Page 84 of The Final Vow (Washington Poe #7)

Blencathra House, Central London

Poe sipped his tea and stared into space.

He was back where it had all started – summoned to the room that Mathers had set aside for the National Crime Agency in the conference centre she’d hired as an incident room.

He smiled as he remembered Bradshaw asking Mathers to get rid of all the doughnuts.

He heard people, cops probably, walk past the closed door. One of them stage-whispered, ‘Wanker.’

Word was out. The prodigal son had returned.

He wondered if prodigal son was even the right turn of phrase. It sounded like a positive thing, even though the word ‘prodigal’ was anything but. He thought the phrase might have originated in the New Testament. Maybe a parable. Ordinarily he’d have asked Bradshaw.

But now he couldn’t.

He finished his tea and threw the paper cup towards the bin. It bounced off the wall and missed. Typical.

Usually a meeting like this – and given that the outcome was predetermined, Poe thought of it more as a ‘panel’ – would have taken place at the National Crime Agency’s headquarters, but this was taking place in Blencathra House.

Poe still had a target on his back and Blencathra House was the most secure building in the country.

When he was called in, he’d sit in front of two men and a woman.

He wouldn’t even have a rep at his side.

It would have been like defending Gary Glitter; no one wanted to do it.

Guilt by association. The panel would read out statements and listen to his responses.

His mitigation. They’d then read out the decision they’d made before he’d entered the room.

Someone knocked on the door. It opened. Flynn stuck her head through, her expression grim. It looked like she’d lost weight too.

‘They’re ready, Poe,’ she said.

The meeting was mercifully short.

Poe was served with a misconduct notice – a smorgasbord of charges that included gross negligence, dereliction of duties, bringing the NCA into disrepute – by a senior HR manager, his line manager at the stupid joint taskforce, and some guy from communications who was tapping out his press release before the meeting had even concluded.

Poe didn’t contest anything. He offered no mitigation. There didn’t seem any point.

The senior HR manager, a man called Ashley Barrett, delivered the punchline.

‘Sergeant Poe, I am suspending you on full pay pending the outcome of the internal investigation. You have the right to . . .’

Poe stopped listening. He reached into his jacket, pulled out his warrant card and his ID cards, and put them on the table. He didn’t grandstand, didn’t throw them down like he’d been dishonoured. He got up and left in the middle of Ashley Barrett’s waffle. He closed the door behind him.

Flynn was waiting for him.

‘Suspended,’ he said.

She nodded. It was what they’d expected. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Commander Unsworth is waiting for you.’

Unsworth was Commander Mathers’s replacement.

Poe had called him to let him know he was planning to crowdfund Joanne Addy’s wedding business.

Unsworth hadn’t tried to talk him out of it.

He’d said it was a good idea. Now he was livid.

It seemed he’d quickly mastered the prevailing-wind politics of senior management.

He didn’t look up from his laptop when Poe and Flynn entered his office.

‘We have to offer you protection,’ he said. ‘There’s a credible threat against you and we have a legal obligation to all UK citizens at risk.’ He stressed ‘all’ like it was a dirty word.

‘But?’ Poe said.

‘But no one is rushing to babysit you, Sergeant Poe.’ He looked up. ‘ Are you still a sergeant, or did the NCA do the right thing for once?’

‘Poe’s been suspended, sir,’ Flynn said. ‘The NCA has processes to follow, just as the Met does.’

Unsworth grunted his annoyance. ‘Nevertheless,’ he said, ‘we have a sniper to catch, and Sergeant Poe is taking up valuable armed resources. We need every cop we have.’

‘Can I refuse it?’ Poe said.

‘Poe,’ Flynn warned. ‘Don’t be hasty. Think—’

‘Of course,’ Unsworth cut in. ‘This isn’t a police state.’

‘Then I refuse it.’

Unsworth nodded. He opened a file and pulled out a single sheet of paper. ‘Sign here, please,’ he said, pointing at the bottom.

‘Do you have a pen, sir?’

Unsworth went back to his laptop. ‘Get your own fucking pen,’ he said.

‘Here you are, Poe,’ Flynn said, passing him a chewed-up BIC.

Poe scrawled his name above sign here.

‘Oh, one more thing,’ Unsworth smirked. He turned his laptop so they could see the website he’d been on. ‘I take it you’ve seen this?’

It was the Sun ’s homepage. The headline wasn’t as crude as GOTCHA! OR FREDDIE STARR ATE MY HAMSTER! but it didn’t need to be. Not when it was as personal as this.

LADY DOYLE brEAKS OFF ENGAGEMENT TO DISGRACED COP!

Unsworth smiled, delighted to be the bearer of bad news. He said, ‘Now, get the fuck out of my office, Poe. I have work to do.’

It was time to go home, Poe thought.

His real home.