‘It was. But he was always honest about why he wanted me to do certain things. So were you. And then it was my decision if I wanted to do it or not. But Alastor lies all the time.’
‘I’m a spy,’ Locke shrugged. ‘It’s in my job description.’ He removed his glasses and began polishing them again.
‘I work with Tilly or I don’t work at all, Alastor.’
‘I don’t think he’s bluffing, mate,’ Flynn said.
‘Alastor,’ Spiggens warned. ‘I don’t want to go over your head, but I will if I have to.’
‘Of course,’ Locke said. He smiled politely at Poe. ‘If youandMiss Bradshaw could review the evidence, the Right Honourable Mr Spiggens and I would be eternally grateful.’
Chapter 9
Mathers took them to the incident room. The Met had assumed command because the first shooting had taken place in London, and because they were the only force with enough horsepower to manage something this big – but sixteen territorial forces were conducting their own investigations. The sniper had shot and killed multiple people but never in the same police area. Which meant that as well as leading the national response, Mathers was also coordinating murder investigations in seventeen different force areas. They needed everyone else’s intelligence, and they needed to feed in their own. Each force had sent liaison officers and they all required space to work. They needed back-office staff and technical support. For every badged officer there were four or five without badges helping them do their job. A bog-standard incident room wasn’t going to cut it this time. Mathers needed somewhere bigger.
She had taken the pragmatic choice and hired Blencathra House, a conference centre near the British Library. It was equidistant between King’s Cross and Euston – the two main train stations northern cops would use. She’d hired the whole centre and brought in her own staff to protect it. Armed cops patrolled the grounds and checked the ID of everyone entering and exiting the building.
After they’d got through security, Flynn and Bradshaw were waylaid by someone they’d once worked with. Poe didn’t know them, so he followed Mathers. He wasn’t in the mood to meet new people.
‘How’s this working out?’ Poe asked.
‘It’s the private sector so it’s better than anything we have,’ Mathers said. ‘Their tech is superb. The broadband is shit hot. Everything is state-of-the-art. If it weren’t, businesses wouldn’t use it.’
‘How many people are in here?’
‘At any one time, at least three hundred. When there’s a big briefing or a new murder it can double as cops from outside the area come in.’
‘Anything from the hotline?’
‘Nothing sensible. Lots of grievances being settled.’
Poe grunted his annoyance. Any time a hotline was set up, the public took the opportunity to ratchet up decade-long feuds. The original argument might have stemmed from their neighbour’s dog shitting on their lawn, but by the time they called the hotline it was because Bob from next door was ‘noncey as fuck’ or he’d converted his garage into an IRA bomb factory.
‘There hasn’t been a single breakthrough?’ Poe said. ‘Maybe something you didn’t want to tell the blabbermouth politician about?’
‘Nothing actionable. We know the weapon and ammunition he’s using, but that’s it. He shoots from distance and he doesn’t leave any trace evidence. Before he leaves he throws down a load of sugar. Within minutes the ground’s covered in creepy-crawlies and within minutes of them turning up, a bunch of birds have arrived to eat them.’
‘Clever,’ Poe said. ‘So even if he’s left trace evidence, the wildlife makes it next to impossible to recover it.’
‘Exactly.’
‘What distance is he shooting from?’
‘The closest was two hundred yards – from just inside the treeline of a wood – and the furthest was twelve hundred.’
‘Good shooting.’
‘Some of us think it’stoogood,’ Mathers said. ‘The current theory is that he’s an ex-military sniper.’
‘Is that whatyouthink?’
‘I’d rather hear what you think. You have completely fresh eyes.’
Mathers had stopped next to a trestle table stocked with fruit and sandwiches and pastries. Fuel for those who didn’t have time to nip out for food. Poe grabbed a mug and poured himself a coffee. He took a sandwich, lifted the corner, and put it back.
‘Fish paste,’ he said in disgust. ‘That’s all I bloody need.’ He took a drink of coffee. It was hot, nicer than expected. He lifted his mug in appreciation. ‘Private sector providing the coffee too?’
Mathers nodded. ‘Speaking of the private sector – why the hell are you still on that boat? Why aren’t you doing three days a month consultancy for six figures a year?’
