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‘He was whale watching,’ Poe said. ‘He’s not happy but he’s agreed to give us five minutes.’
‘What’s he like?’ she asked.
‘Pissed off. And don’t stare at his face. We won’t get away with that twice.’
Much like Herdwick Croft, most of the bungalow was open-plan. The French doors led into a large living area. A wood-burning stove filled with glowing embers warmed the room. The floor was stripped pine and the walls were whitewashed. The furniture was minimal and functional and there were wheelchair friendly routes between everything. No tight corners or narrow gaps between chairs. Two of Atkinson’s walls were fitted with bookcases and every chair in the room had a quality reading lamp beside it. No prizes for guessing what he did in the evening.
The room and its fittings had been designed well: nothing was out of reach for a man sitting down. The doorframes Poe could see had been widened and the doorknobs lowered, the floor was obstruction free and there was ample space to turn a wheelchair. Poe assumed the kitchen and bedrooms were equally as accessible.
Nothing was cheap either; it was all high-quality stuff. The kind you have when you spend most of your time at home. Poe would have liked a look around the rest of the bungalow. He felt an affinity with Atkinson and his way of life and thought he could probably learn from him.
There was a gap between two low tables and Atkinson reversed into it. It looked to be where he sat when he wasn’t using one of the reading chairs. Poe didn’t want to sit without being invited, but he didn’t want to stand over Atkinson either. Lesson one, day one of the interviewing victims and witnesses course was get down to their eye level.
Nightingale forced the issue by taking a seat. Poe got the feeling she was still annoyed that Atkinson had sent her officers back with a flea in their ear the night before. He reluctantly took the seat opposite her.
‘Mr Atkinson,’ Nightingale said, ‘my name is—’
‘Not you, him,’ Atkinson said, clipping her sentence. ‘I won’t talk to Cumbria Police. He said you were a nice person and I won’t have you standing outside in this weather but while you’re in my house you won’t speak.’
Nightingale stared at him. Eventually she shrugged.
‘Fine,’ she said.
‘Mr Atkinson,’ Poe said, ‘we have reason to believe that your life’s in danger.’
Atkinson’s expression didn’t change. Poe wasn’t sure if it could underneath the mask.
‘Out here?’ he said. ‘I hardly think so.’
‘Nevertheless.’
‘Why, though?’
‘We don’t know. We think because of the court case.’
‘I was cleared of all wrongdoing and even if I hadn’t been’ – he gestured at the wheelchair and at his face – ‘I’ve paid a steep enough price already.’
‘We believe this threat is credible.’
‘I imagine they all do to Cumbria Police. They won’t want to mess up again.’
‘Can I tell him, ma’am?’ Poe asked Nightingale. They needed Atkinson to start taking things seriously and at the minute they were getting nowhere.
Nightingale nodded.
‘Mr Atkinson, on Christmas Eve two severed fingers were found wrapped in a Secret Santa gift in Carlisle. On Christmas Day two more were found in the font in a church in Barrow. The last pair was found on Boxing Day. They’d been put into the deli counter at a food hall in Whitehaven. Each pair came from a different victim. The victims are all dead.’
Atkinson stared at him.
‘All the victims have now been identified, although only one body has been recovered. We think you’ve been selected as the fourth and final victim.’
‘What makes you think that? I don’t bother anyone out here. I rarely see anyone. The court case is over.’
‘Because of who the three victims were.’
When Atkinson spoke his voice was muted. ‘Who were they?’
Poe glanced at Nightingale.
