The assistant chief of operations was called Pete Nippress. He was a big man with a nose like a baked potato. He’d transferred in from Greater Manchester so Poe only knew him by reputation. He was well liked and known to be supportive of the cops on the ground.
‘Do the NCA have any preferences on how this situation with Atkinson is handled?’ he said.
‘I think they’d prefer something low-key.’
‘Use him as bait?’
‘At the minute we have an advantage: the Curator probably doesn’t know that we know who his primary target is. We have a unique opportunity to catch him in the act. If we go in mob-handed we’ll tip him off and Atkinson will spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder.’
Nippress turned to Nightingale. ‘Jo, the NCA can piss off – this is your op, what do you want to do?’
‘I’m sorry, Poe, but I can’t risk Atkinson’s life that way,’ she said. ‘I’ll dispatch two detectives to transport him to Barrow nick. I’ll be waiting for him when he arrives to explain what’s happened. By then I’m hoping I’ll have authority to put something more suitable in place. We don’t know how long this will last but he’s disabled and he can’t stay in the nick for more than a night. We’re not geared up for it.’
‘I’ll get you what you need,’ Nippress said.
‘It may be moot anyway,’ Poe said. ‘According to the person Tilly and I spoke to, Atkinson hates Cumbria Police. Really hates them. Blames them for everything, from the botched investigation that led to his arrest, to the acid attack – even the failed suicide attempt that put him in a chair. He bought the island to get as far away from everyone as he could.’
‘You don’t think he’ll come back to the nick?’ Nightingale asked.
‘I don’t think a couple of cops rocking up with even more bad news is going to change his mind about you. I think he’ll tell them to fu … to go away.’
‘Even when we tell him he’s in danger?’
‘UKPPS reckon no one knows he’s there. Monthly deliveries come in by boat and he has a private doctor on-call if he needs one. He never leaves the island and he never has visitors. Montague Island is barren, privately owned and very dangerous to walk to so they don’t get the tourists that Piel, Sheep and Roa Islands get.’
‘Still …’
‘I agree with you, ma’am,’ Poe said. ‘I think he is in danger. UKPPS’s assertion that no one knows he’s there is flawed. No one knew he was there while no one was looking for him. But if someone puts the word out … He’s in a wheelchair and he either still wears a mask or he has a face that’s basically one big scar; someone will know of him.’
‘So?’
‘I don’t have an answer for you,’ he said. ‘I’m just saying I don’t think he’s going to be amenable to the shock and awe approach. I think you’re going to have to be more subtle.’
‘What do you suggest?’
Poe grinned. ‘Do you own a pair of wellies, ma’am?’
Chapter 58
Despite Poe’s misgivings, Nightingale planned to send two detectives out to Montague Island immediately, tasked with bringing Atkinson back to the mainland. They hadn’t been told why, only that he was at risk. As the tide was in, the North West Police Underwater and Marine Unit, a collaboration between six of the northern constabularies, were taking them out.
She’d then sent SCAS home with instructions to meet on Walney Island at 7 a.m. the next day. Poe had gone home and slept soundly all night.
Poe arrived at Snab Point on Walney Island at 6.30 a.m. It was where the majority of walks across the Walney Channel to Piel Island departed from and, as they were trying to blend in, it made sense to start where everyone else started.
Nightingale had arrived before him and she was in a foul mood. She’d been up all night coordinating her response to the new threat but she hadn’t had much luck. It had been after midnight when she’d driven across the bridge that connected Barrow Docks with Walney Island and by then Poe had already been proved right: Atkinson had thanked the two detectives she’d sent ahead but had politely asked them to leave his land. Without contradictory instructions, and as they hadn’t been read in on who he actually was, they’d done as he asked and returned to the mainland with the marine unit.
‘Rough night?’ Poe said as he handed her a coffee.
She stamped her feet in frustration. The tide in the Walney Channel was too high to walk across but too low to sail. She paced up and down the shoreline, straining her eyes to see the mist-shrouded Montague Island in the distance, oblivious to the seawater ruining her shoes and the wind buffeting her hair.
‘What’s he playing at, Poe?’
‘He’s still angry, ma’am.’
‘Well he doesn’t own the whole island,’ she snapped. ‘I’ve a good mind to surround him with a
ring of blue steel. Patrol cars, command tents, air support, the works. Now we’ve identified the risk it’s indefensible not to take robust countermeasures.’