Page 63 of The Final Vow (Washington Poe #7)

Poe had never got onboard with the working-from-home craze.

He appreciated that everyone’s circumstances were different, but the pandemic was over.

He didn’t understand why people didn’t want a change of scenery.

A change of pace. He didn’t understand why anyone would choose to bring office equipment into their home.

Why they would voluntarily blur the boundaries between their work and personal life.

Be at the beck and call of their boss. He’d even heard about one hippy-dippy organisation that insisted their employees did Zoom yoga every morning.

Even the staff member in a wheelchair was forced to join in.

But most of all, he didn’t understand why such an inherently social animal, one that relied on cooperation to survive and thrive, would willingly cut off ties with their ‘pack’.

When it came to the antisocial crank awards, Poe was always in contention, but even in his darkest days, he had never envisaged rejecting all forms of human interaction.

But he was WFH now, as Bradshaw insisted on calling it, because, with no new leads to follow, Mathers had sent them home.

She didn’t want them distracted by the day-to-day minutiae of a large-scale murder investigation; she wanted them doing what they’d been brought in to do.

She wanted Bradshaw working on Ezekiel Puck’s profile.

She wanted Poe thinking about what Puck’s next move might be.

Poe hadn’t protested. And he had to admit that Highwood, with its expansive grounds and its game larder, wasn’t a bad place to be when you were confined to barracks.

And Highwood was conducive to thinking. To letting air into his mind.

Poe felt he needed that. He needed to contribute.

Other than having an untested theory about Ezekiel Puck’s motive, he hadn’t felt particularly useful.

Bradshaw had made the big breakthrough, not him.

So far, his input had been minimal, almost inconsequential.

And although he knew that feelings of worthlessness were a symptom of PTSD, it didn’t make them any less real.

He spent the first few days walking the grounds with Edgar.

He would check in with Bradshaw first thing in the morning, collect the sandwiches and flask of tea that Brunton made for him, then he and his over-excited spaniel would set off.

By the time he returned, hungry, thirsty and exhausted, there was barely enough time to call Flynn for an update before he was called down for his evening meal.

He, Bradshaw and Doyle would spend the rest of the night yakking away into the small hours.

That evening, while they were polishing off a chippy tea (vegan patty for Bradshaw, fish and chips for everyone else, extra battered black pudding for Poe), Doyle said, ‘When are you planning to see Doctor Lang, Poe?’

Poe shrugged. ‘They won’t let me in. I got the impression she’d caused a disturbance. A bad one.’

‘That was a week ago,’ Doyle said. ‘She’ll be stable now. Why don’t you go and see her this week? It’ll do you both good. You’re part of each other’s therapy.’

‘I’ll come with you if you want, Poe,’ Bradshaw said. ‘I think Doctor Clara Lang will have a unique insight into Ezekiel Puck. It will be helpful for my profile.’

‘I’ll call the hospital first thing tomorrow.’

Bradshaw’s phone rang. She tilted the screen so Poe could see. It was Flynn. Bradshaw put their boss on speakerphone.

‘This is Tilly Bradshaw,’ Bradshaw said. ‘I am not alone. I repeat, I am not alone.’

‘Yes, very good, Tilly,’ Flynn replied. ‘Is Poe with you?’

‘I am, boss.’

‘Good. Get yourselves in front of a TV,’ she said. ‘There’s something you both need to see.’