Page 9 of The Final Vow (Washington Poe #7)

Mathers took them to the incident room. The Met had assumed command because the first shooting had taken place in London, and because they were the only force with enough horsepower to manage something this big – but sixteen territorial forces were conducting their own investigations.

The sniper had shot and killed multiple people but never in the same police area.

Which meant that as well as leading the national response, Mathers was also coordinating murder investigations in seventeen different force areas.

They needed everyone else’s intelligence, and they needed to feed in their own.

Each force had sent liaison officers and they all required space to work.

They needed back-office staff and technical support.

For every badged officer there were four or five without badges helping them do their job.

A bog-standard incident room wasn’t going to cut it this time. Mathers needed somewhere bigger.

She had taken the pragmatic choice and hired Blencathra House, a conference centre near the British Library.

It was equidistant between King’s Cross and Euston – the two main train stations northern cops would use.

She’d hired the whole centre and brought in her own staff to protect it.

Armed cops patrolled the grounds and checked the ID of everyone entering and exiting the building.

After they’d got through security, Flynn and Bradshaw were waylaid by someone they’d once worked with. Poe didn’t know them, so he followed Mathers. He wasn’t in the mood to meet new people.

‘How’s this working out?’ Poe asked.

‘It’s the private sector so it’s better than anything we have,’ Mathers said. ‘Their tech is superb. The broadband is shit hot. Everything is state-of-the-art. If it weren’t, businesses wouldn’t use it.’

‘How many people are in here?’

‘At any one time, at least three hundred. When there’s a big briefing or a new murder it can double as cops from outside the area come in.’

‘Anything from the hotline?’

‘Nothing sensible. Lots of grievances being settled.’

Poe grunted his annoyance. Any time a hotline was set up, the public took the opportunity to ratchet up decade-long feuds.

The original argument might have stemmed from their neighbour’s dog shitting on their lawn, but by the time they called the hotline it was because Bob from next door was ‘noncey as fuck’ or he’d converted his garage into an IRA bomb factory.

‘There hasn’t been a single breakthrough?’ Poe said. ‘Maybe something you didn’t want to tell the blabbermouth politician about?’

‘Nothing actionable. We know the weapon and ammunition he’s using, but that’s it.

He shoots from distance and he doesn’t leave any trace evidence.

Before he leaves he throws down a load of sugar.

Within minutes the ground’s covered in creepy-crawlies and within minutes of them turning up, a bunch of birds have arrived to eat them. ’

‘Clever,’ Poe said. ‘So even if he’s left trace evidence, the wildlife makes it next to impossible to recover it.’

‘Exactly.’

‘What distance is he shooting from?’

‘The closest was two hundred yards – from just inside the treeline of a wood – and the furthest was twelve hundred.’

‘Good shooting.’

‘Some of us think it’s too good,’ Mathers said. ‘The current theory is that he’s an ex-military sniper.’

‘Is that what you think?’

‘I’d rather hear what you think. You have completely fresh eyes.’

Mathers had stopped next to a trestle table stocked with fruit and sandwiches and pastries. Fuel for those who didn’t have time to nip out for food. Poe grabbed a mug and poured himself a coffee. He took a sandwich, lifted the corner, and put it back.

‘Fish paste,’ he said in disgust. ‘That’s all I bloody need.’ He took a drink of coffee. It was hot, nicer than expected. He lifted his mug in appreciation. ‘Private sector providing the coffee too?’

Mathers nodded. ‘Speaking of the private sector – why the hell are you still on that boat? Why aren’t you doing three days a month consultancy for six figures a year?’

Poe took his time answering. ‘I’ve thought about it,’ he admitted. ‘I went through some . . . stuff recently.’

‘I heard.’

‘I thought I was invincible. Turns out I’m not. And swimming in shit all day is rapidly losing its appeal.’

‘Also, aren’t you a duke now?’ Mathers said, grinning. ‘Don’t you have poor people to oppress?’

Poe returned her smile. It was true that he was marrying into the aristocracy. Doyle had inherited her late father’s title and estate. She was now Lady Doyle. ‘Since we got engaged, I’d be surprised if we’ve spent two consecutive nights together.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Mathers said. ‘I have two daughters I never see. I missed my eldest representing her school in the lacrosse finals this year.’

‘It takes its toll,’ Poe agreed. ‘It’s because we never have good days, only bad.’

Mathers burst out laughing. ‘What a pair of moaning bastards we are.’ She pushed herself off the wall she’d been leaning against. ‘Anyway, you’re here to work. So please, tell me what you think.’

‘You really want to know?’ Poe said.

‘Ordinarily, SCAS sticking their beak into an ongoing operation is about as welcome as genital warts. But I don’t know how to catch this guy, Poe. Tell me what you think.’

‘Why have you focused on military snipers?’

‘Because he’s familiar with weapons. Because he can shoot. Because he can hide.’

‘So can gamekeepers, Civil War re-enactment weirdos, police marksmen and people who compete in biathlons,’ Poe said. ‘And modern sights make a thousand yards look like fifty.’

Mathers said nothing.

‘But you already know this, don’t you, ma’am?’

She nodded. ‘I told you, we’re nowhere,’ she said. ‘But it’s a theory, and not everyone hates it, so I’ve assigned resources to running it down.’

‘And in the meantime?’

‘We do what we always do – run down every scrap of evidence, every tip that comes through the hotline, and then pray he fucks up.’

Bradshaw and Flynn rejoined them.

‘That was Harold Hetherington,’ Flynn said.

Poe shrugged. ‘So what?’

‘He smelled of wee,’ Bradshaw said.

‘Better than fish,’ Poe said. Urine was on his list of unpleasant things to smell of, but it was well below fish.

Mathers smirked. ‘Come on, I’ll show you to your office,’ she said.

‘We have an office?’ Poe said, surprised.

‘The NCA does. It’s got computers and coffee-making facilities and the rest of the stuff you might need. It’s on the other side of the incident room.’

She opened a door.

Poe said, ‘Blimey.’

The incident room was as big as an aircraft hangar and twice as noisy.

It was crammed with men and women on phones and computers.

The walls were covered with maps and data sets.

A thousand other things. Everyone looked busy; no one looked happy.

Poe had seen hundreds of incident rooms, but this was the first he’d seen without hope.

Pessimism instead of optimism. The anger he felt about Alastor Locke fizzled out.

These were real cops and they needed his help.

Mathers walked them through the incident room.

She opened another door and took them down a long corridor.

She unlocked an office and showed them inside.

It was a large and airy room. A table, computer terminals, whiteboards.

The blinds were closed. No surprise there.

The odds of making it into the sniper’s sights were astronomically high, but this was the nerve centre of the hunt.

The investigation team would be an attractive target and the sniper had already demonstrated his proficiency in urban environments. He didn’t always hide in the woods.

‘This is you,’ Mathers said.

Bradshaw took a seat at one of the computer terminals. Poe wandered over to the window and pulled a blind aside. Nice view. He could see the British Library.

Mathers said, ‘I’ll get you set up with accounts so you can access the data portals—’

‘I’m already in,’ Bradshaw said.

‘Of course you are. OK, I’ll get Poe and DCI Flynn set up with accounts—’

Bradshaw held up her left index finger while her right danced across the keyboard faster than the eye could see. ‘They’re in now as well, Commander Mathers,’ she said. ‘DCI Flynn’s password is her son’s date of birth and Poe’s is PASSWORD – all uppercase – as it’s the only one he can remember.’

Poe wandered over to a trestle table pushed against a wall. He opened one of the boxes. It was full of doughnuts. ‘Are these anyone’s?’

‘They’re yesterday’s, but help yourself,’ Mathers said.

Poe did. He bit into one then wiped raspberry jam from his chin.

Bradshaw said, ‘Would it be possible to get rid of all this junk food, Commander Mathers? Poe eats like a racoon and I’ve just promised Estelle Doyle that I would make sure he eats five pieces of fruit a day.’

‘Jam is fruit,’ Poe said. ‘And when did you speak to Estelle?’

‘I texted her on the way over,’ Bradshaw said. ‘They’re getting married, Commander Mathers. The wedding rehearsal is in two days. I’m Poe’s best man! I’m writing a speech and everything. Poe’s very excited about that.’

‘No, I’m not. Stop saying that.’

‘Unfortunately, he has hypertension.’

‘I have hypertension because I have PTSD and I don’t sleep, Tilly. Cutting out the occasional biscuit won’t change that.’

‘Oh, puh-lease ! Your diet is the worst I’ve seen, Poe.

Ever since we’ve known each other you haven’t eaten a single healthy thing, not unless someone buys it for you.

Even then they have to stand in front of you while you eat it.

A high-fibre, low-salt, low-fat diet won’t kill you, but hypertension might.

’ She turned back to the computer. ‘At the very least you’ll end up with faecal impaction.

And you won’t like how they treat that, mister.

No, sir, you won’t like that at all. It involves a rectal bulb syringe and what they do is—’

‘Will you please stop talking to Estelle about my diet?’ Poe took a breath, saw Mathers and Flynn grinning. He reddened. ‘And there’s nothing wrong with my bowels.’

‘Well, all I know is that I wouldn’t want to go in the toilet after you,’ Bradshaw said.

‘Oh, wouldn’t you? Well, answer me this, smarty-pants: who would you like to go into the toilet after?’

Bradshaw paused. Turned back round. ‘You make an interesting point,’ she said.

Mathers snorted. She said, ‘I’ve missed working with you guys.’

Poe said, ‘I want to go back to my boat.’