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Poe walked into the room Bradshaw had taken at the North Lakes Hotel and Spa without knocking. The bed had been pushed up against the wall, the TV was on the floor, and the dressing table, coffee table and TV cabinet had been joined together to form a workstation. Bradshaw was going back and forth between some open textbooks and her computer screen, her grey eyes sparkling, her chin jutting out in concentration. She was in full Bradshaw mode.

Poe dumped the latest pile of books by her computer. She didn’t look up; said ‘thanks’ and passed him a note with a new book to hunt down: Seductive Poison by Deborah Layton.

‘Never heard of it,’ Poe said.

‘It’s about the Jim Jones Peoples Temple mass suicide event, Poe,’ Bradshaw said. ‘Nine hundred and thirteen cult members died by cyanide-poisoned Flavor Aid; three hundred and four of them were children. Seductive Poison was written by one of the few survivors.’

‘And why do you want to read it?’

‘Jim Jones was a charismatic leader; Cornelius Green was a charismatic leader. With the help of a very small inner circle, they both ruled their respective cults like a demagogue. It’s possible there was something in Jim Jones’s life that Cornelius Green was trying to emulate.’

‘And if there was?’

‘Then I have another frame of reference when it comes to deciphering these,’ Bradshaw said, tapping photographs of the alphanumeric tattoos.

‘You coming, Snoopy?’

‘I’m fine here, thanks, Poe,’ Linus replied.

And he was. Poe had been a spare wheel on these Tillyathons many times and they all ended the same way – after twenty minutes he got bored and fidgety. Bradshaw barely spoke, she hummed and tutted, she blew hair out of her eyes, and she never stopped, not even for a toilet break. There was only so much sitting around Poe could handle before he got restless-leg syndrome.

But Linus didn’t look bored; Bradshaw’s process seemed to fascinate him. He was making notes; he was standing over her shoulder and watching her work. He was interested in the uninteresting. He wasn’t stupid enough to interrupt and ask questions, but Poe could see he had a load lined up for later.

Poe had arrived home shortly before midnight the day before. Doyle was waiting with a bottle of cold beer and a shepherd’s pie in the oven. Poe had called Flynn to let her know a witness had committed suicide in front of them. Flynn had immediately called Doyle – knowing Poe wouldn’t – so she was aware he might be upset. Doyle didn’t say anything, just wrapped her arms around him and hugged until she felt him relax.

She had led him to the sofa and handed him his beer before opening one for herself. She patted the cushion in the middle and Edgar hopped up. The spaniel turned around five times before slumping down in a heap, his head resting on Poe’s leg. Poe idly fondled his ears.

‘Tell me what happened,’ Doyle said.

‘I don’t think I’m ready . . .’

‘Tell me what happened,’ she repeated.

So Poe had. He told her how he had been reading Bethany’s journal before his interview with Nathan Rose and how he now knew that was a mistake. He told her that the shared antagonism between him and Virginia Rose was entirely his fault. He told her about the Bj?rn Borg remark Virginia Rose had overheard. Doyle had groaned at that bit. She hadn’t chastised him, however; it was obvious there was nothing she could say that he hadn’t already said to himself.

They stopped to eat and to refresh their drinks.

‘It was definitely a suicide?’ Doyle asked during their late supper.

Poe nodded. ‘No doubt about it; I saw the change in his eyes when he decided to do it. Something I’d said made him believe being dead was better than being alive, and that’s a big call for a Christian to make. I’m told God decides when they die; not them.’

Doyle waited until she had finished chewing. She’d looked thoughtful when she put down her fork and picked up her frosted bottle of beer. She took a deep draught then said, ‘Suicide’s been called a permanent solution to a temporary problem. There are really only two reasons someone like the man you’ve described would make such a sudden and drastic decision.’

‘Go on.’

Doyle held up a long, slim finger. ‘Something terrible happened to him, something he simply couldn’t bear revisiting. And he knew it would come out as a result of your investigation.’

‘Something like sexual abuse?’

She nodded.

‘What’s the other thing?’

‘He’d done something terrible, something he didn’t want to face the consequences for.’

Poe considered that carefully, as he did everything Doyle said.

‘What if it was both?’ he’d said eventually.

Poe tracked down Seductive Poison in Fred’s, a small bookshop in Ambleside, in the heart of the Lake District. It was only accessible via twisting, dangerous roads. They were fun to navigate in winter, when you had the freedom to pretend it was the final lap at the Nürburgring, but awful in summer, when you were reduced to twenty miles an hour as dawdling tourists stopped in the middle of the road to take photographs of lakes and mountains and sheep.

He parked on the double yellows outside the shop, ignored the outraged honking horns, and dived inside. Within two minutes he had paid for the book – a tatty, dog-eared second-hand paperback – and was back on the road, cursing as he got wedged between a camper van and an elderly tractor.