A stone terrace, thirty yards by fifteen, ran the length of the bungalow and beyond. It stretched all the way to the cliff edge. Raised, weed-free flowerbeds were set into the low wall that bordered the terrace. Poe had no doubt that come spring they would be a riot of colou
rs and scents. A place to enjoy the breeze, the sun and sea spray.
At the far end of the terrace a brick barbecue and a pizza oven were fixed into the wall, both at an accessible height for someone in a wheelchair. A neat pile of chopped wood was stacked under a covered lean-to. Poe hadn’t seen any trees on the island and assumed Atkinson had the same problem he had: having to buy in his fuel – a small price to pay to live in such a raw and beautiful environment, though. Terracotta pots containing hardy plants were positioned to catch the sun, but otherwise the terrace was clutter free.
Wheelchair-sized observation areas had been cut into the wall at regular intervals. Atkinson would be able to admire the view from any direction he wanted. In decent weather the Isle of Man would be visible. Today, though, Poe could only see as far as the Walney Wind Farm. With over one hundred turbines, it was one of the largest offshore wind farms in the world.
Poe peered over the edge of the terrace wall. The cliffs weren’t as sheer as they had appeared from a distance, and he could see down to the grey seal colony basking on the rocks below and, because the bungalow sat on the top of an inlet, he could also see the land either side. A grim-looking graveyard dominated the bluff on the right. Poe wondered if it was for the islanders or whether it was where the Chinese labourers had been interred. Probably the latter; the gravestones were too uniform to have been spread over a period of time.
Poe watched a wave crash into the rocks below and, although it bothered the seals about as much as the fat content in sausages bothered him, it did send up a cloud of sea spray that caught the wind. Poe felt it on his face. He wiped it off with the back of his hand.
Atkinson didn’t move.
He was in his wheelchair, pushed up against one of the more central viewpoints, his back to the bungalow. Poe wasn’t surprised to see he had a powerful build – he knew how hard he had to work at Herdwick Croft and Atkinson had double the work with probably half the number of working muscles. A weak man couldn’t manage a property like this. Atkinson was probably stronger than he was.
He had a pair of binoculars raised to his eyes and he was staring out to sea.
‘I saw a minke whale yesterday,’ he said without warning and without turning round. His voice was muffled. ‘I’ve been waiting to see if it’s still here.’
‘Really? I didn’t think they came this far,’ Poe said.
Atkinson said nothing for several moments. ‘You lot just won’t take no for an answer, will you?’
‘I’m not the police, Mr Atkinson.’
He sighed and lowered the binoculars into his blanket-covered lap. ‘So, who are you then?’ With practised efficiency, he pushed one wheel, pulled the other and did a neat one-eighty.
And Poe got his first look at the person they called ‘the man in the mask’.
Chapter 62
Poe had attended surveillance courses throughout his career, and the one lesson that had stuck was to look beyond the moustache, the long beard, the silly hat. A man robs a post office wearing a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles and the human condition meant that that would be all the eyewitnesses would remember. Ten people would describe the same person differently but they’d all be able to tell you what his glasses looked like.
He’d assumed he was above all that. That when he looked at people, he really looked at them. But, right then, if anyone had asked him the colour of Atkinson’s hair, he wouldn’t have been able to tell them – all he could see was the mask.
Bradshaw had sent him a link so he’d known what to expect but seeing it for the first time was still a shock. It was clear plastic and moulded to fit the contours of Atkinson’s acid-ravaged face. It started at his hairline and ended an inch or so underneath his chin. It extended to his ears and had a hinged jaw, which explained why his voice had been muffled.
He could see the hypertrophic scarring underneath, the result of an overgrowth of collagen, the fibrous protein that forms part of the body’s supporting tissue. The network of scars were thick and white and awful. It looked as if Atkinson’s face was covered with caul fat, the lacy membrane of a pig’s abdomen that encases butcher’s faggots.
The inert plastic mask applied direct pressure to the face and helped flatten out the non-elastic collagen fibres and reduce the livid purple hues. Bradshaw said it would be OK to take it off for short periods of time, although it would get uncomfortable – the mask caused sweat to build up on the face, which kept the scarring moist and flexible.
‘I’m sorry,’ Poe said. ‘I thought I’d have done better.’
He stepped forward and offered his hand. It wasn’t taken. ‘I’m Washington Poe. I’m with the National Crime Agency and I really need to talk to you.’
‘So talk,’ Atkinson said.
‘Can I bring Detective Superintendent Jo Nightingale round? She’s police but she’s good people, I promise you.’
‘You know what Cumbria Police did to me?’
‘I do and I’m sorry. All I can say is that neither me nor the super had anything to do with it.’
Atkinson shrugged. ‘Five minutes. Then I want you off my property.’
Without another word he wheeled himself up the ramp, through the modern French doors and into the cottage.
Poe walked round to what they’d assumed was the front of the bungalow. Nightingale was still peering through the keyhole.