‘You’ll see nothing, Poe,’ Towler had said. ‘If he’s wearing a ghillie suit, you won’t see him. Not if he stays still. If he knows what he’s doing, and we have to assume he does, he’ll have collected vegetation and attached it to the suit. He’ll look like the ground. He’ll blend in as if he’s part of the fell. But that’s OK.’
‘It is?’
‘He’llblend in.He’lllook natural. But the thing is, a sniper’s rifle is long and it’s thin and it doesn’t look like part of the landscape. It looks like a fucking gun. He’ll try to break up its shape by tying bits of hessian and shit to it, but he can’t do too much as he needs to be able to see through the sight. You look for the gun, not him.’
So, Poedidn’tlook for Puck. He looked for the straight edges, the unnatural shapes. The loathsome thing that shouldn’t be there.
And there it was. A barrel. Unmistakable when you knew what you were looking for.
And hunched behind it, a clump of moss and heather that Poe knew hadn’t been there when he and Towler had looked over the lip of the crater. For a moment, he marvelled at how well Ezekiel Puck had melded into Shap Fell. He stared at the man for five minutes and Puck didn’t move an inch. It didn’t even look like he was breathing. He was good.Verygood.
Poe carefully backed up until he could only see Herdwick Croft. His cottage would be his starter pistol. He formed a basket with his hands and rested his head. Fixed his eyes on his bedroom window.
Time grew still.
Then it stopped.
Poe didn’t take his eyes off his cottage.
And after an age, Bradshaw’s timer worked its magic. His bedroom light came on. Edgar started to bark. He could hear him like he was right next to him.
Poe started to move. He had two minutes.
He crawled to the edge of the crater and got to his feet. The path down was wiry grass. He couldn’t walk on it silently, but that didn’t matter. Puck was in the zone now, oblivious to anything but Herdwick Croft’s front door.
He had two minutes to cover 10 yards. He kept one eye on Puck, one eye on the ground.
The downstairs light came on.
Puck moved. Poe saw him inflate his chest. Filled his lungs so he could hold his breath. Made sure he had a stable firing position.
And then Poe was standing over him.
Towler had said he had to finish it faster than a knife fight in a phone booth. That he should stamp on his head and keep stamping. Then throw him down an old mineshaft.
That was a good plan. A safe plan.
But Poe didn’t want to do that. Puck was going to answer for his crimes in a prison, not a hospital for people with acquired brain injuries.
He waited. Wasn’t sure when to do it.
Not to worry, Ezekiel Puck decided for him. Some sixth sense made him spin round. And just like Towler had said, he kept hold of his weapon.
Stupid.
Poe stamped on Puck’s right arm. He heard it crack. He brought the same boot down on Puck’s throat. Enough pressure for him to know he wasn’t fucking around. Puck was wild-eyed with panic.
‘How?’ he gurgled.
‘Hello, Ezekiel,’ Poe said. ‘Nice to finally meet you.’
He then bent down and punched him in the face. A jab. Stunned him. By the time Puck’s eyes had stopped watering, Poe had handcuffed him to the rear and called it in.
It was over.
Chapter 105
Charing Cross Police Station, London
