Page 18 of The Final Vow (Washington Poe #7)

One shot, one kill.

Archie Arreghini was landed gentry. A junior member of the aristocracy.

A baron. He had reinvigorated the family fortune when he moved into shipping – a ubiquitous term that covered everything from transporting grain to famine areas to smuggling artillery shells to Russia.

According to Bradshaw he was a centimillionaire, someone with over one hundred million pounds’ worth of assets.

He was in his sixties, had a May– September marriage, and Jools was their only child.

The article hinted at, but never explicitly said, that theirs was a marriage of convenience.

He got an heir; Clarice got the lifestyle she felt she deserved.

And who knows, maybe the article was speculation, tittle-tattle.

But . . . Clarice was nowhere to be seen while Archie had stayed until the bitter end.

He was still there, seated at one of the tables, surrounded by finery.

He looked utterly defeated, utterly alone.

Except he wasn’t alone. Even in a marquee full of cops, a man with personal protection written all over him hovered in the background.

Eyes like a bird’s, flitting everywhere. A bodyguard.

Although the guests and staff had dispersed by the time they arrived, the wedding’s infrastructure remained in place. It was clear Archie had spared no expense when it came to his daughter’s wedding.

Jools Arreghini, on the other hand, had themed her wedding around a book called The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern, a phantasmagorical fairytale that told the story of two competing forms of magic. Bradshaw had made Poe read it a few years ago. He hadn’t enjoyed it.

The centrepiece was a huge marquee. It was over one hundred years old and had originally belonged to the Barnum instead, they’d witnessed her execution. Even Pierrot had looked traumatised when he’d climbed into his taxi.

Other signs of Archie’s extravagance were everywhere.

A live lobster tank. A purpose-built wine cellar.

A humidor with hundreds of fat cigars. A teppanyaki grill.

A conveyor-belt sushi station. The wedding cake had nine tiers.

There were so many flowers in the marquee it looked like Elton John’s downstairs toilet.

A band’s equipment, a famous band, was still on a raised dais.

Poe wondered how much they charged for private gigs.

They usually played arenas so he reckoned it wouldn’t be cheap.

Like hiring Bruce Springsteen for your twenty-first. He noticed a solitary cymbal on top of an amp.

He wondered what had happened to the other one.

In all his years, he’d never seen them for sale individually.

He thought they were probably like socks, only ever sold in pairs.

Or maybe they weren’t. Maybe you could buy them individually.

Then he thought he was thinking about cymbals too much.

A flash of white caught his eye, the way a rabbit’s tail does.

It was Mathers. Like everyone else, she was decked out in chic forensic white.

There was something about her that made her stand out, even when wearing one-size-fits-all disposable crime scene coveralls.

She had a presence. Flynn had it too, but hers was downplayed.

Mathers embraced hers. Leaned into it. Made it work for her.

Poe reckoned she was a future commissioner.

She was talking to the crime scene manager.

She had just returned from where the sniper had taken his shot.

He hadn’t needed much cover; this part of Oxfordshire was empty.

He’d simply found a small depression and set up his firing platform.

The only thing he’d left behind was a bullet casing and the marks his rifle’s bipod had made in the ground.

Mathers had cast a wide net but that was mainly to say she’d done it.

The sniper could be 200 miles away; he could be hiding out in the village.

The inside of the marquee was bustling. P.

T. Barnum might be long dead, but the circus of a complex murder investigation was in full swing.

Everyone was suited and booted, focused on their individual task.

Jools Arreghini’s body had been removed.

Most of Jools Arreghini’s body. One of the CSI guys had been tasked with scraping up her brain tissue and skull fragments from the dancefloor.

It was a gruesome task, made no less gruesome by him having no choice but to use a dustpan and brush.

Poe approached him, more to get a sense of the sniper’s line of fire than to interrupt.

If the contents of Jools Arreghini’s head were on the dancefloor, because he’d shot from the rolling hills to the front of the main house, the distance had to be at least 1,500 yards.

Poe reckoned this was the longest shot he’d taken to date.

He wondered if this was down to necessity or whether he was trying to challenge himself.

The CSI guy assumed Poe wanted to talk. He pulled down his mask and pointed at the brain material. It looked like someone had dropped some mince. ‘At least he’s not shooting at us any more, eh?’

Poe looked at him, nonplussed. ‘Us? What do you mean “Us”?’

‘The common man, the salt of the earth, the workers, the ones who make this country work. About time he started picking off the leeches.’

Poe said, ‘In a few days I’m marrying the Marquess of Northumberland’s daughter.’

‘Ha-ha, me too, mate, me too.’ He put down his dustpan, pointed at the wine cellar with his brush. ‘I mean, have you ever seen anything so up its own arse?’

Poe didn’t respond.

The CSI guy took that as permission to continue. He looked over his shoulder, checked no one was listening. ‘Ever get the feeling you’re being watched?’ he said to Poe with a grin. He pointed at the wall of the famous marquee. One of Jools Arreghini’s eyes was stuck to the canvas.

‘Get out,’ Poe said.

‘Excuse me?’

‘You heard me. Get out.’

‘Ah, I was just having a laugh, mate.’ He pulled up his mask and went back to work. Poe didn’t move. The CSI guy pulled his mask back down. ‘Look, I don’t know who the hell you think you—’

Poe raised his hand. ‘Commander Mathers!’ Mathers looked up. ‘Over here, please.’

Mathers came straight over. ‘What’s up?’

‘This man has a joke to tell you.’

‘He does?’

‘It’s about the victim’s eye being stuck to the side of the tent. Something about it watching us. I didn’t find it funny, but I’m known for not having a GSOH. It’s why I never bothered with dating apps.’

Mathers held out her hand. ‘ID, please?’

The CSI guy unfastened his protective overalls and wordlessly handed it over.

‘You have twenty seconds to leave my crime scene,’ Mathers said. ‘If you’re still here in twenty- one seconds, Sergeant Poe will arrest you.’ The guy stood, dusted himself down. ‘Oh, and in case me taking your ID was ambiguous, you no longer have a job. I just wanted to make that clear.’

‘You haven’t heard the end of this,’ he snarled.

‘No?’ Poe stepped forward. Went up to him. Pushed his face into his. The CSI guy took a step back. ‘Look into my eyes and say that again.’

The CSI lowered his head.

‘I didn’t think so,’ Poe said. ‘Now piss off.’

The CSI guy slunk off, muttering all the way.

Flynn and Bradshaw wandered over. ‘What was that about?’ Flynn asked.

‘Nothing important,’ Poe replied. He nodded towards Archie Arreghini. ‘Will he talk to us?’

‘It’s the only reason he’s still here. He wants to talk to you, Poe.’

‘Me?’

‘And only you.’

‘Why?’

Flynn shrugged. ‘Within two hours of his daughter’s murder, he had full profiles of everyone on the investigation team. He sees something in you he likes. Probably your happy disposition.’

Mathers frowned. ‘Be careful, Poe,’ she said. ‘Archie Arreghini isn’t who he seems. He might be aristocracy, but you guys have a file on him. Interpol has a file on him. We have a file on him, and he doesn’t even live in London.’

‘What’s he done?’

Mathers shook her head. ‘Just be careful. Don’t promise him anything.’