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Some of it was missing, some of it was compressed and some had been torn and was dying. Poe took some photographs. CSI would come later and take more professional ones.

‘This is a crime scene now,’ Poe said. ‘Can you go and get some forensic gear from my car? And tell Tilly I’ll be sending her some photographs.’

When Sparkes left, Poe called Flynn and told her what he’d found.

‘What’s your next move?’ she asked.

‘I’m going to go up and have a look.’

‘Are you sure, Poe? You shouldn’t be climbing trees at your age. Why don’t you wait until CSI get there?’

‘I’ll be fine,’ he replied. ‘I’ll wear a suit and if I think I’m going to destroy evidence I’ll stop.’

‘OK, I’ll leave it half an hour before I tell Jo Nightingale.’

Sparkes returned with the forensic suits.

Poe said, ‘Thanks. I’ll stay here until the cavalry arrives. Can you go and see if Tilly needs any help?’

‘No problem,’ he said.

When he left, Poe grabbed a branch and looked up.

Chapter 19

It was funny the way the mind made connections.

The last time he’d climbed a tree Poe thought he’d known everything there was to know about himself. He’d had a father he loved and a mother who’d abandoned him.

This time he knew the man who’d raised him wasn’t his biological father and his mother had left so she didn’t have to see the face of her rapist grow onto the face of the son she’d chosen not to abort.

He’d known the truth for over a year but he was no further forward in his off-the-books search for his biological father. But he was looking.

Six months ago the man who raised him had unexpectedly come home. They hadn’t seen each other for years and they’d had a lot of catching up to do. Poe had told him he knew the truth and the old man had broken down in tears. Poe’s mother had been raped at a diplomatic party in Washington, DC. His father hadn’t been there. She’d told him everything when she returned to the UK and he’d made copious notes. He kept them in a cabin he owned in New Zealand and he was on his way there now. He’d promised to ship them over as soon as he arrived.

It would be somewhere to start.

Poe avoided the branches the killer might have used and hauled himself up the tree. It was hard going but three years of having to cut his own fuel had given him wiry muscles. He was soon standing on a branch ten feet from the ground.

He faced Rebecca’s bungalow and looked through his binoculars. He had a decent view of the back garden. Another six feet and he’d have the perfect view. He looked up, searching. A sturdy branch, about five inches thick, jutted out at 90 degrees. If he’d wanted to sit and watch Rebecca’s home and back garden for any length of time, that was the one he’d have chosen. Poe picked a route so he could get above it. The tree was easy to climb and it didn’t take long.

He looked down at the branch he thought the killer might have used and smiled to himself. An eighteen-inch section looked different to the rest of the branch.

Almost as if it had been rubbed smooth by someone sitting on it …

This was where the killer had set up his observation post. It was perfect: he’d have been able to see everything. Poe couldn’t see what he’d used as his cover story in case he was observed up the tree, but apart from that he was happy with what he’d found.

Poe moved as close as he dared. The killer wouldn’t have expected them to find this and that meant he could have been sloppy. Poe turned on the torch function of his mobile. He scanned the surrounding area for anything out of the ordinary and snapped some photographs to study later. Nothing jumped out.

He sent Flynn a text asking her to call it in. He needed CSI. If there was a hair trapped in a ridge of bark, they’d find it. If the killer had nicked his finger climbing and smeared blood against the tree, they’d find it. If there was any forensic transfer at all they’d be a step closer to catching him.

Poe sent Bradshaw an email with the pictures attached while he still had a decent signal. She’d put them on a laptop and enlarge them. As he was waiting for the email to send, a drop of rain hit the screen. He put his phone back in his pocket and looked up – winter in Cumbria meant five or six different types of weather a day.

And that’s when he saw what the killer had brought with him on the off-chance someone had seen him up the tree.

Chapter 20

It was a kite.