‘Exactly.’ He shook his head at the audacity of it all. ‘Who is this guy?’ he said.
Nightingale confirmed that the company the book man was from didn’t exist. It looked like he’d bought some books from a bargain bookshop, knocked up an order form and walked into the offices of John Bull Haulage unchallenged. Book men went where they wanted at Christmas. It was possible he’d tried other businesses before he found one with an easily accessible Secret Santa tree with at least one mug-shaped gift underneath.
Nightingale put two detectives on it; the rest were reinterviewing anyone who’d been in the office the day the fake book man had dropped off his stuff.
Poe didn’t hold out much hope. Eyewitnesses were notoriously unreliable. Attention is fleeting, recollection short-lived and memory is vulnerable to suggestion. And even if someone did remember him, the human brain isn’t equipped to move from a mind’s eye picture to an accurate verbal description.
Chapter 9
Poe wanted to see the food hall next. He wasn’t expecting to get anything new but he wanted to keep moving. They’d just passed Cockermouth when Flynn’s phone rang.
It was Bradshaw.
‘You’ve arrived then? I need you to … What? No, the baby’s fine, Tilly. Stop worrying. As I was say … Yes, Poe’s fine too.’
Poe chose that moment to start coughing.
Flynn glanced at him. ‘Well, fine-ish.’ She paused to sigh and roll her eyes. ‘I don’t know if he’s eaten fruit today, you’ll have to ask him.’
Another pause.
‘No, I won’t put him on, he’s driving. Ask him tonight.’
Poe blew his nose and suppressed a grin.
‘OK, you do that,’ Flynn said. ‘We’re going to Whitehaven now to see the crime scene.’
Another pause.
‘Check into the North Lakes Hotel then book a small conference room we can work from … Yes, just the three of us … Yes, we’ll need teas and coffees … If you want to get him some then order it … Just do what you think is best, Tilly. You know what we need.’
Flynn listened for a bit longer then said, ‘OK, we’ll see you soon.’
‘She OK?’ Poe asked.
‘Yep. She’s going to read up on everything then sort out a room we can meet in.’
‘Good.’
‘And she’s ordering you some fruit.’
Poe knew and liked Whitehaven, a large coastal town in West Cumbria. It was the last place to be attacked by American naval forces during the War of Independence. Its port used to be the centre of the British rum trade. It is picturesque, crammed with Georgian buildings, and where the spree-killer Derrick Bird wreaked havoc in 2010.
It was where the real spirit of Cumbria could be found. Tough, no-nonsense men, and practical, unaffected women. A place where problems are solved with fists not solicitors, and rugby league is more important than football.
Fiskin’s Food Hall was near the bus depot, at the port end of the town. Poe parked in their dedicated car park and they got out. The freezing sea air hit them immediately. A trawler must have just docked as he could smell fish. It was beginning to snow again and Poe didn’t want to hang around. Whitehaven was in a natural cove and in extreme weather liable to be cut off. He had a maxim: if it was snowing anywhere in Cumbria, it was definitely snowing on Shap Fell, and Poe wanted to get home tonight.
They were about to make their way inside when Flynn’s phone rang.
‘OK, we’ll be there,’ she said after listening for a few seconds. She put her phone in her pocket. ‘That was Nightingale. We’re to go to Whitehaven nick and join a videoconference. You know where it is?’
‘I do. You OK to walk? It’s about five minutes away.’
She nodded.
‘What’s the conference for?’ he said.
‘Estelle Doyle has found something.’