Neither of them stated the obvious: that they might have been in it together. A brother and sister killing spree unlike any seen before in the UK.
‘What do you think?’ Poe asked.
‘Oh, he did it,’ she replied. ‘And she either knew or she assisted him.’
Poe raised his eyebrows.
‘There was a bit of a fuck up,’ Nightingale admitted. ‘Robert was being escorted out of the house when the cops returned with Rhona.’
‘And they spoke,’ Poe said. He didn’t phrase it as a question.
‘They did. Well, she did at least. She shouted “Don’t say anything” before anyone could stop her. Luckily the cops on Robert muffled his reply.’
Poe considered this. In the grand scheme of things a successfully executed arrest where no one was hurt wasn’t a bad exchange for one small mistake.
And it also looked like the Mole People had been right: Robert Cowell was their killer.
The next question was why?
Chapter 38
There were four people in the room: Robert Cowell and his solicitor on one side of the table, Poe on the other. Bradshaw sat in a chair in the corner. Nightingale hadn’t been keen for a civilian to sit in on an interview but she hadn’t had a choice: Bradshaw was the only person who fully understood what she’d found.
Bradshaw was nervous. Poe knew why: her filter between thought and speech had improved over the last year but she still blurted out things. She didn’t want to let anyone down.
Poe had chosen the smallest and drabbest interview room available. He wanted Cowell to feel cramped and claustrophobic. Wanted him feeling as though the walls were closing in on him.
Poe stared across the table.
Although he knew that they mutated and evolved, Poe was forced to admit that Robert Cowell was the most unlikely serial killer he’d ever come across. A stringy bundle of nerves, he was tall and heron-like and paler than Bradshaw. He had arms like noodles and a voice like a cartoon mouse. His hair was dyed black and held in a low ponytail. He looked like the kind of man who’d had nosebleeds as a child.
And he was terrified. Fidgety. Sweating. His rapid, blinking eyes were looking at anything but Poe. Far cry from the brazen killer they’d been chasing.
Cowell’s solicitor was a grey-faced man named Jon Lear. He was frowning.
Poe thought he knew why. So far, everyone Lear had dealt with had been wearing a uniform or a suit but Poe was wearing jeans and a jumper and Bradshaw was wearing cargo trousers and a superhero T-shirt. Black Panther this time. He must have realised they weren’t Cumbrian cops but he didn’t yet know who they worked for.
Poe planted his elbows on the table like they were fence posts.
‘It’s been a while since I’ve spoken to someone whose life is in more of a mess than my own,’ he said.
Poe laid down a photograph of the kite. As soon as Cowell had been taken into custody, CSI had recovered it and fast-tracked the lab work. The photograph on the table had been taken when the kite had been removed from the tree and straightened out.
‘This is your kite, yes?’ Poe said, pointing to the gold pterodactyl logos.
Cowell picked up the photograph. His brow furrowed. Before Lear could stop him, he said, ‘Where did you find it?’
‘We’ll get to that soon enough. Is it yours, Robert?’
‘It looks like it.’
‘When was the last time you saw it?’
‘A few weeks ago. I had it outside drying and it was stolen.’
Poe nodded. He’d anticipated this response – it was the only explanation available to him. They’d found photographs on Cowell’s computer of him flying it and his prints and DNA were all over the frames, grips and fabric.
‘Did you report the theft?’ Poe said. ‘A kite like that doesn’t come cheap, I understand.’