‘Best you don’t know, Kylian.’
‘Prick,’ he sai
d. ‘I meant I’m going to need more than just “I need another favour”, I need to know what the fucking favour is.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Within the hour Reid had emailed Poe a list of all C. Nolans, Charlie Nolans and Charles Nolans registered for council tax in Cumbria. There were fourteen. He passed the list to Bradshaw, who asked how she could refine it.
That was easy enough.
Excluding motorway services, there were only four Marks and Spencer stores in Cumbria. He told Bradshaw to remove anyone who lived in West Cumbria or Eden; they’d use the Workington or Penrith stores for their regular shopping. For the same reason, he told her to remove anyone living below junction 39 on the M6 corridor: the Kendal store served the bottom half of the county.
That left the Carlisle area, and reduced the list to four. One lived in the city centre and Poe discounted them – retired jewellers were more likely to live in one of the thousand and one picturesque villages dotted around Cumbria, not in the middle of a grubby city.
One lived in Brampton and the other two lived in villages: one in Warwick Bridge and the other in Cumwhinton. On the basis that it could be any of them, Poe decided to start with the nearest Nolan then work outwards. C. Nolan in Warwick Bridge would be first; it was a nice village just outside Carlisle. They’d then move on to the other C. Nolan in Cumwhinton, and turn back for the Charles Nolan in Brampton.
* * *
They got lucky on the first go – although, as Poe said to Bradshaw, when you’ve narrowed your search to just four people, how lucky is it?
The man who answered the door was genteel and polite. He was in his early sixties. He wore a frayed cardigan, thick-lensed spectacles and a broad smile. When they’d confirmed that they were the Nolans who frequented Coffee Genius twice a week, his wife put the kettle on and insisted they stay for some cake.
‘Washington, eh? There’s an ambassadorial name if ever there was one. I can just imagine it being mentioned in high-stakes diplomatic dispatches. The sort of name that stops war being declared. There’s a fascinating story behind it, no doubt?’
Everyone’s a fucking onomatologist . . .
‘You don’t know, do you, Poe?’ Bradshaw said, unwittingly rescuing him.
Poe smiled at her and shook his head. ‘That’s right, Tilly. I don’t.’
‘Ah,’ Nolan said. ‘Then how can I help you?’
‘We’re trying to trace a watch,’ Poe said.
‘Not high-stakes diplomacy then?’
‘Definitely not. My boss would be keen to tell you that diplomacy isn’t the strongest part of my character,’ Poe said, taking a bite of the excellent cake. He told Nolan his problem.
‘I assume this watch has been stolen?’
‘Of a fashion,’ Poe replied.
‘And the National Crime Agency gets involved with thefts, do they?’ he asked with a twinkle in his eyes.
Poe said nothing.
‘Sorry. Of course, I’ll help if I can. I used to own three shops and I like to think we had some of the better ones.’
‘What happened?’
He flexed his hand. ‘Arthritis, I’m afraid. Curse of the jeweller. That and fading eyesight meant I couldn’t hold or see anything smaller than a penny. I sold up. The shops are all gone now. One of them is now Coffee Genius, which is why we go there.’ He sighed, ‘Still, I did well out of it so shouldn’t complain. Now, tell me about this watch you need help with.’
Bradshaw handed over the photograph showing the Breitling’s serial number.
‘This is the one we’re trying to trace,’ Poe said. ‘Do you need the model and year?’
‘If you have it,’ Nolan said, ‘although Breitling’s serial numbers are unique across the whole range. In other words, there won’t be two different models with the same number. But the model might jog someone’s memory.’