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‘I lived at home.’

‘So, what aren’t you telling us?’ Poe asked. ‘You know we’ll find out.’

Sharples stood firm. Poe suspected there was a risk–reward thing going on, and without a stick to beat him, and with no carrot to tempt him, he had no reason to say anything. He was an over-educated dickhead, though; Poe reckoned another half hour would probably crack it. Unfortunately, Sharples thought that too. He stood and said, ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help, but I really must be getting on.’

Poe remained seated but Flynn thanked him and waited for her colleague.

‘I could have had him,’ he said as they walked down the stairs.

‘Possibly. The reality is he isn’t a suspect. Just because pseudo-intellectuals rub you up the wrong way, it doesn’t mean they’re hiding something from you.’

Poe had no response. She was right; Sharples had pressed all his buttons.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s call it a day.’

Poe would have offered to take her out for an Indian meal in Carlisle but he just wanted to get home. He had some thinking to do. He knew they were stagnating. The Immolation Man was too clever and too well organised to be caught by a rigid adherence to the murder manual. But the murder manual and predictable investigation strategies were all Gamble and Flynn had.

He had to change that somehow.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Poe arrived at Herdwick Croft to find Bradshaw immersed in her computer. Edgar was curled at her feet, snoring like a fat man. She’d found nothing more on Tollund Man. He was sure that she’d have been quite happy to continue working, but he insisted on driving her to the hotel. He’d have quite liked the company but he needed to think.

When he returned to the croft, he whistled for Edgar and set off on a long walk – the best way he knew of clearing his head.

He walked hard until he’d built up a bit of sweat, then slowed and settled into a pace he could keep for hours. He reckoned he had another two hours of sunlight. He found a flattish stone on a rocky outcrop and sat down. Pulling a pork pie from his pocket

, he broke it into two equal pieces. He nibbled at one; the other he passed to Edgar. It was gone in less than a second.

He was in an area he knew well. His thinking zone, he called it. It was a part of the fell where two boundary walls met. Two different craftsmen had worked on them because the difference in style was stark, although both were equally impressive and beautiful.

He stared at the wall he was facing and allowed his mind to focus on it. Dry stone walls – being made without any form of binding agent – were basically large-scale, three-dimensional jigsaw puzzles. Two walls, with smaller stones filling the gap in the middle. Poe reflected on how much they resembled the two facets of solving complex murders.

One side was Gamble and Flynn, methodically building their case, stone by stone. Carefully and thoughtfully. And on the other side were officers like him and Reid. More instinctive, throwing stones into gaps, twisting them until they fitted. Trying different ideas. And although Poe knew that his side of the wall would collapse without the one Flynn and Gamble were building, he also knew that without his side certain cases were never solved.

And there was another similarity before Poe would have to admit he was stretching the analogy too far, and that was the ‘through stones’; stones that went through both walls, locking them together. And it was a through stone that Poe was looking for; one bit of evidence that connected both sides of the investigation.

He was convinced the body in the salt store was one of those stones. He either had to find a way to look at it somehow or he had to be allowed a proper go at Sharples.

If he couldn’t, the Shap lead was at a dead end. He would be out of options.

Unless . . .

The thought had first occurred to him as he was driving back from Carlisle with Flynn. In the red mist of a lying witness and an awkward boss, it had seemed the logical thing to do. In the cooling evening air, it seemed anything but.

He knew some people thought his reputation for following the evidence wherever it took him was because he felt he held some sort of moral high ground. That he had a calling to a purer version of the truth that was unattainable to other, lesser, cops. The truth was simpler – if he thought he was right, the self-destructive element to his personality took over. It frequently allowed the devil on his shoulder to shout down his better angel. And at the minute, the angel couldn’t get a word in edgeways . . .

His face turned to granite. If he didn’t do it, who would? Sometimes someone had to step up. Do the unpalatable so others didn’t have to.

He reached into his pocket, made sure his mobile had a signal and dialled a number. Reid answered on the third ring.

‘Kylian, I need you to do me a favour and you can’t mention this to anyone.’

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Poe made his way back to Herdwick Croft. He got another pie, split it with Edgar again, and then sat down to wait. It didn’t take long. Half an hour later Reid called him. He had what Poe needed and he told Reid why he wanted it. He made a note, thanked him and hung up.

Leaving the BlackBerry on, he scrolled down until he found van Zyl’s number. He tossed up a few scenarios and came down on the side of simply telling the truth.