By the time he got to the outskirts of Carlisle the mist had disappeared and the sun was low and dazzling. It was the type of weather where you needed sunglasses but felt silly wearing them.
Bradshaw was waiting for him at the side of the road. CSI had finished processing Rebecca’s bungalow during the night and their vans were no longer parked outside. A lone uniformed constable stood at the entrance of the driveway. He watched them approach then bent down to retrieve a clipboard protected by a clear plastic sheet. Poe and Bradshaw showed him their IDs then waited for him to radio it in. When he received authority, he told them they were free to go in.
‘Door’s not locked,’ he said as they walked past.
Other than the millions of particles of fingerprint dust that hung in the air, the bungalow looked the same as it had the day before. Poe walked Bradshaw over to the laptop. Before she could open it and get stuck into its guts, he gave her a bit of context.
‘The laptop has been left for you to examine, Tilly. Rebecca Pridmore was a senior contracts officer with the MoD and was currently working on some sort of strategic weapons system for nuclear submarines. On her laptop there will be any number of interesting things – most of which will lead us down blind alleys if we let them. Your job is to separate the interesting from the important.’
&
nbsp; He paused to let it sink in.
‘Jeez, Poe, and you say I’m a dork …’
‘Just tell me if she was hacked, will you?’ he said. ‘The killer was on a tight schedule and I need to know how he knew when she’d be at home.’
The laptop was password protected. Bradshaw opened one of her own laptops and before long she had cables running between them. In two minutes Rebecca’s MoD-encrypted laptop was unlocked.
Poe left her to it. She was oblivious to him now anyway.
The day before, when he’d been searching the bungalow, he’d been restricted in where he could look by where CSI had put down their stepping plates. Now that the scene had been processed he could go anywhere he wanted.
And he had a kettle to find.
Which he failed to do.
‘What are you looking for, Poe?’ Bradshaw said.
‘I can’t find her kettle.’
‘There’s a café not far from here. Shall I go and get you a black coffee?’
‘I meant it’s bothering me that I can’t find it.’
‘Lots of people don’t have a kettle, Poe.’
‘I don’t know a single person who doesn’t have a kettle,’ he said.
‘You don’t have one.’
‘I have a pot I use.’
‘Maybe she has a pot she uses.’
‘Perhaps,’ he said, looking round the sleek, modern kitchen, ‘but I doubt it.’
The sound of clacking stopped.
Bradshaw said, ‘There’s nothing obvious on her laptop. If she’s been hacked then my program hasn’t been able to spot it. And as I wrote the program I’m confident in saying that she hasn’t been hacked.’
‘Bollocks,’ he said. He’d not expected to find anything but he was still disappointed.
‘I’ll run the program again using slightly different search parameters, but …’
A tall man had entered the room. He had a stiff walk, like he’d eaten some bad prawns. He didn’t see Poe so approached Bradshaw.
‘I’m looking for Detective Sergeant Washington Poe,’ he said.