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The wind dropped and the island became shrouded in silence. Poe could hear his own breath. He was panting and it was nothing to do with the struggle to get there.

He felt very alone.

Being a police officer had installed in Poe the belief he had the inherent right to knock on any door he felt like, at any time he wanted. It didn’t mean he had to rattle a bucket of spoons at the same time, though. He walked the final fifty yards quietly and with caution.

Poe ignored the unused front door and instead followed the wheelchair-friendly path around the side of the building. He paused before he reached the stone terrace. Took a deep breath and gathered his thoughts.

It was possible he was wrong. That Nightingale was right and the storm had knocked out the police communications the same way the cell-phone tower had been silenced. That Coughlan had fancied the overtime and he was on the island patrolling somewhere.

Nightingale’s armed response would be on the island in thirty minutes. Officers who would bring guns to a garrotte fight. All he had was a rock and an untested theory.

The sensible choice was to wait.

But then he thought about Flynn and his resolve hardened. He wasn’t certain there was a threat against his friend, only that there was the possibility of a threat.

It was enough.

Poe stepped round the side of the building and onto the stone terrace.

It was empty.

He didn’t hesitate. Marched straight up to the French doors and tried the handles.

Locked.

He banged on the wooden frame, rattling the glass. Waited ten seconds. He looked round for something to break the window. Saw a terracotta pot he reckoned he could just about manage to lift. He was about to pick it up when a noise turned his head back to the inside of the bungalow.

Atkinson had wheeled himself to the door, a look of confusion on his face.

‘Can you open the door, Mr Atkinson?’ Poe said loudly.

Atkinson reached forwards and turned the key, opened the door and reversed his wheelchair to let him in.

‘Where’s DI Flynn?’ Poe barked.

Atkinson’s eyes widened.

‘What’s up, Sergeant Poe? You’re scaring me.’

Poe stepped inside.

‘Where is she?’ he urged.

‘She’s with DC Coughlan,’ Atkinson said. ‘He said he had something he needed to show her. Wouldn’t say what it was. Why, what’s happened?’

Poe nodded.

He then reached into his pocket, unfurled Bradshaw’s weapon and smashed it down onto Atkinson’s hand.

Chapter 79

The Curator screamed, his right hand ruined.

Poe didn’t hesitate. He swung the improvised cosh again, this time aiming for his other hand. Can’t use a garrotte if you don’t have the use of your hands.

The army sock with an orange-sized rock inside was wildly inaccurate, though, and he didn’t have the element of surprise for the second blow. The Curator was already moving and, instead of his hand, the second blow caught him on the shoulder. Poe heard a bone break and watched as his left arm went limp.

Despite this, he managed to launch himself out of the wheelchair, a calculating look on his face. He jabbed at Poe’s throat with his ruined right hand. Poe dipped his head and the man’s broken fist bounced off his chin.