven’t shared yet?’

‘Trying to take my mind off what’s about to happen, Sergeant Poe?’ Stahl replied.

‘I’m that obvious?’

‘Don’t worry. I appreciate the gesture.’

‘Nevertheless.’

‘I’ve thought about nothing else. True, my mind was fogged up with vodka and self-pity before, but it’s clear now. I’ve stared at the list Tilly gave me, the one with all the stories I was involved in, until I can see it in my sleep.’

‘And?’

‘Nothing. The people I wrote about in my later career were celebrities, and, while I did do some decent investigative journalism back in the day, you’ve seen the same names I have. There’s no one with either the motivation or skills to pull off something like this.’

Poe’s phone rang. It was Tilly. He wondered if she’d actually been to bed.

‘Are you dressed, Poe?’ she said.

‘We are. Having a brew before we meet you all for breakfast.’

‘May I come in? I have something to show you.’