‘Didn’t you read that essay I did for New York University? It was called “Comic Book Villains and the Poincaré Map”. I sent you the link.’
Flynn scowled. ‘You senteveryonethat link, Tilly,’ she said.
Chapter 15
The seventeenth victim had been killed at the Mill Forge, a wedding venue two miles outside Gretna Green. Bradshaw had read out a potted history on the way up. It had started life as a grain farm in the eighteenth century, became a family home in the 1980s and was converted into a restaurant and bar in the 1990s. It became a wedding venue in 1999 and was now one of the most popular in Scotland. Which meant it was one of the most popular in the UK.
The car park was empty. Flynn parked near an old wooden wheel. It was as big as a house and had blades. Looked like the kind of thing that sat in running water, the blades turning the wheel, the wheel turning the grinder shaft, which turned the mill stone. One hundred years ago the wheel would have been used to turn grain into flour. Now it was a garden ornament.
‘We’re supposed to wait here for detectives from Police Scotland,’ Flynn said.
‘They’re late,’ Poe replied. ‘How rude.’
‘Actually, we’re early.’
Poe opened the door. It had been a long trip and he wanted to stretch his legs.
‘We may as well have a mooch around; this is a crime scene.’
‘They won’t be happy.’
‘When are they ever? And look,’ he said, pointing to a man waving them inside, ‘that guy over there, he’s inviting us in.’
‘That’ll be Grantham Smythe,’ Flynn said through the driver’s open window. ‘He’s the owner. Come on then. But if Police Scotland ask, we thought we were sitting ducks in the car park.’
Grantham Smythe was middle-aged. Looked like a drinker. Good for him, Poe thought. He wore a two-tone ten-pinbowling-style shirt. He was standing in the doorway of the bar. The tabled outdoor area in front of the bar was completely shielded by tarpaulin. Poe could see the name of a local timber merchant on the side. He reckoned tarpaulin, canvas, even plastic sheeting was in high demand right now. Seemed the timber merchant had decided it was more profitable renting out his tarpaulin than protecting his wood from the rain. Or maybe he was a good guy trying to do a good thing. Anything was possible, Poe thought.
Smythe waited for them to get out of the car then beckoned them over again. Poe noticed he didn’t leave the cover of the tarpaulin shield. He didn’t blame him.
‘You here about my crime report?’ he said. ‘Still need a number for the insurance.’
‘We’re NCA,’ Flynn replied, showing her warrant card.
Poe didn’t bother. His leather wallet still smelled of fish.
‘When am I going to get my crime number?’
‘I have no idea, Mr Smythe,’ Flynn said. ‘That’s not what we do. Can we come inside, please?’
Smythe begrudgingly led them into the bar. He seated them at a table. ‘Can I get you anything to drink?’ he said hopefully. They were clearly not going to befreedrinks.
‘We’re good, thanks,’ Flynn said. ‘And I appreciate this is awful timing, but do you mind if we ask a couple of questions?’
Smythe poured himself a measure of whisky then joined them at the table. ‘You’re from the National Crime Agency?’
‘We are.’
‘It’s terrorism then. I knew it was.’
‘Why do you say that, Mr Smythe?’
‘Isn’t that what the NCA does?’
‘We’re a broad church,’ Flynn said. ‘The three of us are more used to investigating serial murders than terrorism.’
‘Like Jack the Ripper?’
‘If that’s the only serial killer you know,’ Poe said, ‘then yes.Exactlylike Jack the Ripper.’
