Poe took his time answering. ‘I’ve thought about it,’ he admitted. ‘I went through some . . . stuff recently.’
‘I heard.’
‘I thought I was invincible. Turns out I’m not. And swimming in shit all dayisrapidly losing its appeal.’
‘Also, aren’t you a duke now?’ Mathers said, grinning. ‘Don’t you have poor people to oppress?’
Poe returned her smile. It was true that he was marrying into the aristocracy. Doyle had inherited her late father’s title and estate. She was nowLadyDoyle. ‘Since we got engaged, I’d be surprised if we’ve spent two consecutive nights together.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Mathers said. ‘I have two daughters I never see. I missed my eldest representing her school in the lacrosse finals this year.’
‘It takes its toll,’ Poe agreed. ‘It’s because we never have good days, only bad.’
Mathers burst out laughing. ‘What a pair of moaning bastards we are.’ She pushed herself off the wall she’d been leaning against. ‘Anyway, you’re here to work. So please, tell me what you think.’
‘You really want to know?’ Poe said.
‘Ordinarily, SCAS sticking their beak into an ongoing operation is about as welcome as genital warts. But I don’t know how to catch this guy, Poe. Tell me what you think.’
‘Why have you focused on military snipers?’
‘Because he’s familiar with weapons. Because he can shoot. Because he can hide.’
‘So can gamekeepers, Civil War re-enactment weirdos, police marksmen and people who compete in biathlons,’ Poe said. ‘And modern sights make a thousand yards look like fifty.’
Mathers said nothing.
‘But you already know this, don’t you, ma’am?’
She nodded. ‘I told you, we’re nowhere,’ she said. ‘But it’s a theory, and not everyone hates it, so I’ve assigned resources to running it down.’
‘And in the meantime?’
‘We do what we always do – run down every scrap of evidence, every tip that comes through the hotline, and then pray he fucks up.’
Bradshaw and Flynn rejoined them.
‘That was Harold Hetherington,’ Flynn said.
Poe shrugged. ‘So what?’
‘He smelled of wee,’ Bradshaw said.
‘Better than fish,’ Poe said. Urine was on his list of unpleasant things to smell of, but it was well below fish.
Mathers smirked. ‘Come on, I’ll show you to your office,’ she said.
‘We have an office?’ Poe said, surprised.
‘The NCA does. It’s got computers and coffee-making facilities and the rest of the stuff you might need. It’s on the other side of the incident room.’
She opened a door.
Poe said, ‘Blimey.’
The incident room was as big as an aircraft hangar and twice as noisy. It was crammed with men and women on phones and computers. The walls were covered with maps and data sets. A thousand other things. Everyone looked busy; no one looked happy. Poe had seen hundreds of incident rooms, but this was the first he’d seen without hope. Pessimism instead of optimism. The anger he felt about Alastor Locke fizzled out. These were real cops and they needed his help.
Mathers walked them through the incident room. She opened another door and took them down a long corridor. She unlocked an office and showed them inside. It was a large and airy room. A table, computer terminals, whiteboards. The blinds were closed. No surprise there. The odds of making it into the sniper’s sights were astronomically high, but this was the nerve centre of the hunt. The investigation team would be an attractive target and the sniper had already demonstrated his proficiency in urban environments. He didn’t always hide in the woods.
