Dead Ground

Book 4: Washington Poe

by M.W. Craven

Genres: Hard-Boiled; Police Procedurals; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

Winner of the prestigious CWA IAN FLEMING STEEL DAGGER AWARD 2022

Longlisted for the Theakston Old Peculiar Crime Novel of the Year 2022

'Heart-pounding, hilarious, sharp and shocking, Dead Ground is further proof that M.W. Craven never disappoints. Miss this series at your peril.' Chris Whitaker

'Dark and entertaining, this is top rank crime fiction.' Vaseem Khan, Author of the Malabar House series and the Baby Ganesh Agency series

'M. W. Craven is one of the best crime writers working today. Dead Ground is a cracking puzzle, beautifully written, with characters you'll be behind every step of the way. It's his best yet.' Stuart Turton

'Fantastic' Martina Cole

'Dark, sharp and compelling' Peter James

'You can taste the authenticity' Daily Mail

Detective Sergeant Washington Poe is in court, fighting eviction from his beloved and isolated croft, when he is summoned to a backstreet brothel in Carlisle where a man has been beaten to death with a baseball bat. Poe is confused - he hunts serial killers and this appears to be a straightforward murder-by-pimp - but his attendance was requested personally, by the kind of people who prefer to remain in the shadows.

As Poe and the socially awkward programmer Tilly Bradshaw delve deeper into the case, they are faced with seemingly unanswerable questions: despite being heavily vetted for a high-profile job, why does nothing in the victim's background check out? Why was a small ornament left at the murder scene - and why did someone on the investigation team steal it? And what is the connection to a flawlessly executed bank heist three years earlier, a heist where nothing was taken . . .


Praise for Dead Ground:

'Unmissable' Sunday Express

'I've been following M.W. Craven's Poe/Tilly series from the very beginning, and it just gets better and better. Dead Ground is a fast-paced crime novel with as many twists and turns as a country lane. I can't wait for the next one.' Peter Robinson

'Dead Ground is both entertaining and engaging with great characters and storyline. I loved this first dip into the world of Tilly and Poe!' BA Paris

Praise for M W Craven:

'A brutal and thrilling page turner' Natasha Harding, The Sun

'A thrilling curtain raiser for what looks set to be a great new series' Mick Herron

'One of the most engaging teams in crime fiction' Daily Mail

'A powerful thriller from an explosive new talent. Tightly plotted, and not for the faint hearted!'
David Mark

'A gripping start to a much anticipated new series' Vaseem Khan

'Satisfyingly twisty and clever and the flashes of humour work well to offer the reader respite from the thrill of the read.' Michael J. Malone

'Nothing you've ever read will prepare you for the utterly unique Washington Poe' Keith Nixon

'Beware if you pick up a book by M.W. Craven. Your life will no longer belong to you. He will hold you spellbound.' Linda's Book Bag

'Craven's understanding of the criminal world is obvious in this cracking read' Woman's Weekly

'Breath-taking' Random Things Through My Letterbox

'5 Stars... another fantastic literary experience and a welcome addition to the already brilliant Poe and Tilly series' Female First

'An explosive plot, slippery twists and my fave new crime-busting duo...Fantastic!' Peterborough Telegraph

Release date: April 12, 2022

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 100000

Sample

The man wearing a Sean Connery mask said to the man wearing a Daniel Craig mask, ‘Bertrand the monkey and Raton the cat are sitting by the fire, watching chestnuts roast in the hearth.’

Which was as good a way as any of getting someone’s attention.

‘OK,’ Daniel Craig said.

The men wearing George Lazenby and Timothy Dalton masks stopped what they were doing to listen. Pierce Brosnan, with his headphones on and his laptop spitting out complex instructions, was oblivious to everything but the vault door and the Diebold three-keyed timer and combination lock in front of him. Roger Moore was outside in the van.

‘Bertrand tries brushing the coals aside but he’s scared of burning his hand,’ Sean Connery continued. ‘But he wants those chestnuts and he doesn’t want to wait for the fire to cool. Instead, he persuades Raton to scoop them out, promising him an equal share.’

‘And the cat does?’

‘He does, yes. Raton moves the red-hot coals and picks out the chestnuts one by one. And each time he does, Bertrand gobbles them up. Eventually a maid disturbs them and they have to flee. Raton gets nothing for his pains.’

Timothy Dalton was Sean Connery’s man, but the rest were Daniel Craig’s. George Lazenby was his muscle, Pierce Brosnan was his technical guy and Roger Moore was his wheelman. As crew leader, Daniel Craig felt he should be the one to ask the obvious question.

‘Why are you telling us this?’ he said.

‘No reason,’ Sean Connery said. ‘It’s a fable adapted by the French poet Jean de La Fontaine. It’s called “Le Singe et le Chat” and it’s about people sacrificing others for their own ends. The saying “cat’s paw” comes from it.’

‘It’s an idiom, actually,’ Timothy Dalton said, ‘not a saying.’

Sean Connery turned and glared at Dalton. The mood in the vault’s anteroom changed. It had been tense; now there was an undercurrent of menace.

‘What part of “You do not speak, ever” didn’t you understand?’ he said, his voice low.

Under his mask they sensed Timothy Dalton blanche. Daniel Craig glanced at the Bonds in his crew and shrugged. Sean Connery was paying and he paid well. If he wanted to talk about monkeys and cats and chestnuts and humiliate his own man then who were they to stop him?

The anteroom descended into silence.

Pierce Brosnan broke it.

‘We’re in,’ he said.

Few banks offer a safety deposit box service these days. The vault that the Bonds had broken into was one of several purpose-built facilities belonging to a specialist provider. It had cutting-edge security, but a combination of offsite hacks and Pierce Brosnan’s onsite safecracking skills had rendered them redundant.

At least until the backup systems kicked in.

‘How long?’ Sean Connery said.

‘We’ve had eighteen minutes, twenty seconds,’ Daniel Craig replied.

He glanced at the watch on the inside of his wrist. They still had plenty of time.

The vault was rectangular, fifteen feet by thirty, and had a low ceiling. It was lit by neon lights. A steel table was fixed to the wall opposite the door. Safety deposit boxes stretched from floor to ceiling on the two longer walls. The boxes were suitcase-sized at the bottom and got progressively smaller as they reached eye level and above.

The CCTV cameras were working but had been fixed so they were on a sixty-minute delay. The staff monitoring the vault would see what they were doing, but not for another hour.

‘We’ll start here,’ Timothy Dalton said.

Sean Connery had hired him to evaluate the boxes’ contents and he was keen to contribute. So far he’d been a passenger. He made a move to one of the larger boxes.

‘Not that one,’ Sean Connery said, removing a piece of paper from his pocket. He read out a serial number: 9-206.

The Bonds spread out and searched for the box. George Lazenby found it. It was at head height and was one of the smaller boxes.

‘Mr Brosnan, if you will?’ Daniel Craig said.

Pierce Brosnan studied the lock. The vault’s door had been a challenge but, as no one should be in the vault unsupervised, the security on the boxes was perfunctory, little more than cylinder locks. He pulled a snapper bar from his bag: a locksmith tool specially designed to break and open cylinder locks. It took less than a minute. He put the snapper bar back in his bag and stepped away.

Sean Connery opened the small door. The safety deposit box was empty, as he’d been told it would be. Under his mask, he smiled.

‘Never mind,’ Dalton said. ‘We have hundreds more to check.’

‘Actually,’ Sean Connery said, ‘we’re not here to make a withdrawal.’

‘We’re not? Well, what are we doing?’

‘Making a deposit.’

Sean Connery pulled a snub-nosed revolver from his waistband, pressed it against the back of Timothy Dalton’s head and pulled the trigger.

He was dead before he hit the polished floor. A cloud of pink mist hung in the air where his head had just been. The vault smelled of cordite and blood.

And fear.

‘What the hell!’ Daniel Craig snapped. ‘No guns, I said! We don’t carry guns on jobs.’

‘You know what’s always bothered me about that fable?’ Sean Connery said. He held the gun by his side but it was clear he’d use it again if he had to.

‘Enlighten me,’ Daniel Craig said, tearing his eyes from the twitching corpse.

‘There was no mention of what happened next. No mention of what Raton the cat did to Bertrand the monkey after his betrayal.’

Daniel Craig looked at the corpse again. It had stopped moving. ‘This man betrayed someone?’ Betrayal was a legitimate motive in the circles he moved in.

Sean Connery said nothing.

‘Dalton was a shit Bond anyway,’ Daniel Craig said, looking at his watch. ‘We done?’

‘Almost,’ Sean Connery said. He removed something from his pocket and placed it on the lip of the empty safety deposit box. He spent some time making sure it was in the right position.

‘Now we’re done,’ he said.

And with that, the Bonds left.

Thirty minutes later, alerted to a robbery in progress by the security company monitoring the vault’s CCTV, the first police officers arrived.

But all they found was a corpse cooling on the floor and a ceramic rat looking over it …

Detective Sergeant Washington Poe usually hated attending court. He found the bureaucracy and the subservience to idiots in wigs archaic. He hated being at the beck and call of barristers and he hated the way cops were universally viewed with suspicion when they gave evidence. He hated that so-called experts were allowed to pull apart decisions made in a fraction of a second.

But most of all he hated that when he attended court it meant someone had been failed. A family would never see a loved one again. A woman would never trust a man again. An old man would never leave his house again.

There were many reasons to hate being in court.

But not this time.

This time he was attending as the defendant.

And he planned to enjoy it.

His case was being heard at the Carlisle Combined Court, a modern building in the centre of the city. Its only nod to the past was the Grade II-listed statue of the nineteenth-century Member of Parliament who’d dropped dead outside. Poe approved of statues like that. He wished there were more of them.

The district judge, who had lost patience with him a while ago, tried again.

‘I must impress upon you, Mr Poe,’ he said, ‘I know this is only a civil matter but I strongly advise you to get legal representation. I’m sure your friend is’ – he checked his notes – ‘“as clever as Stephen Hawking’s wheelchair”, but what happens here today cannot easily be undone.’

‘Consider me advised, your honour.’

‘And it’s been explained that refusing legal representation is not grounds for a later appeal?’

‘It has.’

The district judge had jowls like a bulldog and an unsettling resemblance to Rumpole of the Bailey. Tufts of hair sticking out from his ears made it look as though furry animals were burrowing in them. He peered at Poe over his half-moon spectacles. Poe stared back.

‘Very well,’ he sighed. ‘Mr Chadwick, you may proceed.’

The council solicitor got to his feet. Small and moustached, he was an officious-looking man, the type who would take the minutes at Neighbourhood Watch meetings.

‘Thank you, your honour.’ He opened a thick manila file and picked up a summary sheet. ‘The facts in this case are not in dispute. Almost five years ago Mr Poe legally bought land on Shap Fell from a Mr Thomas Hume. This land—’

‘Mr Hume is now deceased, I understand?’

‘Regrettably that is the case, your honour. Mr Hume was the legal owner of the land and he was well within his rights to sell it to Mr Poe. This land included an abandoned shepherd’s croft.’

‘The building in question?’

‘Yes, your honour. We understand that Herdwick Croft has been there since the early 1800s. It has recently come into the catchment area of the Lake District National Park. The position of the local planning authority is that the croft has been a designated heritage asset since 2005, and therefore cannot be modified without the express permission of our office. Herdwick Croft’s original owner was informed of this designation.’

‘Mr Poe, would you like to interject?’ the judge said.

Poe looked at the person beside him. She shook her head.

‘No, your honour,’ he said.

‘You’re aware that challenging the heritage-asset status of the croft is one of the few legal avenues you have left at this point?’

‘I am, your honour. Although to be fair, I was unaware of Herdwick Croft’s status when I bought it. Thomas Hume must have … forgotten to tell me.’

Poe felt, rather than saw, someone stiffen in the public gallery. He knew that Victoria Hume, Thomas’s daughter, was there to support him. She felt responsible for her father’s duplicity despite Poe reassuring her she wasn’t. Poe hadn’t completed the usual legal checks prior to handing over his cash and he was now paying the price.

‘As a serving police officer, I’m sure Mr Poe will be aware that ignorance of the law is not a legal excuse,’ Chadwick said.

Poe smiled. He had hoped he’d say that.

Chadwick spent ten minutes detailing the modifications Poe had completed at Herdwick Croft: the roof he’d fixed; the borehole and pump he’d installed to provide fresh running water; the septic tank he’d buried; the generator and how it supplied power. In short, everything he’d done to make the croft modern and comfortable. Even his beloved wood-burning stove got a mention.

When Chadwick had finished the judge said, ‘And how was it you came to be aware of Mr Poe’s modifications?’

‘Your honour?’

‘Who told you, Mr Chadwick?’

‘A concerned citizen, your honour.’

‘That wouldn’t be the member for Oxenholme, would it?’

Chadwick didn’t rise to the judge’s bait. ‘How we came to find out about the modifications is not the business of this court, your honour.’

Poe knew the judge had got it spot on, though. The man who’d informed the council about his unauthorised restoration project was a former police officer, a direct-entrant detective chief inspector called Wardle. They’d butted heads during the Jared Keaton case. Wardle had double-downed on the wrong line of enquiry and it had cost him his career. He had since left the police and was now pursuing his new calling: local politics. Poe turned in his seat, half-expecting to see him sitting in the public gallery but, other than Victoria Hume, the benches were empty. It didn’t matter; if it hadn’t been Wardle it would have been someone else. Poe collected enemies the same way the middle class collected Nectar points.

‘Get on with it then, Mr Chadwick,’ the judge said.

The local authority solicitor spent another ten minutes detailing the planning regulations Poe had fallen foul of. After two minutes Poe had drifted off.

He’d had an extended stay at Herdwick Croft recently. The Serious Crime Analysis Section, shortened by everyone to SCAS, hadn’t had a major case since the Curator and, given how that had ended, no one was looking for a new investigation. The director of intelligence, Edward van Zyl, had given everyone involved a month off.

The break had done Poe good. The Curator case had almost broken him, physically and mentally, and he’d got off lightly compared to some. He’d enjoyed spending time at home. Most days he’d packed some food in a rucksack and headed on to Shap Fell. Just him and Edgar, his springer spaniel, and thousands of sheep.

‘How’s DI Flynn?’ he whispered to the woman beside him. Stephanie Flynn, SCAS’s detective inspector, had given birth during the case and it hadn’t been straightforward. She was still off sick and he wasn’t sure she’d be coming back.

‘Shush, Poe!’ the woman whispered back. ‘I need to hear this.’

Poe returned to his thoughts. Even when it concerned his own future he didn’t have the type of brain that could listen to legal arguments for more than a minute. He made a mental note to call Flynn later. He’d avoided speaking to her recently – it brought back bad memories, for both of them he suspected.

‘Are you ready to respond, Mr Poe?’

Poe blinked. Chadwick was back in his seat and everyone was looking at him.

Poe stood up.

‘Am I right in understanding that the local authority is seeking a court order to compel me to return Herdwick Croft to the condition it was in when I bought it, your honour?’ Poe said.

‘That’s correct. Are you ready to respond?’

Poe looked at the person on his right. She nodded.

‘I am, your honour.’

‘And despite her not having a legal background, you’re confident your colleague is up to representing you, Mr Poe?’

‘She is, your honour. You may trust me on this.’

He sat down. When he’d lived in Hampshire he’d had an address. Now, he had a home. To protect it, he was willing to fight dirty.

And what he was about to do was as dirty as it was possible to get.

‘Over to you, Tilly,’ he said.

Matilda ‘Tilly’ Bradshaw was an oddity, but in a good way. She had two DPhils from Oxford University, their equivalent of PhDs, but probably didn’t know who the Prime Minister was. She could quote pi to a thousand decimal places, and would if you let her, but wouldn’t be able to tell you who the Sex Pistols were. She’d started higher education at thirteen, an Oxford admissions professor having persuaded her parents that her ‘once in a generation mind’ needed more stimulation than the state was capable of providing.

Pure mathematics was her speciality, but she excelled at most scientific disciplines. With governments and private companies all over the world throwing research grants at her, she’d been expected to stay at Oxford her entire working life. And for a while that had been enough for her.

Until it wasn’t.

Because what the admissions professor had failed to understand – or perhaps had deliberately overlooked – was that curtailing a childhood on the cusp of adolescence had consequences. Not being around people her own age, and not being exposed to anyone who didn’t operate at her intellectual level, meant she’d never needed to develop the skills to talk and think in a socially conventional way. The result was an innocent, guileless woman who verbalised every thought she had and believed everything she was told.

Poe had never got to the bottom of why she had chosen to leave the world of academia and join the National Crime Agency’s Serious Crime Analysis Section. He suspected she’d inherited a wilful streak from her father. In her early thirties she’d left Oxford and taken a job as a SCAS analyst. She told Poe she wanted to implement real-world applications to her theoretical models of mathematics. Poe didn’t know what that meant but he knew a diamond when he saw one. He’d taken her under his wing and helped her navigate the new and exciting world she was being exposed to for the first time. In return, as best she could, she softened his sharp edges and helped him manage his demons.

And, to the surprise of everyone, they’d become friends. Not mates, friends. The type of friend that might come along once or twice in a lifetime.

Which was why, when she’d found out about Poe’s housing problems, she’d taken a week’s leave and become an expert in planning law.

Chadwick didn’t know what was about to hit him.

If Bradshaw was nervous, it wasn’t showing. She didn’t have any legal training, but Chadwick, with his four-year degree, his year-long Legal Practice Course and his back-office support, was no match for Bradshaw and a day on the internet.

‘Hello,’ she said.

She gave the judge a small wave. Bemused, the judge waved back.

‘My name is Matilda Bradshaw, your honour. I am very pleased to meet you.’

‘It’s very nice to meet you too, Matilda.’

‘What is this?’ Chadwick said.

‘Nothing wrong with exchanging pleasantries, Mr Chadwick,’ the judge said.

Poe smiled. Bradshaw had already won over the judge.

‘Nothing at all wrong with being civil, your honour,’ Chadwick said. ‘I was referring to how someone should dress if they wish to be heard by this court. By dressing like this, she not only disrespects you, she disrespects centuries of tradition.’

Bradshaw was wearing a T-shirt and cargo pants with large side pockets. Pretty much the same thing she wore every day. Her T-shirt was black with ‘You Matter’ in large white letters. Underneath, in much smaller writing, were the words, ‘Unless you multiply yourself by the speed of light squared … then you energy.’

Poe stood. ‘That’s your favourite T-shirt, isn’t it, Tilly?’

‘It is, Poe. It’s a Neil deGrasse Tyson quote. It’s a limited edition.’

‘Yeah, she has dressed for the occasion, your honour.’

Chadwick stood.

‘But—’

‘Mr Chadwick, in this court I’ll be the one who decides if I’m being disrespected, not you,’ the judge said. ‘I will hear from Miss Bradshaw. If you want to hear from her as well, I suggest you sit down.’

Chadwick sat.

‘Please continue, Miss Bradshaw.’

As they’d rehearsed, Bradshaw removed two documents from her rucksack. ‘May I approach the bench, your honour?’ she asked.

‘You may.’

Bradshaw walked up to the judge and passed him one of the documents. On her way back she handed the other to the sulking Chadwick.

‘Our position is simple, your honour,’ she said. ‘We believe it will be illegal for the county court to rule against Poe.’

‘What!’ Chadwick yelled.

The judge frowned at him then said, ‘I think you’d better explain, Miss Bradshaw.’

‘It is really quite simple, your honour. In 1901 the municipal borough of Kendal proposed Byelaw 254, later confirmed into law by the Secretary of State. It is for the protection of Shap Fell and Mardale Common. As you can see from the enclosed map, Poe’s home falls within these boundaries. I understand that Byelaw 254 was to stop the unlawful expansion of the quarry. You both have a photocopy of the original document. When the borough of Kendal became part of South Lakeland in 1974, all its byelaws were adopted and subsumed into the current portfolio of planning laws. It was then ratified by Cumbria County Council. It has never been repealed.’

Chadwick had put on a pair of thick reading glasses and was frantically turning the pages of the document he’d been handed.

The district judge appeared relaxed. ‘And what does this byelaw prohibit, Miss Bradshaw?’

‘Section 2, Subsection F, explicitly prohibits the wilful removal, rearrangement or defacing of any rock within the specified boundaries.’ Bradshaw turned to Poe. ‘Poe, how did you fix up Herdwick Croft?’

‘I used whatever rocks were lying around,’ he said.

‘Your honour, if you turn to Section 3, Subsection E, you’ll see the cutting or damaging of any plant or vegetation is also explicitly prohibited. Poe, how did you install your septic tank and borehole?’

‘I had to dig them in.’

‘And did you damage the surrounding plants and vegetation?’

‘I’m afraid I did.’

‘And what penalty is attached to these two crimes, Miss Bradshaw?’ the judge said.

‘The schedule at the back states that any person who offends against any of these byelaws shall be liable to a fine not exceeding fifty pounds in today’s money.’

Poe stood. ‘It would be my intention to plead guilty to such offences if charges are brought against me, your honour.’

‘Oh, this is ridiculous,’ Chadwick snapped. ‘How can the local authority possibly be expected to know the ins and outs of a century-old byelaw it was forced to adopt in the seventies? Your honour, this is clearly a desperate attempt to—’

The judge smiled. ‘But Mr Chadwick, as you said earlier, ignorance of the law is no excuse.’

Chadwick flushed.

The judge continued. ‘I’ve only had a quick look but it appears to be a legal document. And this court certainly doesn’t have the authority to disregard a law ratified by the Secretary of State.’ He looked over his half-moon glasses. ‘And neither does the local authority.’

Bradshaw stood again.

‘Your honour, if this court compels Poe to return Herdwick Croft to its original condition, they would also be compelling him to break the law again. He would have no choice but to rearrange the rocks he used to build up the walls, and the plants and vegetation would undoubtedly be damaged when he dug up his septic tank and borehole pump.’

‘Mr Chadwick, would you like to explain how Mr Poe is to restore his home to its original condition without breaking the law?’

Chadwick stared at the document in front of him.

‘I’d like a two-week adjournment, your honour,’ he said.

‘Denied. This is your petition and I expect you to be prepared. Now, unless you have anything else to add I’m going to retire. When I return I’ll be in a position to make a judgment. Mr Chadwick, if I were you, I’d mentally prepare for my finding. And furthermore, this court will take a dim view of any local authority that changes the law just to pursue a grudge. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Crystal, your honour,’ Chadwick said.

Poe smiled at Bradshaw. They bumped fists.

It had gone exactly as they’d hoped.

Which was when two men entered the courtroom and everything turned to shit.

The two men approached the bench. One had ginger hair, the other’s was long and grey. Poe silently nicknamed them Ginge and Gandalf. Ginge whispered something to the judge. To Poe’s surprise, instead of telling them to get out of his courtroom, the judge whispered back. More than once he glanced in Poe’s direction.

Eventually he nodded.

He cleared his throat and said, ‘It seems you’re going to get your adjournment after all, Mr Chadwick – Mr Poe is urgently needed elsewhere.’

Two minutes later the courtroom was empty. The judge had retired to his chambers and Mr Chadwick had sloped off to lick his wounds.

‘Washington Poe?’ Ginge said. Gandalf had yet to speak.

Poe nodded.

‘Can you come with us, please, sir?’

‘And you are?’

‘My name’s Jonathan.’

‘You have a surname, Jonathan?’

‘Could you come with us, sir?’

‘Where?’

‘It’ll take a couple of hours to get there.’

‘I see,’ Poe said. ‘I don’t suppose you could show me some ID?’

‘Sorry, sir. I don’t carry any.’

‘I’m going nowhere then,’ Poe said. ‘My dad told me never to get in cars with strange men.’

Jonathan looked at Gandalf. He nodded.

‘There’s been a murder,’ Jonathan said.

Victoria Hume and Bradshaw were waiting outside. Poe explained the little he knew.

‘I’ll go and get Edgar,’ Victoria said. ‘You can collect him later.’

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Tilly, would you be able to take my car back to my place? Yours is parked there anyway.’

‘Actually, sir, we’d like Miss Bradshaw to come with us as well,’ Gandalf said, the first time he’d spoken.

‘You would?’ Bradshaw said.

Gandalf gestured towards his colleague. ‘Jonathan will be driving your car home for you. It’s why he’s here.’

‘Is he now?’ Poe said. ‘And do you have a name?’

‘That isn’t important, sir. What is important is getting you to where you need to be.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘And we’re already running late.’

‘You do realise that the judge was about to rule in my favour? Who knows what the council will come up with in the extra time you two clowns have just given them.’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said, ‘but this is time sensitive. People are waiting for you.’

‘It’s OK, Poe,’ Bradshaw said. ‘Legally, there’s nothing they can do.’

Poe wasn’t convinced. The Lake District National Park was obsessed with the past. Everything had to be as it was during Beatrix Potter’s time, and anything that wasn’t was discouraged and legislated against. Two weeks was a long time for people searching for a loophole.

‘Sir?’

Poe looked at Bradshaw. If Gandalf and Jonathan were from the agency he thought they were, then Gandalf probably wasn’t exaggerating about it being time sensitive.

‘You up for this, Tilly?’

‘Let’s do it, Poe.’

‘Lead the way then, Gandalf.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Nothing.’

Gandalf turned his nondescript but powerful Audi south on to the M6 and put his foot down. He didn’t say where they were going but Poe had a fair idea.

They hadn’t offered surnames and they hadn’t shown any ID. The journey would take ‘a couple of hours’ and they were heading south. That would put them near Manchester and, because of an astonishing blunder when the builders who were contracted to put up their northern operations centre had put pictures of it in their corporate brochure, Poe even knew to what postcode they were heading.

He didn’t say anything, though. Better to keep his suspicions to himself for now.

Gandalf took them to an industrial estate on the outskirts of Manchester. Poe was sure he was taking a circuitous route so they wouldn’t be able to remember the way.

‘You should have made us wear hoods,’ Poe said.

Gandalf ignored him.

When they arrived at their destination – a low, flat building that looked like an Amazon distribution centre – Gandalf turned towards an underground car park, slowing as he approached a checkpoint. He rolled to a stop in front of a black and yellow wedge-shaped anti-ram barrier. The man behind the glass was armed and wearing a bulletproof vest.

‘Gosh,’ Bradshaw said.

Poe, who had seen fortified police stations when he’d toured Belfast with the Black Watch, said nothing.

Gandalf lowered his window and flashed the ID he’d earlier denied having.

‘Not alone today, sir?’ the man behind the glass said.

‘Got two for the briefing.’

The man bent down to check who was in the back of the car before picking up his phone. After a short conversation the anti-ram barrier lowered.

After they’d parked, Gandalf escorted them to a lift. Like some inner-city hotels, it had a card reader to activate it. Unlike inner-city hotels, none of the floor buttons were marked. Cameras in all four corners of the ceiling ensured there was nowhere to hide.

Gandalf touched the card reader with his ID card. The floor buttons lit up. He shielded them with his torso before pressing one.

‘Seriously, mate, you should have made us wear hoods,’ Poe said. The more they tried to conceal procedures, the clearer everything became.

The lift moved. Down, not up. Made sense, he supposed. The building was only high enough for a couple of floors, but there was no limit to how deep it was.

The doors opened and Gandalf gestured for them to step out. They were led through a succession of security checks. They had their fingerprints taken and their retinas scanned.

Poe’s mood worsened.

Eventually they were shown into an enclosed reception area. It was clean and functional. Moulded plastic seats, a water dispenser and harsh lighting. Clocks showing the time in major cities across the world were the only items on the wall.

Gandalf took them to the reception window. The woman behind the glass looked capable and organised. The kind of person who knew the right bus to catch.

‘Washington Poe and Matilda Bradshaw from the National Crime Agency,’ Gandalf said, his voice amplified electronically through a metal grille. ‘They’re here for the three p.m. briefing.’

‘ID cards, please,’ the woman said.

A flap opened underneath the window and a tray slid thro. . .