Page 40 of The Final Vow (Washington Poe #7)

The last time they’d been to Gretna Green, Flynn had said it was ‘quieter than an English church’. But the pubs, restaurants and cafés had been open. People were at work; children were at school. The wedding industry had found ways to marry people under the threat of the sniper.

Now, Gretna Green looked like one of those abandoned towns in the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone. There was no sign of human activity whatsoever. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see deer roaming the streets. Tumbleweeds wouldn’t have seemed out of place.

Chief Superintendent Ailsa McCloud, the Police Scotland cop who’d briefed Poe when they’d found the sniper’s range, met him at the outer cordon. Bradshaw stayed in the car, running data, doing sums. Trying to make a difference.

The outer cordon was usually where memorial flowers started to stack up.

It was a focal point for the local community’s grief.

Anger and shock sometimes. Not this time, Poe noticed.

The sniper had visited Gretna Green twice now.

The pavement was clear. The local community was staying away. Poe didn’t blame them.

‘It’s not a wedding this time?’ he said to McCloud.

‘Just a woman going about her business,’ she said. She pulled out a notebook and read from it. ‘Rachelle Callaghan. Worked in a funeral home. She was just nipping out to get a sandwich for her lunch. Bullet entered the back of her head. Blew her nose clean off her face.’

Poe winced.

McCloud stepped outside the cordon. She removed her suit and bagged it. ‘Walk with me,’ she said.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Death knock. Her dad lives in Gretna. I can brief you on the way.’

Gretna and Gretna Green were just a mile apart. A fifteen-minute walk. McCloud brought him up to speed. She said the sniper’s zeroing range had so far yielded nothing. They weren’t giving up, though. Still had rotating units of armed cops on standby. Highest priority.

They reached Gretna. It wasn’t as picturesque as its more famous neighbour.

Poe followed McCloud down the main shopping street and on to an estate.

Looked like one of those put up during the First World War when the War Office had to house the thirty thousand employees who worked at His Majesty’s Factory, Gretna: the largest munitions factory in the world at the time.

‘Where did he shoot from?’

‘We haven’t found it yet, but we’re fairly certain it was on the other side of the River Sark,’ she said, gesturing to her right. ‘It’s the only place with a clean line of sight. Plenty of cover.’

Poe turned to look where McCloud was pointing.

The Sark was a short river that formed part of the Anglo–Scottish border before flowing into the much larger River Esk.

If McCloud was right, and he thought she was, the sniper had fired from at least 1,000 metres again. The guy never missed. It was uncanny.

‘And the river’s an obstacle,’ Poe said.

‘We don’t think he crossed it, Sergeant Poe.’

‘That’s not what I meant, ma’am,’ Poe explained. ‘IRA snipers used to make sure there were obstacles between them and their target. A motorway. A row of houses. Something for the squaddies to navigate when they gave chase. Slowed them right down.’

‘You think he’s ex-IRA?’

Poe shrugged. ‘We have no idea who he is.’ He thought about what Bradshaw was doing. ‘But we might soon.’

He told McCloud what they’d discovered.

‘You think Gretna Green’s important to him?’

‘The maths supports it,’ Poe said.

‘His zeroing range supports it too,’ McCloud agreed. ‘If he’s local, or semi-local, he won’t have to drive a long heavy rifle through a load of built-up areas. There isn’t much civilisation between here and the Cairngorms.’

She stopped outside a semi-detached house. She checked her phone. ‘Here we are,’ she said. ‘The victim commuted from Dumfries. I think her dad lives on his own.’

‘You don’t say.’

In contrast to the rest of the houses on the street, Mr Callaghan’s was scruffy.

It had a weed-choked drive and a brown lawn.

A white plastic seat, the kind that skidded across the ground in the lightest of breezes, sat underneath the front window.

Even that looked neglected. McCloud walked up the path and knocked on the door. Firm but not hard. Not apologetic.

A man in shorts and a Primark Captain America T-shirt answered the door. He had more tattoos than Ray Bradbury’s ‘Illustrated Man’. He was smoking a cigarette and didn’t bother to remove it when he said, ‘Yes?’

‘Mr Callaghan?’

‘Yes.’

They identified themselves as police officers.

‘May we come inside, please?’

‘No. Fuck off.’

‘I’m afraid we have some bad news. I would feel more comfortable delivering it inside.’

He leaned against the doorframe. ‘I’m fine here.’

McCloud glanced at Poe. You couldn’t force your way into someone’s house to deliver the death knock.

‘You know there’s been another shooting?’

Callaghan nodded. ‘And you’re not stitching me up with it,’ he said. ‘Bastard cops stitched me up with theft once. You can piss off if you think I’m taking another fall for you.’

‘I’m afraid we believe your daughter is the victim, Mr Callaghan,’ McCloud said, ignoring his tirade.

That put a stop to his vitriol.

‘Nah, Rachelle’s at work. She’s a morticia.’

‘Mortician,’ Poe said automatically.

‘Aye, one of them. She works at the funeral home.’

‘She’s dead, Mr Callaghan. The sniper shot her when she popped out for lunch.’

Callaghan stared at McCloud. Realised she wasn’t joking, wasn’t trying to trick him into confessing to something. His daughter really was dead.

‘But I’ve just bought her birthday present,’ he said.

He pointed to a carton of cigarettes by the door.

‘She was supposed to come round and get it after work. What am I supposed to do with two hundred Marlboro Golds? I don’t even smoke Marlboro Golds.

’ He pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and showed them, as if they didn’t believe him. ‘See?’

‘Perhaps we’d better come inside, Mr Callaghan?’ McCloud said.

‘I suppose I could sell them,’ he said, clearly not listening. ‘But you never get what you paid for them. You always end up out of pocket.’ He paused. ‘I don’t suppose either of you two want to buy them?’

Poe looked at him. Realised he wasn’t joking. ‘I’m good, mate,’ he said.

‘I think we’d better leave you to your grief,’ McCloud said.

They left the still-complaining Callaghan and walked back to the crime scene. A cop with muddy boots met them before they got halfway. He was sweating.

‘Have you found where he shot from, Jim?’ McCloud asked.

‘We have, ma’am. Other side of the river like we thought.’

‘Has he left his shell casing behind?’

Jim nodded. ‘Aye.’

Poe was relieved. Not for Rachelle Callaghan obviously, but at least there wasn’t a copycat out there. His mobile buzzed in his pocket. A text message. It was from Bradshaw. He read it and felt his heartrate increase.

She’d found something.