Poe nodded. ‘He’s out there somewhere, Estelle,’ he replied. ‘Who’s to say he hasn’t been watching the schmucks tasked with catching him?’ He paused. ‘I think he likes watching people.’
Chapter 44
Doctor Clara Lang was in a secure hospital on the outskirts of Harrogate. Uncle Bertie lived on a country estate near York. Poe planned to see his trauma therapist in the morning, grab a pub lunch, then pick up Doyle’s uncle in the afternoon. He figured he could be back at Highwood for tea. He would then spend the evening reviewing the new data with Bradshaw.
But sometimes plans get changed. Sometimes they get cancelled altogether. This was particularly true when it came to secure hospitals. Poe had just passed Scotch Corner when his mobile phone buzzed. He checked his rear-view mirror for cops – the Land Rover wasn’t equipped with modern things like a hands-free system, electric windows or power steering – and pressed accept when he saw the road behind him was dibble-free. Road copslovedticketing the National Crime Agency.
‘Poe speaking,’ he said.
‘This is Doctor Gray, Sergeant Poe. I’m afraid you’ll have to postpone your visit with Clara.’
‘Oh, I was hoping to talk to her about this lunatic holding the country to ransom.’
‘I’m afraid there’s been an incident,’ he said. ‘And we don’t like to use the word “lunatic”.’
‘Neither do I, doc,’ Poe said. ‘But this guy is bloody nuts. I’m afraid lunatic is exactly the right word.’
‘Well, like I said, there’s been an incident.’
There was that word again, Poe thought. Incident. Doyle had said Uncle Bertie was no longer able to drive due to an incident. And now Doctor Gray was using it in the same sentence asClara Lang. And when it came to his trauma therapist, the word ‘incident’ usually meant someone was now missing an eye.
‘Is everyone OK?’
‘Doctor Lang is fine, Sergeant Poe.’
‘Not what I asked.’
‘But it’s how I answered,’ Doctor Gray said. ‘I’m sorry if you’ve had a wasted journey, but your visit has been cancelled.Allvisits have been cancelled.’
Poe could hear yelling in the background. Alarms were still sounding. It probably wasn’t the best time to be nosy. He said he’d rearrange his visit, wished him well with whatever was going on, and hung up.
‘Just me and you then, Uncle Bertie,’ he said to himself.
Chapter 45
Bertie was a stumpy, bow-legged man. He was puce-faced, addled with gout and shorter than a Shetland pony. Hair sprouted from his ears and nostrils like escaping hamsters. He wore a three-piece suit made from heavy tweed. His vast stomach tested the buttons on his waistcoat to breaking point. He looked like Humpty Dumpty, if Humpty Dumpty carried a stick and had a voice that would have shamed a town crier.
In a word, he was formidable.
The grounds of his estate were smaller than Doyle’s, but his ancestral home was twice the size of Highwood. He had an army of staff and every one of them looked relieved to be seeing the back of him.
He pointed at Poe and said, ‘You, man! Where’s your uniform?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You’re the driver Lady Doyle sent, are you not?’
Poe turned and looked behind him. ‘Excuse me?’ he said again.
Uncle Bertie didn’t repeat himself. Poe reckoned Uncle Bertieneverrepeated himself. It was your responsibility to hear what he said, not his.
‘I’m the person doing you a favour, if that’s what you mean?’
‘What?!’
It seemed Uncle Bertie was also deaf.
A stern, rangy man in a black suit gestured to two young men. They began hauling out Bertie’s travel trunks and shotgun cases. One of the men caught one of the cases on the side of Doyle’s Land Rover. He got a crack across the shins with Bertie’s stick.
