Flynn said, ‘Estelle Doyle’s scheduled Howard Teasdale’s post-mortem for the day after tomorrow. Perhaps we’ll know more then.’
‘Perhaps,’ Poe said.
‘What have you been working on, Tilly?’
‘I’ve been profiling Howard Teasdale, DI Flynn,’ Bradshaw replied. ‘I’ve emailed you both my initial report but I’m not sure how helpful it is. He spent more time playing online games than I do.’
‘OK, I’ll look at it later tonight,’ Flynn said. ‘Are you going to draw up profiles on the other two victims now that we know who they are?’
‘I will.’
‘After you’ve examined Rebecca’s laptop you’d better base yourself here. It’ll save you traipsing across Cumbria with Poe.’
‘I like traipsing across Cumbria with Poe.’
Poe stifled a grin.
Flynn sighed. ‘My feet are fucking killing me and my ankles are twice the size they normally are. Can we skip ahead to where we’ve had the argument and I’ve won but Tilly does whatever she pleases anyway?’
‘Sounds about right,’ Poe said.
‘Good, because I need to lie down for a while.’
When Flynn had left, Poe said, ‘Go and get some rest, Tilly – we’re gonna Sherlock the fuck out of this thing tomorrow.’
Bradshaw giggled.
‘Classic Poe. That’s so going on Twitter.’
‘No it bloody isn’t,’ he said.
It was dark when Poe got back to Herdwick Croft. It was cold and empty. He wished he’d stopped to get Edgar. The spaniel brought the croft to life the same way seagulls did at the coast.
He’d collected his mail from reception at Shap Wells Hotel. Because the ancient stone cottage was inaccessible by car and, as the postman had point-blank refused to yomp over two miles of rugged moorland to deliver it every day, he’d come to an arrangement with the hotel to have his mail delivered there.
Poe flicked through it while he swigged a bottle of beer. The last letter was a copy of one sent to his solicitor by the council’s legal department. They wanted Poe’s availability for court.
They were pressing ahead with their eviction.
Poe had been fleeced with the purchase of Herdwick Croft. Victoria’s father, Thomas Hume, had told him it was for sale because of an unexpected council tax demand. He’d offered it to Poe at a knockdown price. Peaceful, isolated, simple – it had everything Poe had ever wanted and he’d turned it from a derelict shepherd’s croft into a home he thought he’d never leave.
But the real reason behind the sale was that Thomas Hume’s planning permission to convert it into a home had been refused. It was worthless. Poe had applied for retrospective planning permission, but since the Lake District National Park had been extended to include Shap Fell, and more recently been given UNESCO status, the chances of success were lower than sheep shit in a tyre track.
Poe’s time at Herdwick Croft was borrowed.
He twisted the letter, put a match to it, and used it to light his wood-burning stove. He finished his beer, made himself a beef sandwich then sat down with his notes. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d missed something at Rebecca’s bungalow. Something had either been there that shouldn’t, or wasn’t there that should have been. He reran his steps and studied the photographs he’d taken but he saw nothing out of the ordinary.
He knew how his mind worked and it was pointless trying to force it. It would either come or it wouldn’t.
When his eyes started to tire he decided he’d be serving the investigation best by getting some sleep. He tidied up then put some water in his espresso maker so it was ready to go in the morning.
He frowned then picked up one of the photographs of the kitchen. He saw the discrepancy immediately.
‘Where’s her bloody kettle?’ he muttered.
Chapter 16
The journey to Rebecca’s bungalow the following morning took longer than expected. A freezing fog was suffocating Shap Fell and the dips and sinkholes simmered like witches’ cauldrons. It was impossible to judge how deep they were and, despite knowing the route well, Poe exercised caution – if he came a cropper he would likely die of exposure before anyone found him.