‘Marriage records are digitised now, Tilly,’ Mathers said. ‘But we’ll get the rest.’
‘Weddings aren’t the only thing they do in Gretna Green, ma’am,’ Poe said. ‘They also do anvil handfasting blessings. Anvilbabyblessings. Anything they can fleece the tourists for. They do vow renewals on special anniversaries or after one of them has fu— messed up. There’s no legal obligation to record any of that bollocks.’
‘Are yousureyou’re about to get married, Poe?’ Mathers said. ‘But fair enough. I’ll liaise with Police Scotland. They can do the door-to-doors. What do you want us to do with the names, Tilly?’
‘If you scan them into the investigation portal, I’ll access them from there,’ Bradshaw replied.
‘Are there any online records you haven’t been able to get, Tilly?’ Flynn asked. ‘If you give us a list, we can start drawing up warrants.’
Flynn hadn’t worked with Bradshaw for a while. She’d forgotten not to publicly ask questions like that. Bradshaw didn’t answer. She looked out of the window as if she hadn’t heard her. The back of her neck flushed pink. A clear sign she’d beenignoring the Computer Misuse Act again. Despite the District 12 wisecrack, he decided to help her out.
‘Would you like some mango, boss?’ he said.
Chapter 40
The last time they’d been to Gretna Green, Flynn had said it was ‘quieter than an English church’. But the pubs, restaurants and caféshadbeen open. Peoplewereat work; childrenwereat school. The wedding industry had found ways to marry people under the threat of the sniper.
Now, Gretna Green looked like one of those abandoned towns in the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone. There was no sign of human activity whatsoever. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see deer roaming the streets. Tumbleweeds wouldn’t have seemed out of place.
Chief Superintendent Ailsa McCloud, the Police Scotland cop who’d briefed Poe when they’d found the sniper’s range, met him at the outer cordon. Bradshaw stayed in the car, running data, doing sums. Trying to make a difference.
The outer cordon was usually where memorial flowers started to stack up. It was a focal point for the local community’s grief. Anger and shock sometimes. Not this time, Poe noticed. The sniper had visited Gretna Green twice now. The pavement was clear. The local community was staying away. Poe didn’t blame them.
‘It’s not a wedding this time?’ he said to McCloud.
‘Just a woman going about her business,’ she said. She pulled out a notebook and read from it. ‘Rachelle Callaghan. Worked in a funeral home. She was just nipping out to get a sandwich for her lunch. Bullet entered the back of her head. Blew her nose clean off her face.’
Poe winced.
McCloud stepped outside the cordon. She removed her suit and bagged it. ‘Walk with me,’ she said.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Death knock. Her dad lives in Gretna. I can brief you on the way.’
Gretna and Gretna Green were just a mile apart. A fifteen-minute walk. McCloud brought him up to speed. She said the sniper’s zeroing range had so far yielded nothing. They weren’t giving up, though. Still had rotating units of armed cops on standby. Highest priority.
They reached Gretna. It wasn’t as picturesque as its more famous neighbour. Poe followed McCloud down the main shopping street and on to an estate. Looked like one of those put up during the First World War when the War Office had to house the thirty thousand employees who worked at His Majesty’s Factory, Gretna: the largest munitions factory in the world at the time.
‘Where did he shoot from?’
‘We haven’t found it yet, but we’re fairly certain it was on the other side of the River Sark,’ she said, gesturing to her right. ‘It’s the only place with a clean line of sight. Plenty of cover.’
Poe turned to look where McCloud was pointing. The Sark was a short river that formed part of the Anglo–Scottish border before flowing into the much larger River Esk. If McCloud was right, and he thought she was, the sniper had fired from at least 1,000 metres again. The guy never missed. It was uncanny.
‘And the river’s an obstacle,’ Poe said.
‘We don’t think he crossed it, Sergeant Poe.’
‘That’s not what I meant, ma’am,’ Poe explained. ‘IRA snipers used to make sure there were obstacles between them and their target. A motorway. A row of houses. Something for the squaddies to navigate when they gave chase. Slowed them right down.’
‘You think he’s ex-IRA?’
Poe shrugged. ‘We have no idea who he is.’ He thought about what Bradshaw was doing. ‘But we might soon.’
He told McCloud what they’d discovered.
‘You think Gretna Green’s important to him?’
