‘Won’t she suspect something?’
‘Of course. But she’ll be wise enough not to ask.’
Doyle sighed. ‘I can’t believe we’re doing this,’ she said. ‘But if we are, we’re doing it right. I’ll prescribe you some diuretics, Poe. They’ll help you lose a load of water. It’ll give the temporary appearance of weight loss.’
Poe nodded. It was a good idea.
‘A word of caution: they might bung you up a bit.’
‘If Poe eats fibre, it’s entirely by accident, Estelle,’ Bradshaw said. ‘I imagine his bowel movements are something of an ordeal.’
Poe scowled. No one else did. Everyone else laughed, even the grieving Locke. Doyle and Bradshaw bumped fists. He wished they would stop doing that.
‘And I’ll arrange for Joanne Addy to be taken into protective custody,’ Flynn said after she’d wiped away tears of mirth. ‘Is there anyone else he might lash out at?’
‘I don’t think he’ll come after me, but just in case I’ll keep a low profile,’ Locke said.
‘What about Edgar?!’ Bradshaw said.
‘Uncle Bertie,’ Doyle called out. ‘Do you have somewhere safe we can stow Edgar for a week or so?’
‘That damned hooligan spaniel of Washington’s?’ Bertie said.
‘The very same.’
‘I’ll take him back to Yorkshire with me. I have a fishing lodge that no one knows about by the River Foss. Used to take the odd filly there when I wore a younger man’s clothes. He’ll be safe. And if that scoundrel thinks he can come for him on my land, he’ll quickly learn three things: I have several guns and they’re all loaded for deer; I won a silver medal shooting clay pigeons at the Olympics, so he’s not the only one who doesn’t miss; and last of all, I’m a confused and scared old man. I shoot first, I don’t bother asking questions later, and there isn’t a court in the land that would convict me. Washington’s dog is safe with me, Lady Doyle. You can count on it.’
Doyle nodded at Bradshaw. ‘Uncle Bertie won’t drink another drop of alcohol until this is over, Tilly. He’s as safe with him as anywhere.’
‘But, Washington,’ Bertie said, ‘you mentioned there might be a bottle of the Macallan M in this for you?’
‘There is,’ Poe said. ‘Archie Arreghini promised me his last one if I found his daughter’s killer.’
‘I’d love a dram, if you have one spare?’
‘You can have the whole damned bottle, Uncle Bertie.’
‘I think we’re drawing to a close,’ Locke said. ‘I have a house to secure with bullet-resistant glass, and Hannah will need to discuss Miss Bradshaw’s routines with her so she can mirror her actions.’
‘We’ll beef up Tilly’s car too,’ Finch said. ‘Just in case he tries for me on the street. He won’t, but it’s my head on the block.’
Locke made a note. ‘I’ll get our people on it. Make sure the driver’s window is reinforced. We’ll use the same stuff the PM gets. You’ll drive the route before Poe goes on television?’
‘I’ll know it like the back of my hand. If there are any pinch points, I’ll fix them.’
‘Is there anything else, Poe?’ Locke asked.
‘Actually, there is,’ Poe said. ‘I was in the army, but I wasn’t a sniper. I need someone to walk me through what Puck will look for in a firing position.’
Locke grinned. ‘I know just the man,’ he said.
Chapter 96
Herdwick Croft, Shap Fell, Cumbria
Most people experience nature as scenery. Something pretty. A postcard, or a fleeting moment captured by a smartphone camera. They go back to their cities and talk about how quiet it was. How dark the skies were. That the air smelled different. Cleaner. They talk about how they loved their wild camping weekend and that theycouldn’t wait to go back again, their stories carefully edited to avoid mentioning the glamping pods, the shower huts, the free wi-fi, the amenities they’d never admit to being addicted to.
Glampers didn’t glamp at Shap Fell, though. The harsh moor wasn’t Beatrix Potter’s Cumbria. It wasn’t photo friendly, not in the way that Catbells or the Old Man of Coniston were. It was unforgiving. It was a fell with teeth and attitude. The kind of landscape where Grendel,Beowulf’s monster, might have summered. Most of the year, as Poe would be the first to admit, it was a bloody wretched place. A wet desert, steeped in mist and misery. The only people he saw hiking up and down Shap Fell were serious about what they were doing. They had the right equipment, the right footwear. They knew what to do when things went wrong. They were Poe’s kind of people, people he would share a pint and a tall tale with in the Greyhound Inn.
