The house was in total darkness. Matilda’s parents weren’t home, which was a shame. He liked it when the families saw their loved ones die. He would have enjoyed their reaction as they stared in horror at what was left of their daughter.
Puck lifted the McMillan TAC-50 and brought the telescopic sight to his eyes. His hands caressed the rifle as he waited. It really was a magnificent piece of equipment. Faultless. Well worth the effort and risk involved getting it into the country from mainland Europe. When he had fewer pressing concerns, he might write an open letter to the manufacturer. Credit where credit was due.
A downstairs light came on. Matilda was out of the garage and into the house.
A shadow flashed in the half-window where the winder stairs turned. Matilda was almost at the top. She had nearly reached her bedroom, the one she’d had since she was a child. Ten more seconds and she’d be in front of her computer. Two seconds after that, she’d turn on her desk lamp.
Twelve seconds until she was lit up like a smile, her silhouette hazy through the net curtains. An easy target for a man of his skill.
Puck’s finger took up the slack on the trigger as he waited for Matilda to take the seat in front of her computer. All he had to do was apply one more ounce of pressure. One more ounce and he’d blow that nerdy bitch’s glasses clean off her face.
Matilda switched on her desk lamp. She reached for the curtains. Went to draw them. After all, there was a sniper out there . . .
Target acquired.
Puck didn’t hesitate. He squeezed the trigger.
The window shattered. Matilda’s head snapped back, her once-in-a-generation mind splashed all over her periodic table wallpaper. She toppled and fell off her chair.
Game over.
Welcome to hell, Washington Poe.
An hour later, the landline rang at Highwood. Brunton answered it.
‘I’ll get him, ma’am.’ He found Poe in the drawing room. He said, ‘Detective Chief Inspector Stephanie Flynn on the phone for you, sir. She says it’s important.’
Chapter 83
The press turned. The pressalwaysturned. It’s what they did. Yesterday’s darling is today’s villain.Build them up so we can knock them back down.A curiously sustainable business model. They interviewed people who knew Poe. They interviewed people who didn’t know him. Talking heads, all puffed up on faux anger. They camped outside Highwood. They went to his local and spoke to the landlord. Apparently, Poe waspersona non gratanow. They even door-stepped Doyle as she left her hotel in Phoenix. The idiot who refused to step aside got a stiletto down the shin for his troubles.
Reckless!
The clamour for criminal charges to be brought against Poe reached a crescendo. The opposition benches called for a public inquiry. Eventually Number 10 issued a press release.
How does this man still have a job?!
They delved into his past. Into his previous cases. Trashed his reputation. They downplayed his role while highlighting Bradshaw’s extraordinary achievements. They claimed he’d built up his reputation on her giant shoulders. That he’d used her. That he had faked their friendship for the glory their combined casework was bringing him. They built her into the hero she undoubtedly was, but never wanted to be. TheDaily Mirrorled the calls for a posthumous George Medal, one of the UK’s highest awards for civilian gallantry, and all the tabloids jumped on the bandwagon. The George Cross Committee explained that the medal recognised the bravery of people who put themselves at risk. And while they understood the nation’s zeitgeist, being murdered didn’t qualify.
Defund the George Cross Committee!
Within a week, Poe was the most reviled person in the UK. It wasn’t until theSunday Timesexposed another BBC paedophile that the press moved on.
Poe saw none of this. He didn’t read any newspapers and he ignored the social media bunfight. He issued no statement and he made no public appearances. Immediately after Bradshaw’s death had been announced on television, he returned to Highwood. He refused to leave the grand old house, not even for fresh air. Leaving the house was a faff for the cops tasked with keeping him alive. Ezekiel Puck was still out there. Better for everyone if Poe stayed inside.
He withdrew into himself. He stopped eating. He lost weight, became gaunt.
And eventually he got the call.
‘I’m on my way,’ he said.
Chapter 84
Blencathra House, Central London
Poe sipped his tea and stared into space. He was back where it had all started – summoned to the room that Mathers had set aside for the National Crime Agency in the conference centre she’d hired as an incident room. He smiled as he remembered Bradshaw asking Mathers to get rid of all the doughnuts. He heard people, cops probably, walk past the closed door. One of them stage-whispered, ‘Wanker.’
Word was out. The prodigal son had returned.
