Page 12 of The Mercy Chair

‘She is. But there was a price to taking her out of school at thirteen. She never really mixed with ordinary people and as a result she has a problem integrating. You heard what she said about the hairs on that woman’s chin when she was in America for her award?’

Doctor Lang stifled a grin. ‘The one she asked if she suffered from werewolf syndrome?’

Poe nodded. ‘Well, trust me when I say of all the social hand grenades she’s lobbed over the years, that wouldn’t even make the top one hundred.’

‘Don’t people make fun of her?’

‘They used to.’

‘And now?’

‘And now they don’t,’ Poe said without further explanation.

‘You said she’s your friend?’

Poe nodded again. ‘And I’m the type of person who doesn’t have friends. She’s loyal, brave and incredibly kind. Probably the nicest person I’ve ever met. A sort of human mirror, the kind you only see the best version of yourself in.’

‘OK, along with Estelle, it sounds like you have decent support networks,’ Doctor Lang said. ‘Who was the third person?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘DI Flynn said there were three people waiting for you in the lobby. She and Tilly are two; who was the third?’

Poe scowled. ‘You ever had an intern, Doctor Lang?’

‘Trainees occasionally sit in with me.’

‘You’ll know then.’

‘Know what?’

‘Just how annoying they are.’

Chapter 10

Flynn was waiting for Poe in the reception area. It was brightly lit with grey pleather seats arranged in horseshoe-shaped booths. Behind the seats was a floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall, etched metal print showing the evolution of the National Crime Agency. It officially came into existence in 2013, but subsumed agencies such as the UK Human Trafficking Centre and the National Criminal Intelligence Service, which had much longer histories. Every time Poe saw the print, he was reminded how disparate the NCA’s legacy organisations were.

Bradshaw and a man Poe didn’t recognise were seated beside Flynn.

‘What are you doing this week, Poe?’ Flynn asked.

‘Depends on the rest of the information you’re about to give me, I suppose,’ he replied, eyeing the stranger warily. He was wearing a suit. Not the hardwearing suits cops wore, this one looked as though he’d stood on a tailor’s box and been asked which way he dressed. His shoes were highly polished and scuff free. He had gel on his hair and his nails were manicured. He looked like the kind of arsehole who modelled designer glasses in airport magazines. Poe took an immediate dislike to him.

‘I need you, Tilly and Linus to head up to Cumbria,’ Flynn said. ‘Detective Superintendent Jo Nightingale is waiting for you. She’ll call with directions when you get there.’

‘Where’s there?’

‘Keswick.’

‘She can’t have another serial, surely?’ Poe said.

Cumbria had seen more than its fair share of serial killers recently.

‘Not a serial.’

‘Then why the referral?’

SCAS only got involved if a territorial police force asked for their assistance. Serial killers were obvious examples, but solving apparently motiveless murders was also a unit speciality. Poe had worked with Nightingale before. She was capable and well respected but, like all cops, she saw calling in outside help as an admission of failure.

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