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Chapter 41

‘Hasshe taken leave of her senses?’ Poe said. ‘And what the hell is a KRC?’

‘Her name’s Karen Royal-Cross,’ Flynn said. ‘She refers to herself as KRC.’

‘Like the fast-food place Tilly’s banned me from going to?’

Flynn glanced at him. ‘Huh?’

They were in the back of a police minivan. Detective Chief Superintendent Mathers had arranged transport and support, but had asked Poe and Flynn to make first contact. See if Karen Royal-Cross really was the Botanist’s intended third victim. She lived in London, as had all the victims so far, but on the other side of the river to where their hotel was. In Cumbria, the trip would have taken Poe ten minutes. They’d been in the minivan for over an hour.

‘Put the video on, boss,’ Poe said.

‘Again? We’ve watched it three times.’

She pressed play, though. Everyone in the back of the van crowded round the screen.

A heavily made-up woman leaned back from what Poe assumed was her laptop. She’d obviously just pressed record on her webcam. She was wearing a low-cut T-shirt, white with red lips on the front. Her hair was blonde – too blonde to be natural – and her eyebrows were thick and black, like they’d been drawn on with a Sharpie.

‘This is KRC again,’ she said. ‘And do I have a story for you.’

She reached for something off-screen and returned with a pressed flower. It was small, green and spiky. It had a prominent red stigma, the part of the flower that receives pollen. Bradshaw hadn’t been able to identify it yet but the video had been sent to Kew Gardens. They were expecting an answer within the hour.

‘The statue-destroying libtards are at it again. This time they’re trying to intimidate me with, of all things, a pressed flower and a third-rate poem.’

She reached for a piece of paper this time and pretended to read it. Unfortunately, the camera didn’t pick up what was on it. Poe hoped she hadn’t destroyed it.

‘And it’s nonsensical,’ she said, shaking her head in feigned disgust. She leaned into the camera and whispered, ‘I know it’s not PC to say this, but I don’t think English is this guy’s first language, if you know what I mean.’

Poe pressed pause. ‘Whatdoesshe mean?’

‘She’s jumped on the far-right immigrant-bashing bandwagon,’ Flynn said. ‘According to her the only good asylum seeker is a drowned one.’

‘Nice.’

Poe pressed play.

‘I mean itdoesrhyme,’ Karen Royal-Cross admitted, ‘but the words don’t make sense. There’s even something about snails. Probably a delicacy where they come from. And while he’s here, free to threaten British citizens, our soldiers are banned from wearing poppies and saying Merry Christmas.’

‘Very subtle,’ Poe said.

‘And I know the snowflakes will have another go at me for saying this, but you know it and I know it: each time someone like this’ – she waved the poem in the air – ‘is allowed into our country, the purest bloodline in the world gets polluted that little bit more.’

Flynn pressed stop.

‘What a fucking dummy,’ Poe said.

‘It’s what she does, Poe,’ Flynn said. ‘She’s good at finding things to manipulate on social media.’

‘Why bother?’

‘She’s jumping up and down, trying to get noticed by one of the American cable news shows, apparently. Wants to be an alt-right commentator.’

‘Are her targets always asylum seekers and liberals?’

‘Usually, although she doesn’t like fat people either. Says they’re a burden on the NHS.’

‘She has a weight management problem she doesn’t want to deal with.’

‘Probably,’ Flynn agreed. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think too many people have got used to posting shit online without getting punched in the mouth.’

‘But you can see why the Botanist has set his eyes on her, though? Some racist dickheads might kick up a fuss, but the rest of us will have street parties.’

‘Oh, yeah,’ he said. ‘She’s ideal. I wonder if she’s realised just how much danger she’s in?’

The driver looked at them through his rear-view mirror and said, ‘We’re here.’