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‘Exactly.’ He paused. ‘What made us trust it, ma’am?’
‘Because it was compelling,’ she said without hesitation.
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘Something more primitive than that. Something intrinsically cerebral.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Psychologically, we’re predisposed to rely on evidence more heavily if we’ve had to work hard for it. And, as you say, we had to work hard for everything we found, but it was there. The trail never went completely cold. I think that other than Tilly’s yellow dots, everything we’ve uncovered so far we were meant to uncover. It’s almost as if he wanted us to get to Atkinson first.’
‘Oh shit,’ she said. ‘Is it possible he hasn’t been able to find Atkinson after all? That he deliberately allowed us to identify him so we’d lead him there? All he has to do is follow someone involved in the investigation. Me, probably – I’ve been doing daily press conferences.’
Poe had already considered and dismissed that.
‘Someone this resourceful would have been able to track him down eventually,’ he said. ‘And even if he was struggling to find him, he must have known that once we’d identified who his target was, you’d do exactly what you have done: make the island impregnable. With just two people we have three hundred and sixty degree coverage. Armed response is on permanent standby and the marine unit can get them on the island in minutes. It looks like security is lax but it’s an illusion – it’s actually very thorough. No way is he getting to Atkinson now. His best chance of success was always to stay covert.’
‘So what’s this really about, Poe?’
‘I don’t know and that’s what worries me.’
Chapter 71
The sky was the colour of lead. Unbroken, unblemished cloud stretching as far as the eye could see. Serious clouds for serious weather. The Met Office had issued a yellow warning for snow and Poe did what he always did with their alerts: he added a colour. Shap Fell always got an extreme version of Cumbria’s weather and although the snow was light now it was only going to get heavier.
Bradshaw had insisted on coming back to Herdwick Croft. She said they still had work to do and he knew better than to argue. His quad would be able to cope with the snow so at least she wouldn’t get stranded – the treads on the tyres were an inch and a half deep. Even so, he took it slowly, tested every dip for drift, and got back to Herdwick Croft fifteen minutes later than he usually did.
As soon as they were inside Poe boiled some water and fired up the wood-burning stove. He’d had enough coffee but he made Bradshaw a mug of nettle tea. She accepted it gratefully.
‘Where do you want to start, Poe?’ she said.
Poe had been arguing with himself for more than an hour and he still had no idea who would win.
‘I feel like I’m the idiot who’s peeped through the letterbox and thinks he’s seen the whole house, Tilly. No way someone this clued in doesn’t know we’ve identified his target, so either he has contingencies, or us being there was part of his plan all along.’
‘But what could that plan be, Poe?’
Poe stood still and tried to untangle his mind. None of it felt right, some evidence contradicted other evidence – it was like trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube that fought back. Every suspect they’d identified, every clue they’d uncovered, when put under the lens looked like a square peg in an oblong hole. It fit but it left obvious gaps.
So it was the gaps that he focused on. It was there he thought he’d find the answers. The real answers, not the faux-answers they were being drip-fed. And they had enough information so they wouldn’t be far away – intangible for now, but only a prompt away from instant recall. Like remembering the words to a long-forgotten song when the guitar thrums out the opening riff.
Poe didn’t know who had fallen asleep first. He suspected he had. He remembered he and Bradshaw talking themselves into a loop. How the Curator seemed to want them on the island but while they were there Atkinson was untouchable. The more they talked about it, the less sense it made. Eventually Poe had sat down and yawned.
His collar was now damp with drool, his head felt as though it was stuffed with marshmallows and his mouth was parched. He checked his watch. It was almost 6.30 p.m. There’d be another high tide soon and Coughlan’s shift would be ending. He’d send him an email. The grizzled cop had promised to pass on his instructions to check in on Flynn to his replacement, and he wanted to remind him.
Poe stood, stretched, walked over to the sink and turned on the tap. By the time he’d filled his glass Bradshaw had woken. She’d been curled at the end of the couch, in the place Edgar usually slept.
‘What time is it, Poe?’ she yawned.
‘Late. Nearly half-six. Let’s get you back to Shap Wells. We have an early start tomorrow.’
Bradshaw nodded tiredly and rubbed the back of her neck. When she’d gathered what she needed, Poe opened his front door.
‘Fuck,’ he said.
Because that was the thing with Shap Fell: when the weather turned, it turned quickly. The snow, falling like confetti two hours earlier, was now a swirling white vortex. The word blizzard seemed inadequate. It was more arctic tundra than Cumbrian fell out there, the type of weather that made statistics out of ill-prepared tourists. The type of weather that made statistics out of experienced mountaineers …
