Poe knew she was just blowing off steam. He didn’t blame her. Whether Atkinson liked it or not, protecting him was her responsibility. Someone not wanting protection didn’t absolve her of the obligation.
As Nightingale continued to fume at the tide, at the two detectives and at Atkinson himself, Poe found himself tuning her out. He wandered across to the white sign emblazoned with ‘Danger’ in big red letters. It warned against soft sands and incoming tides, and that using a mechanically propelled vehicle on a Site of Special Scientific Interest was strictly prohibited. The waves that lapped at its base were neither gentle nor urgent. They moved with force but died and retreated, leaving nothing behind but sea foam. Poe found something Zen about the tide. Watching something being controlled by a planetary satellite hundreds of thousands of miles away put things into perspective.
Barrow-in-Furness had never scored well on any of the health and wellbeing indicators, despite being set among some of the most striking scenery in the UK. Low self-esteem, high unemployment, low levels of entrepreneurship and a poor sense of identity all contributed to the feeling that Barrow was marking time, waiting for something to happen.
However, despite being linked by road, Walney Island had a different zeitgeist altogether. It was wild and rugged and, to Poe, felt like it was straining to get away from the mainland. As the violent wind took hold of his coat tails, making them crack like a snapped towel, Poe tucked his head into his chin and wondered how many people had stood before him on the same bit of land, shielding their faces against the elements as they squinted at the bleak horizon, pondering a life beyond the Irish Sea. Somewhere exotic, where the sun warmed your back and the air cleared your lungs. In a country where no one lived farther than seventy miles from the coast, he suspected the urge to get in a boat and go exploring was a uniquely British thing.
Nightingale stomped up. Her shoes were ruined and her trouser legs were sodden and muddy. The wind was beating her hair into her face and blowing it above her head. Her eyes looked gritty and tired.
‘I’m booking into a local hotel,’ she said. ‘Going to grab an hour’s kip if I can. Will you, Tilly and DI Flynn want rooms? We could be here a while.’
Poe looked across at his car. Earlier, Bradshaw had taken three steps into the stinging wind and said, ‘Blimey’. She’d immediately got back in the BMW and turned up the heating. So far she’d steadfastly refused to get out, saying the sea air would damage her computers. Flynn was arriving later in her own car.
‘Probably just the two,’ he said. ‘I’ll commute.’
She nodded. ‘We’ll be able to walk across in two hours apparently. As you weren’t with Cumbria when he was attacked, and you’re not with Cumbria now, I’m hoping he might find your presence a bit more palatable.’
‘Not a problem,’ Poe said. ‘Do we have a guide? It’s a dangerous walk.’
‘I spoke to someone who takes tourists from here to Piel Island. He’ll take us across the first time. After that we’ll just have to work something out. Until we’ve found this bastard, I’m putting officers on that island whether Atkinson likes it or not. The marine unit reckons there’s only one place a boat can dock – if we watch that and the route in on foot I think we can ensure no one gets on the island who shouldn’t, while keeping the low profile you wanted.’
Poe nodded. As an ex-infantryman, he knew that observation posts were all about location, not boots on the ground. Choose the right position and one person and a pair of binoculars could cover tens of miles of ground. At sea it was even easier as the only thing you had to contend with was the curvature of the earth.
He walked back to his car and rapped on the window. A startled Bradshaw lowered it an inch.
‘What is it, Poe?’
‘Superintendent Nightingale is booking you and the boss into a hotel,’ he said. ‘Take my car and get checked in. Get a wi-fi signal and start working on who might have hired this prick.’
‘What will you be doing, Poe?’
He looked at the retreating tide.
‘Me? I’m going for a walk …’
Chapter 59
The close-growing lichen that covered the rocks above the tide-line made them look as though they had been sprinkled with curry powder. They were slippery and Poe trod carefully. If Bradshaw heard he’d gone arse over tit he’d never live it down. Gradually, the muddy inlet they followed petered out and became tide-smoothed sand, the dark brown kind that never really dries out, and the going got easier.
It wasn’t obvious at what point they left the saltmarsh on Walney Island’s Snab Point and stepped onto the bed of the Irish Sea. Judging by the way the jelly-like sand was moving underfoot, sucking at his walking boots, Poe reckoned it had been fifteen minutes earlier.
The sand was wet and flat, an environment best suited to crabs and burrowing shellfish. Other than the odd bed of ugly black seaweed, there was no vegetation whatsoever. The gritty sand didn’t even glisten, dulled as it was by the blanket of cloud overhead.
Their guide was called John and he’d been taking tourists to Piel Island for almost thirty years. He had a shock of white hair, a nut-brown face and wore boots stained with salt.
‘We’ll skirt around Sheep Island, take the usual route towards Piel Island for half an hour then bear right towards Montague,’ he told them. ‘You should be able to see it soon.’
Nightingale’s plan was to speak to Atkinson then head back to Walney Island where a command centre was being set up. The two plain-clothed cops she had with her didn’t look happy that they’d be standing the first post.
‘Dunno why the gutter rats couldn’t have loaned us one of their X5s,’ one of them muttered, using the derogatory term for traffic cops.
The other replied, ‘White-hatted bastards wouldn’t want to get mud on their shiny—’
‘Shut it!’ Nightingale snapped.
John the guide chuckled. ‘Can’t drive to Montague Island, son. Piel, yes, if it’s low tide and you have a four-by-four and follow the markers, but Montague, not a chance. Even when the tide’s fully out it’s surrounded by water.’ He pronounced it ‘watter’.
He paused to look around as if searching for something.