It was theSun’s homepage. The headline wasn’t as crude asGOTCHA! OR FREDDIE STARR ATE MY HAMSTER!but it didn’t need to be. Not when it was as personal as this.
LADY DOYLE BREAKS OFF ENGAGEMENT TO DISGRACED COP!
Unsworth smiled, delighted to be the bearer of bad news. He said, ‘Now, get the fuck out of my office, Poe. I have work to do.’
It was time to go home, Poe thought.
Hisrealhome.
Chapter 85
Ezekiel Puck couldn’t remember when he’d been happier. He’d broken Washington Poe like Bane had broken Batman’s back. Poe hadn’t had much but Puck had stolen it anyway. He’d destroyed his reputation. He’d taken his career. He’d broken his engagement.
The timing had taken him by surprise, though. He’d assumed it would have taken longer. That Lady Doyle would dig in. Do a Tammy Wynette and stand by her man. Maybe he’d given her too much credit. Perhaps her inbred stupidity was tempered by the animal cunning that had kept her type’s heel on the throat of the working class for centuries. She’d cut bait.Boo-hoo, Washington Poe.He’d known she would eventually, of course. The only thing the aristocracy hated more than losing money was losing face. But even so, Lady Doyle’s ruthlessness had caught him unawares. No feet under the table for Puck’s freeloading nemesis. No inherited wealth teat for Poe to suckle on.
As soon as the engagement was called off, he knew Poe would grab his dog and skulk back to Herdwick Croft, the tick-infested shitpit he used to call home on Shap Fell. By all accounts, he’d been a recluse before Matilda Bradshaw had entered his life and no doubt his plan would be to become one again. To shut himself off from the world, ignore the press-fuelled bile coming his way. What choice would he have? He’d no longer be welcome at Highwood. And even when he was popular, his only real friend had been Matilda. And that freak of nature was currently in cold storage. Herdwick Croft was where Poe would reconsider his life. Maybe decide he didn’t want it any more.
Puck understood this like he was inside Poe’s head. It was his talent. As Alastor Locke used to say, suicidal ideation was his bailiwick. He’d sometimes thought the old spymaster had used it as a reprimand, as something not to glory in, but that couldn’t have been right. He’d certainly used his services enough times. That’s why his betrayal had stung so much, why his mediocre daughter-in-law had paid the price for his hypocrisy. He’d circle back to Locke after he’d taken care of more pressing concerns.
Understanding suicidal ideation was why, thirty minutes after his .50 bullet had removed most of Matilda’s head, he’d headed north. And it was why six hours later he’d checked into a quiet campsite in the same grid reference as Herdwick Croft. He wasn’t worried about being recognised. The E-FIT had been a decent likeness, but it was still just a drawing, a portrait of someone the artist had never met. Drawing someone from verbal cues was like trying to describe the difference between left and right – virtually impossible. A wig, coloured lenses and a memorable hat cancelled the E-FIT just as the Hindenburg disaster cancelled the Zeppelin industry. There was the CCTV still from the Can of Ham, but he wasn’t worried about that. They hadn’t released it, and even if they had, he no longer looked like that. Anyway, he had documentation proving beyond doubt that he was Edward Toyne, a self-employed voiceover artist from Newbiggin-by-the-Sea and self-confessed badger enthusiast.
His interest in badgers also explained why every evening he donned his thermal jacket, waterproofs and thick boots – the same gear all the other moronic fell walkers wore – and left the relative warmth of his tent to spend the night on Shap Fell. He would hoist his 70-litre navy-blue rucksack on to his back and tighten the waist straps, say goodbye to his tent neighbours and disappear until the next morning. The rucksack contained everything he needed – trail mix, spare socks, water and a packet of caffeine tablets. Nothing unusual. Things you’d find in everyrucksack around Shap. Whatwasunusual was the broken-down McMillan TAC-50 sniper rifle, the Schmidt & Bender 5-25x56 PM II telescopic sight and a MOSKITO TI laser rangefinder. Oh, and the ghillie suit that would once again turn Ezekiel Puck into the invisible man.
That evening was no different. He waved goodbye to Pippa, one half of the hippy couple in the tent next to his, and made his way on to Shap Fell. His lessons with Davy Newport, the guy who’d taught him how to shoot and stalk deer, meant he could approach Herdwick Croft unseen. Poe’s shithole cottage was on a peak, no doubt so the shepherd had a three-sixty view of his flock of sheep. It only had windows at the front, nothing at the back, just solid stone. Probably where the prevailing wind battered through. Puck had selected a firing position 500 metres away, directly in front of Herdwick Croft’s only door. If Puck was six o’clock, Poe’s cottage would be twelve. Plumb straight and less than half the distance he’d been firing from recently.
An easy shot.
Deadeasy.
When he was 200 metres from his firing position, he removed his telescopic sight from his rucksack and spent an hour observing the surrounding area. All clear. He knew it would be. When he was satisfied that he was alone, he climbed into his ghillie suit and reassembled his rifle. He ate some trail mix and drank some water before putting his rucksack into a heavy-duty refuse sack and burying it. The only thing he needed was his ghillie suit, his rifle and some hand-loaded ammunition.
He then crawled the 200 metres to his firing position. When he arrived, he flicked open the bipod, rested the rifle against his shoulder and leaned into the sight. He wriggled to make an indent he’d be comfortable with then sighed.
Content.
Content but not happy. He didn’t know why. He had Poe where he wanted. He wasn’t home yet, but he would be. By his calculations he’d have been suspended today or the day before. Then, Poe being Poe, he’d creep back to Shap Fell. Puck had ample time, though. Even if it had been a morning suspension, by the time Poe had collected that yappy piece of shit he called a dog, he wouldn’t get up north until close to midnight.
And Puck would be waiting.
So why wasn’t he happy?
He thought it was Shap Fell itself. He hated it. Fucking hated it. Had done from the moment he’d stepped on to the pube-like grass. It was desolate, like the surface of the moon. It was hard and lumpy when it looked soft and smooth, wet when it looked dry. It was windy and it was fucking creepy. And even in the warmest summer for a decade, it was colder than a witch’s tit in a brass bra. Only an arsehole like Washington Poe could find peace on something so bloody inhospitable.
Something in his sight caught his attention. He stiffened and cast his eyes until he saw it. He relaxed. It was just a fox, prowling for newborn lambs, no doubt. Puck wished it luck.
He sighed and settled down for another cold night. If Poe was going to turn up, it would be soon. If he didn’t, Puck would stay out anyway. Going back to his tent would lead to questions, and Poe was such a contrary bastard he couldn’t trust him not to turn up at four in the morning. Puck didn’t mind the wait. He might even see a badger.
He’d just resigned himself to another wasted night when he heard it. It was faint and he might have imagined it, although he didn’t think he had. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth. Davy Newport had told him that was the best way to improve the sound field. Something to do with reducing internal noise likepumping blood. Puck didn’t know if it was bullshit, but he did it religiously before every kill.
There it was again. The low rumble of a four-stroke single cylinder engine. Poe’s quad. Only a knucklehead like Poe would live somewhere you couldn’t get to by car. Puck thought the fact that Poe needed a four-wheel-drive all-terrain vehicle to navigate Shap Fell was all the justification he needed to kill him. Stupidity like that shouldn’t be allowed to live. It might breed.
The sound got louder as the engine got closer. It could only be Poe. And then confirmation. A dog barking, excited in the way only mentally ill disabled breeds like springer spaniels could get. Puck put his head to his sight and waited.
Two minutes later, the fell was awash with light. Poe had the quad’s headlights on. Full beam. The glare hurt Puck’s eyes. Dazzled him. He pulled back and closed them. Waited. He opened them again. Poe was almost at Herdwick Croft. He was clearly in a foul mood. He was throwing the quad around. Bouncing up and down in the seat as if he were on a bucking bronco. The spaniel ran beside him. Poe skidded to a halt in front of Herdwick Croft. Puck drew a bead. He pulled back, dazzled again. Poe was wearing a headtorch. By the time he’d cleared his eyes, the fell was dark again.
Poe and his dog were inside Herdwick Croft.
Safe.
