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Poe picked up the slim file on the table. Pretended to read from it. ‘Would it surprise you to learn you’re the only person we’ve identified with confirmed links to both victims? You were assigned to Cummings’s security detail and your daughter was being abused online by one of Kane Hunt’s lackeys.’
‘What’s your point?’
‘My point, Detective Constable Price, is that right now we don’t have anyone else for this—’
He was cut short by a rapid knock on the door. Flynn entered the room. She handed Poe a bit of paper then took the seat next tohim. Poe quickly read it. He glanced at Flynn, who nodded.
‘Seems we have the wrong man, Detective Constable Price. A colleague of mine has compared your voice to the killer’s and she assures me you are no match.’
‘I can go?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ Poe said. ‘Because there’s something else on this piece of paper. A message from Lancashire Constabulary. Apparently, Ashley McCall, the wanker who was abusing your daughter, was found beaten to a bloody pulp last night. Two broken arms, ten broken fingers. Ruptured spleen and a jaw that’ll never again line up properly.’
Price didn’t answer.
‘Detectives from Lancashire are coming down to speak to you,’ Poe said. ‘You’ll be held in custody until then. Can I make a suggestion?’
‘Please do.’
‘Take your own advice: don’t say a word to anyone until you’ve spoken to your rep.’
Price nodded. Pretended to zip up his lips.
After he had been led out of the interview room, Poe said, ‘Guess that’s what happens when you mess with the wrong person’s daughter. Do Lancashire like him for it?’
‘They do. Don’t think they can prove it, though.’
Poe was oddly comforted by that.
‘We’re back to square one,’ he said. ‘We have absolutely no idea who’s doing this.’
‘That’s not the only bit of bad news,’ Flynn said. ‘The results are back from the tap on Cummings’s bath.’
‘And?’
‘Negative.’
‘You’re joking? I was so sure.’
‘No trace whatsoever. Whatever poisoned Cummings, it wasn’t a tampered hot water tap.’
‘Why do I feel like I’m in a John Dickson Carr novel?’ Poe said.
‘Who?’
‘American crime novelist. Arguably the greatest locked-roommystery writer who ever lived. We have a killer in London who warns his victims yet still gets to them, and up north someone murdered Estelle Doyle’s father and walked away from the crime scene without treading on a single fucking snowflake.’
‘It’s not all bad news,’ Flynn said. ‘Tilly’s found an old address for Henning Stahl. Let’s go and be detectives for a while.’
