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But . . . why had one of the cells in the truck been cleaned with bleach?

Was it possible Reid had fooled them all?

Poe considered the man piloting the boat. Would Reid really have let him go back to his life? He’d known what had been happening and had been paid to say nothing. Poe didn’t think Reid would have allowed a man like that to live. Everyone involved had to die. As well as being his early accomplice, was it possible that Reid had finally used him as a body alibi? Was it the accomplice whom Poe had tried to drag out of the burning farm, not Reid? It was a theory but one he’d never be able to prove.

And with that, Poe came full circle. Back to the dove.

Had his friend finally found peace?

Was he out there somewhere? Soaking up the sun, flirting with waitresses. Toasting his friends.

Being happy.

He had to tell Flynn. He reached for his phone. His finger hovered over the call icon. She deserved to know. She’d know what to do.

Or would she? Would anyone?

Poe threw his phone down.

Deputy Director Hanson had given him some advice he was happy to follow for once.

Let sleeping dogs lie.

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

Poe sat in a café off the M5. He’d taken public transport to travel south, and then he’d stolen a car from a long-term car park. With luck he’d have it back before the owner knew it was missing. He was nursing a pot of tea. In his hands he had a cheap tablet. He’d bought it second-hand from one of those cash shops that were cropping up everywhere after years of austerity. He didn’t know how easily an IP address could be back-traced and he was taking no chances. He could have asked Bradshaw how to cover his tracks but that would have abused their friendship. If there was any fallout from what he was about to do, he didn’t want anyone else dragged into it.

He’d been sitting staring at the screen for over three hours.

Poe had compressed all Reid’s evidence into a file small enough to be emailed as an attachment. He’d included everything but the accomplice’s file.

There were important aspects of the case that weren’t in the email attachment: the information from the bank and the video interview of Montague Price trying to cut a deal would have been helpful but they hadn’t been available when Reid compiled his evidence. Still . . . what Poe was about to send was the other half of the puzzle that Flynn had talked about, and this time it would be the right half.

The email was set to go to every editor, sub-editor, freelance reporter and blogger he could find. Newspapers abroad as well as at home. Almost one hundred names in total.

There’d be no proof it was Poe. In fact, it couldn’t be him. He’d been unconscious when he’d left the farm in an ambulance. His clothes had been burnt to a cinder and taken away for forensic examination. Cumbria police knew for certain he hadn’t left Black Hollow Farm with anything incriminating. Everyone would assume it was the unknown accomplice. Officially, he was the only actor left on the stage. Cumbria were still looking for him but Poe knew they were chasing their tails. And he couldn’t enlighten them without letting Reid down.

If he pressed send, within five minutes nearly one hundred people would see the evidence; by morning that number would be thousands.

There’d be an enquiry. There’d have to be – the public would demand one. He wouldn’t need to do anything more: everything they’d uncovered – Carmichael and Swift’s cruise, the Breitling, the secret bank accounts, Reid’s verbal testimony – Poe would be legally compelled to hand it all over. Someone from Cumbria would leak the Montague Price interview. Too many people had seen it for it to remain secret. Poe would be called as a witness. He’d be ordered to testify under oath.

People would be listening.

He wouldn’t let his friend down.

If he pressed send.

His finger hovered. The problem was that he didn’t know what would happen next. Bradshaw’s butterfly was in his head again. There’d be consequences he couldn’t predict. Two cabinet members had been on TV assuring the public that there was no crime beyond Reid’s madness. Another cover-up wouldn’t be tolerated. There could be civil unrest. Democracy only works when you let it.

Distributing the email was reckless.

But . . . Poe thought about Reid and the trust his friend had placed in him. He thought about Flynn and Bradshaw and the work they’d done to expose what had happened twenty-six years ago. He thought about everyone who’d been involved in suppressing what had really been going on. He thought about the snidey politicians falling over themselves to label his friend a monster. If he didn’t press send they’d win again. Edmund Burke had said that ‘All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing’.

And . . . Duncan Carmichael had called him a ‘rank bad hat’. Poe wasn’t the kind of man to let insults like that go unanswered.

‘For you, Kylian,’ he whispered.