‘He’s ex-army intelligence,’ she said. ‘Left under a cloud at the rank of captain. He’s called Oliver Hartley-Graham.’
‘What’s his story?’
‘Dishonourably discharged after he was caught passing on details of future troop deployments to the Chinese. Left the country and never came back. At least not under his real name.’
Oliver Hartley-Graham looked like a man who’d been hit with a rock in a sock after having his testicles ruptured by a woman fighting for her life. He was wearing surgical shorts and a dressing gown. His face was so dry and flaky from the repeated use of rigid collodion that it was hard to tell what he actually looked like.
Poe’s cosh had broken his left clavicle, or collarbone. Although it was a neat break and would be left to heal naturally, Oliver Hartley-Graham would need a sling to support the weight of his left arm for a couple of months.
His right arm was a different matter.
When Hartley-Graham had protected his face with it, his elbow had taken the full force of the rock. As well as the broken bone, he also had damaged nerves and blood vessels. He’d been in surgery for six hours. The plaster he’d have to wear for months ran from his shoulder to his hand and he’d never be able to lift his arm above his head again.
And that wasn’t the worst injury. Because Poe’s first blow had hit Hartley-Graham’s hand while it was on the arm of the wheelchair, he had significant crush trauma. As well as compression fractures to all four fingers, three of his fingertips had burst under the pressure.
He also had a head wound. The one he’d sustained when Poe clubbed him unconscious so he could find Flynn. Although there’d been no lasting damage, the bruise on his right temple had spread into his eye sockets. His right socket was stained yellow and had swollen shut. The left was open but not by much more than a squint. His nose had been set as straight as it could be, but it would always whistle when he breathed through it.
Hartley-Graham was seated in a wheelchair. This time he needed one. He shifted in the seat and winced when he did. Poe suspected he was going to be in pain for a long time.
His solicitor was seated beside him. She was called Lauretta Notman. She was from a local firm. The Barrow cops who knew her said she was tough but fair. She was dark-haired and wore a trouser suit, not unlike the ones Flynn used to wear before the pregnancy caused a wardrobe change.
She was pulsating with anger.
Poe ignored her. She would soon be irrelevant. Instead he locked eyes with Hartley-Graham and wordlessly reaffirmed that the agreement they’d reached in those final minutes on the island still held. Poe was confident it would; it was in neither of their interests for it to get out.
‘So, you’re the Curator, are you?’ he said, reading from his file. ‘A man who couldn’t be in more shit if he’d jumped into a swimming pool filled with shit.’
Hartley-Graham said nothing.
‘I don’t often use the word ghoulish,’ Poe continued, ‘but in your case I can’t actually think of another.’
He picked up a document and pretended to read it.
‘You were a captain in the British Army and you’re now a hired killer,’ he said. ‘Your mother must be so proud.’
‘My client will not be saying anything, Sergeant Poe,’ Notman snapped, clearly not used to being ignored. ‘We have prepared a statement, which you can read now or later.’
She slid a two-page document across the table.
Poe let it fall to the floor.
‘I think there’s been a misunderstanding, Mrs Notman,’ he said. ‘This is a Cumbrian case and I am no longer involved in it. Superintendent Nightingale’s team will be along soon if you still want to talk statements and assault charges. No, I’m here in a liaison capacity.’
Poe opened his file and retrieved a document. He didn’t offer it to Notman. Not yet.
‘My colleague Tilly, who you met on the island, Oliver, broke most of the security on your laptop in under two minutes. We have your files, we have your Black Swan Challenge blueprints and we have the bitcoins you were presumably paid in.’
Bradshaw had found over two million pounds’ worth of the cryptocurrency on Hartley-Graham’s laptop. She was trying to trace its origins but she wasn’t hopeful. She’d explained that he’d probably used random people to withdraw small amounts of his fee from his employer’s digital wallet, giving them a reasonable cut when they did. Tracing the person who’d hired him via his payment would be impossible.
Poe continued, ‘I understand that, unless you give us the password, it will take specialist software to open the rest of it. Proprietary software, which I’m told is only available from the laptop’s manufacturer.’
Notman frowned, unsure where Poe was going.
‘Anyway, I digress. If I may, I’d like to talk about an American called Stuart Wilson and a game called the White Elephant Challenge. Do you remember Stuart? He’s the rich college boy you thought would make the perfect patsy.’
Hartley-Graham shifted in his seat. Poe knew he hadn’t expected to hear that name so early.
‘I know you remember him. You’re an intelligent and well-organised man, Oliver – there’s no way you set someone up unless you think you know all about them.’