Page 143 of The Killer’s Mark

Poe racked his brains, tried to think of another high-profile case. And then, like a switch had been flicked on in his mind, it dawned on him. His first case with Bradshaw. His most famous case. He knew where the exchange would take place.

‘We’re going to a stone circle,’ he said.

Chapter 118

The Red Chamber guy at Brampton Golf Club checked Océane was still in the car then sent them on their way. The entire exchange took ten seconds. Poe was back on the road before he had a chance to read where their next destination was. He passed the slip of paper over his shoulder.

‘Great Orton airfield?’ Towler said. He screwed his eyes. ‘Did you have a case there? I don’t remember reading about one.’

Poe nodded. ‘Tilly and I consulted on a double murder. Got called in during the first COVID lockdown. There’s a foot-and-mouth mass grave at the airfield. Over half a million carcasses are buried there. One of the pits started leaking, and when they dug it up, they discovered two men had been hog-tied inside a dead cow and buried alive.’

‘Jeeeesus,’ Towler said. ‘Did you solve it?’

‘Took me two minutes to identify the victims, but it wasn’t my case. Don’t think they ever caught the perpetrator.’

‘Who were the dead guys?’

‘During the foot-and-mouth crisis I’d heard a rumour about two men who’d been offering infected carcasses to farmers.’

‘Because it was often better to have the virus than not?’

‘Yep. If you got it, the government culled your herd and compensated you. If you didn’t have it, you got nothing, but you couldn’t sell your livestock as there was a travel ban. I’d been hearing about these two grifters then suddenly I was hearing nothing about them, if you know what I mean?’

Towler nodded. He did.

‘I’d been waiting for them to show up somewhere. I thought it would be a slurry pit or a shallow grave. Seems they offered foot-and-mouth to someone with a sense of humour.’

‘This is such a fucked-up place,’ Océane said, shaking her head in disgust. ‘How can you live here?’

‘The fresh air,’ Towler said. He sniffed, grimaced, then covered his mouth and nose. Océane did the same. ‘What the fuck is that?’

‘That, Matt, is half a million dead farm animals,’ Poe said, turning onto Great Orton airfield. ‘Still a bit gamey, aren’t they?’

He stopped the car. The airfield was triangular and vast. Twenty-six foot-and-mouth burial pits had been dug in and around the runways. There were signs warning visitors not to climb on them. Poe didn’t think anyone in their right mind would climb on a foot-and-mouth pit, but a long career had told him that people were seldom in their right mind. Not permanently, anyway. He was just about to say, ‘Where is he?’ when a small vehicle flashed its headlights.

He put the car back in gear and slowly approached it. He went to the car’s left, so his driver’s window was next to the Red Chamber guy’s driver window. They went through the same rigmarole. A quick check to make sure Océane was still in the back, then handwritten instructions for the next location. As soon as the paper had been handed over, the Red Chamber guy sped off.

Poe unfurled the next instruction. He read it and sighed.

He’d been right. They were going to a stone circle. The exchange was taking place at Long Meg and Her Daughters.

Chapter 119

Long Meg and Her Daughters was a Neolithic stone circle just outside Penrith. With a diameter of three hundred and fifty feet, it was the third largest stone circle in the UK. It had sixty-nine stones, including Long Meg, the red sandstone monolith that stood outside the circle, and was one of the most impressive Neolithic monuments in the world. Legend had it that Long Meg was a witch who, along with her daughters, was turned to stone for dancing on the Sabbath. The circle was supposedly protected by magic, so it was impossible to count the same number of stones twice, but if you did, the spell was broken and Long Meg and her daughters would be set free. Poe had told Bradshaw this a few years ago. She’d called him an idiot.

Poe hated Long Meg.

He hadn’t always. He’d visited it on school trips. Sat on the stones, eaten his packed lunch. Taken rubbings from the carved patterns on the monolith. He’d shown them to his dad, who’d put them on the fridge. Poe still had them somewhere.

His love had turned to hate because of the actions of a serial murderer the press had dubbed the Immolation Man. His third victim, a man called Michael James, had been staked in the middle of the stone circle and burned alive. The Immolation Man was one of the highest-profile cases of Poe’s career. It was also the case that had flung him and Bradshaw together, starting the strongest, weirdest friendship he had ever had. They’d even made an ITV drama out of the investigation. The Immolator. Poe’s character had been played by Martin Clunes, surely one of the strangest-looking actors to ever find gainful employment. For the next two years, every time he’d entered a room, Flynn had said, ‘Hello, Big Ears, where’s Noddy?’

Although Long Meg was close to Penrith, the sixth most populated town in Cumbria, it was still in the middle of nowhere. Poe didn’t need directions, though. The place was seared into his memory.

He left the M6 at Junction 42 and joined the A6. Put his foot down. Towler got on his phone and began whispering instructions. He leaned over and clocked the speedometer.

‘Slow down, mate,’ he said.

Poe did. Towler’s guys needed time to get into position. He took his foot off the accelerator until he was doing forty. Even at that speed they’d be at Long Meg within thirty minutes. He heard Towler ask for an ETA. He seemed happy with the answer.