‘Brunton’s out getting an Indian takeaway for us, Poe,’ Doyle said. ‘I’ve ordered you lamb Madras. Tilly, he’s getting you one of their vegan daals. Hope that’s OK?’
It was.
They caught up with each other’s news. Poe didn’t worry about case security when it came to Doyle. She had one of the sharpest forensic brains he knew. Any input was well considered and usable. He asked for her take on it.
‘I’m a pathologist, not a psychologist, Poe,’ she said. ‘You know the manner of and the cause of death. All the victims were killed with high-velocity bullets. I’m not sure what else I can add.’
‘Emma?’ Poe said. ‘You’re an intelligent woman, but you’re also a layperson. You won’t have any preconceptions. Tell me what you think.’
Emma put down her glass. ‘You want my input into how you catch a serial sniper?’
Poe nodded.
‘Something you and Tilly and Estelle have yet to think of?’
Poe nodded again.
She threw up her hands. ‘I don’t know, Poe. I’m an oncologist, not anoracleist.’ She took a moment. ‘Hey, that was good. I think I’ll use it on some of my stupider registrars.’ She held his gaze. ‘Estelle tells me you have the best instincts she’s ever seen, and Tilly is . . . well, Tilly. If this man gets caught it’ll be because you two have thought of something no one else has. You don’t need my input, Poe.’ She reached over and tapped him on the head. ‘Everything you need is in there.’
‘It was just a suggestion,’ Poe said.
‘OK, here’s a suggestion. You stop pissing around and go to see Clara Lang. If anyone has a unique insight into this man, it’ll be her.’
‘That’s a good idea, Poe,’ Doyle said. ‘Plus, you haven’t been for a while. You could do with another dose.’
Poe nodded. Itwasa good idea. Clara wasDoctorClara Lang, and she was Poe’s trauma therapist. But their relationship was . . . complicated.
‘Why don’t you see if you can get in to see her tomorrow?’ Doyle said. ‘And on the way back you could pick up Uncle Bertie. It’ll save me a trip to North Yorkshire.’
‘Who the hell is Uncle Bertie?’
‘You’ll love him, Poe; he’s even grumpier than you.’
‘Ha!’ Bradshaw said. ‘Thereisno such person!’
Doyle and Bradshaw fist bumped. Poe scowled. They were always doing that.
‘Don’t pout, Poe,’ Doyle said. ‘And Bertie isn’t my real uncle. He’s my father’s oldest friend from his shooting days. He’s coming up for the wedding, but he’s not allowed to drive any more. There was an . . . incident.’
‘Why’s he coming up tomorrow? The wedding isn’t for another month.’
‘Bertie’s from the generation that did the Grand Tour when they came of age. They never go anywhere for “just a few days”. I think he’s planning to visit as many of his Scottish shooting cronies as he can between now and our big day. You’d better take the Land Rover – he won’t be travelling light. He’ll have at least three travel trunks. Probably some shotguns.’
‘He’s not staying with us, is he?’
‘A couple of days maybe. He’ll soon get bored.’
Poe was about to protest but he kept his mouth shut. Except for choosing five dishes for the wedding breakfast, Doyle, Bradshaw and Emma had organised the entire wedding. The least he could do was collect her crotchety uncle.
‘You fancy a trip to North Yorkshire, Tilly?’ he said. The thought of Bradshaw and a grumpy old Yorkshireman squeezedtogether in Doyle’s ancient Land Rover filled him with joy. It would be hilarious.
But Bradshaw shook her head.
‘Chief Superintendent McCloud has started to upload hotel guestbooks and wedding venue logbooks to the portal,’ she said. ‘I want to run them through my software so I can cross-reference the new names with the names on our mailing lists.’
Poe tapped out a text to Clara Lang’s secure hospital. Told them he’d be visiting in the morning. He sent another text to Flynn, letting her know he’d be out of contact for most of the following day. By the time he’d finished, the conversation had returned to wedding business. It wasn’t long before Poe tuned out. He got up to stretch his legs. Wandered over to the open side of the marquee. The moon was high and bright, casting a silver sheen over the spectacular Northumberland countryside. He stood with his back to everyone, sipping his beer, admiring the rolling hills, the copses, the rivers. Or, as he thought of it now – cover for a sniper. He turned back to Doyle. ‘Do me a favour,’ he said. ‘Close this side of the marquee. I know it has the best views, but if you must have the marquee open-sided, at least have the open bit facing the house.’
‘You’re worried about the sniper?’
