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Except the trees. The stunted, thorny hawthorns that somehow eked out an existence on the moor stood out like they’d been X-rayed. Harsh black against the perfect, untouched white canvas that stretched as far as the eye could see.
Edgar yelped with joy – he loved the snow. He bounded out in a splash of white powder and had soon disappeared in new, clean surroundings. Poe had collected him last night. It wasn’t convenient but the truth was he missed him when he wasn’t there.
He watched the spaniel’s antics for a while but Poe wasn’t dressed for snow and he was soon shivering. The cold air fogged his breath, chilled his cough-ravaged lungs and watered his eyes. As soon as Edgar returned, all wet and steaming, Poe went to find something more suitable to wear. He chose layers rather than thick coats and jumpers – snow on Shap Fell didn’t mean snow lower down.
He called Bradshaw to tell her he was on his way, whistled for Edgar to jump on the back of the quad – the only way of getting to and from Herdwick Croft that didn’t involve walking – and set off for Shap Wells and his car.
Poe picked up Bradshaw outside the North Lakes Hotel and Spa’s reception. Bradshaw had found someone who might be able to help. He was called Sean Carroll and he was a kite nerd. He lived in Cullercoats on the north-east coast. Poe reckoned it would take an hour and a half to get there.
The previous night he’d called Nightingale and told her where they’d be the next day. She hadn’t been keen – Rome was burning and she wanted SCAS drawing up profiles, not goofing off playing the fiddle. Poe privately agreed but he’d told her that Bradshaw thought it was worth doing and he’d learned never to dismiss that.
Twenty minutes later they were on the A69, headed towards Newcastle. It was a road Poe knew well and he slowed down for the fixed speed cameras and eased up to a steady eighty when the road allowed. It seemed most drivers had taken the advice on the radio and were only doing essential journeys – the road was as quiet as he’d seen it.
They were on the Coast Road and had already passed Battle Hill when his phone rang. It was Nightingale. Poe pressed the accept button on his steering wheel.
‘Ma’am,’ he said. ‘You’re on speakerphone. I’ve got Tilly with me.’
‘How far from Newcastle are you?’
‘Not too far, ma’am. We’re meeting the kite dork in Cullercoats – it’s a bit farther up the coast. What’s up?’
‘The snow’s playing havoc over here. Half the county’s shut and the other half has blue skies and sunshine. I’m supposed to be in Newcastle later to observe the post-mortem on Howard Teasdale but I’m still in Barrow. I’m not convinced I’ll be able to get across. I was wondering if you’d be able to stand in for me?’
‘What time’s it scheduled for?’
‘Two o’clock. Professor Doyle can delay it an hour if that helps.’
‘Two o’clock works. I can’t see this kite thing taking too long.’
‘Thanks, Poe.’
‘Sean Carroll’s a kite enthusiast,’ Bradshaw said after Nightingale had ended the call. ‘He’s not a dork.’
Poe grunted. He had a problem with ‘enthusiasts’. As far as he was concerned, on the ladder of weird interests that eventually escalated to criminal behaviour, enthusiasts were only a rung below obsessives, and he’d seen first-hand what obsessed people were capable of …
Carroll was meeting them at the beach rather than his home or place of work. He was still on holiday and the weather was going to be perfect for kite flying. He hadn’t wanted to waste it. He’d promised to bring everything with him.
He’d sent Bradshaw directions to the car park and said he’d be in an old Ford Transit. He hadn’t supplied a colour or registration number but that didn’t matter. It was the only vehicle there.
The wind was strong enough to send sand sweeping across the concrete, obscuring the bay markings, but it was no big deal. Poe parked adjacent to him.
If Poe had thought about it at all, he’d have pictured someone like Bradshaw’s friend Jeremy. When the office had unofficially labelled her team the Mole People, Poe was sure they’d done it with Jeremy in mind. A pale, bookish man with thick glasses and thin fingers. Could solve fractional equations without using a calculator but had to be told to wear a coat when it was cold.
Sean Carroll looked more like a bouncer.
He was six-and-a-half feet tall, shaven-headed and, despite the cold, he only wore a T-shirt. He had hands like bunches of bananas and knuckles like walnuts. A barbed wire tattoo wrapped a bicep bigger than Poe’s thigh.
He smiled warmly and shook Bradshaw’s hand, his ham-sized fist dwarfing her own. When he shook Poe’s, his grip was firm and dry.
‘I understand you want help identifying a kite, Miss Bradshaw?’ He had a strong Geordie accent.
‘We do, Sean Carroll.’
Bradshaw’s unusual way of addressing people didn’t faze him. He nodded, reached into the open window of his van and retrieved two files. He handed her one.
‘You can take this away but I’ll answer anything I can now.’
‘Tilly’s sent you photographs of the kite and composite computer images of possible logos,’ Poe said.
