Page 15 of The Final Vow (Washington Poe #7)

The car park was empty. Flynn parked near an old wooden wheel.

It was as big as a house and had blades.

Looked like the kind of thing that sat in running water, the blades turning the wheel, the wheel turning the grinder shaft, which turned the mill stone.

One hundred years ago the wheel would have been used to turn grain into flour. Now it was a garden ornament.

‘We’re supposed to wait here for detectives from Police Scotland,’ Flynn said.

‘They’re late,’ Poe replied. ‘How rude.’

‘Actually, we’re early.’

Poe opened the door. It had been a long trip and he wanted to stretch his legs.

‘We may as well have a mooch around; this is a crime scene.’

‘They won’t be happy.’

‘When are they ever? And look,’ he said, pointing to a man waving them inside, ‘that guy over there, he’s inviting us in.’

‘That’ll be Grantham Smythe,’ Flynn said through the driver’s open window. ‘He’s the owner. Come on then. But if Police Scotland ask, we thought we were sitting ducks in the car park.’

Grantham Smythe was middle-aged. Looked like a drinker.

Good for him, Poe thought. He wore a two-tone ten-pinbowling-style shirt.

He was standing in the doorway of the bar.

The tabled outdoor area in front of the bar was completely shielded by tarpaulin.

Poe could see the name of a local timber merchant on the side.

He reckoned tarpaulin, canvas, even plastic sheeting was in high demand right now.

Seemed the timber merchant had decided it was more profitable renting out his tarpaulin than protecting his wood from the rain.

Or maybe he was a good guy trying to do a good thing. Anything was possible, Poe thought.

Smythe waited for them to get out of the car then beckoned them over again. Poe noticed he didn’t leave the cover of the tarpaulin shield. He didn’t blame him.

‘You here about my crime report?’ he said. ‘Still need a number for the insurance.’

‘We’re NCA,’ Flynn replied, showing her warrant card.

Poe didn’t bother. His leather wallet still smelled of fish.

‘When am I going to get my crime number?’

‘I have no idea, Mr Smythe,’ Flynn said. ‘That’s not what we do. Can we come inside, please?’

Smythe begrudgingly led them into the bar. He seated them at a table. ‘Can I get you anything to drink?’ he said hopefully. They were clearly not going to be free drinks.

‘We’re good, thanks,’ Flynn said. ‘And I appreciate this is awful timing, but do you mind if we ask a couple of questions?’

Smythe poured himself a measure of whisky then joined them at the table. ‘You’re from the National Crime Agency?’

‘We are.’

‘It’s terrorism then. I knew it was.’

‘Why do you say that, Mr Smythe?’

‘Isn’t that what the NCA does?’

‘We’re a broad church,’ Flynn said. ‘The three of us are more used to investigating serial murders than terrorism.’

‘Like Jack the Ripper?’

‘If that’s the only serial killer you know,’ Poe said, ‘then yes. Exactly like Jack the Ripper.’

‘I see.’ He poked his ear, examined the end of his finger, then said, ‘Did they ever catch him?’

‘Who?’

‘Jack the Ripper.’

Poe sighed. The man was clearly an idiot. ‘Yes, they caught him in Spain last year, didn’t you hear? He was one hundred and seventy years old.’

Bradshaw giggled.

‘How many weddings did you do that day, Mr Smythe?’ Flynn said before he figured out he’d been insulted.

‘We had seven scheduled.’

‘And what number wedding were you on when the . . . incident occurred?’

‘You mean the wedding when the best man punched the groom for sleeping with his wife or the wedding when the murder happened?’

‘The murder, Mr Smythe. The NCA doesn’t issue crime numbers and we aren’t interested in family brawls.’

Smythe looked up, like the answer was written on the ceiling. ‘It was the first wedding after lunch, so it’ll have been number four.’

‘The middle one then.’

‘No, the last one.’

‘But you said you had seven scheduled.’

‘We did. But the last three were cancelled. It’s why I need my crime number. I’m a victim here as well. This has left me well out of pocket. But to answer your question, it was the fourth wedding and the last wedding.’

Poe smiled. ‘He has a point. If someone got murdered ten minutes before my wedding, I’d think twice about putting on my top hat.’

‘You won’t be wearing a top hat, Poe,’ Bradshaw said. ‘You’ll be wearing a black suit from Marks and Spencer. And that’s only because your work suits smell of fish.’

‘You’re getting hitched,’ Smythe said. ‘Congratulations.’

‘Thank you,’ Poe replied.

‘Do you have a venue? I can do sniper’s rates for you.’

‘Sniper’s rates?’

‘That’s what we’re calling the discounts we’re having to offer.’

‘And what are you calling the welcoming drinks?’ Poe asked. ‘Headshots?’

‘Hey, that’s not bad. Let me make a wee note of that.

’ He tapped something into his phone. ‘And I know you were joking, but ninety-six per cent of my bookings have been cancelled since the murder. Not postponed, cancelled . I can’t even sell next year’s Valentine’s Day package and that’s our busiest day by a mile.

Gretna Green’s economy is built around the wedding business, and right now, the wedding business is tanking .

So yes, we’re offering discounted packages. Do you want one or not?’

‘I’d rather stand in dog shit,’ Poe said.

Smythe got to his feet. Clenched his fists. Poe stayed seated.

‘Sit down, Mr Smythe,’ Flynn said.

Smythe didn’t. ‘He’s a piss-taking bastard!’

‘If you don’t sit down right this second, I’m nicking you and making you wait for Police Scotland in the middle of the car park.’

Smythe sat.

‘Thank you,’ Flynn said. ‘And, Poe, stop being childish.’ She stared at him until he nodded. ‘Now, the other question I want to ask is why didn’t wedding party number four take advantage of all the protection you’re offering?’

‘Do you think the sneaky wee insurance bastards will claim that force mature jobby? Try to get out of paying me?’

‘Force majeure ,’ Bradshaw said automatically. ‘It’s French for “greater force”.’

‘Why didn’t they use the protection, Mr Smythe?’ Flynn asked again.

Smythe shrugged. ‘They did for most of it but when it came to the photographs, the bride insisted they go outside. Who the hell wants a grimy tarpaulin as their wedding background? Not when you can have mountains and blue sky and green grass.’

‘And an ornamental water wheel,’ Poe said.

‘Exactly.’

‘Did the preceding wedding parties take their photographs outside?’ Flynn asked.

‘They did.’

‘Same place?’

‘Aye.’

‘Same photographer.’

‘Aye.’

‘Was there anything different about the fourth wedding?’

‘They all look the same after a while,’ Smythe said. ‘The only weddings you remember are the ones that end in mass brawls.’ He sipped his whisky. ‘And even then, it would have to be a good mass brawl.’

While Flynn finished up with Smythe, Poe got to his feet and went to the door. He’d heard a car pull into the car park. Sounded like a diesel. He looked outside.

‘Police Scotland have arrived,’ he said.