Page 53 of The Mercy Chair

‘Israel Cobb was born in 1964 in Suffolk. He moved to Cumbria twenty years later and I don’t think he ever left.’

‘He isn’t in any of the Children of Job records though,’ Poe said. He added, ‘Nightingale would have found something by now if he were,’ to give the bishop some cover. Linus didn’t need to know what they knew.

‘He isn’t, Poe. If he was ever there, his records were expunged.’

‘Which would fit with him falling out with Cornelius Green,’ Poe said, remembering what the note had said. ‘It must have been a full-on row if Cornelius had Israel’s life deleted. Perhaps we have our first suspect. Maybe Israel Cobb thought it was time he reclaimed whatever position he had previously held at the Children of Job.’

‘Then why didn’t the note just say, “Israel Cobb did it”,’ Linus said. ‘Why be so cryptic?’

‘Tilly?’ Poe said. ‘You want to remind Snoopy what my motto is?’

‘Which one, Poe? You have lots of mottos.’

‘The one about stupid questions.’

‘Ah, that one.’ She turned in her seat to face Linus. ‘Poe says that the person who said there are no F-word stupid questions had never had to listen to the F-word idiots he has had to listen to.’

‘I hardly—’

‘He also says why can’t people F-word think for themselves every now and then? Or at least look on F-word Google before they start F-word bothering him. I think he means we have no way of knowing why the person who wrote the note said what they did. That’s what we’ll be trying to find out next, I imagine. Isn’t that right, Poe?’

‘It is, Tilly,’ Poe said. He glanced at Linus in the rear-view mirror. His face was beetroot-red. Good, Poe thought. He knew the bloke was a spook, but he was too interested in their methods as far as Poe was concerned. He’d have a word with Bradshaw later. Make sure she didn’t drop herself in it. ‘Where does Israel Cobb live now, Tilly?’

‘Just outside Skelton. It’s near Penrith, Poe.’

‘I know Skelton, Tilly. Small village. Has a pub that does nice food.’ He checked the clock on the dashboard. ‘It’s coming up to six now and we still have an hour before we get to the M6.’

‘We’ll be standing down then?’ Linus said. ‘It’ll be nearly eight o’clock before we get there.’

‘Tilly and me aren’t paid to stand down, Snoopy. We’re paid to stand up.’

‘It’s too late to interview witnesses, Poe. Eight o’clock is an intrusion.’

‘You got somewhere else you need to be?’ Poe said. ‘This is a murder investigation and Israel Cobb isn’t a witness, he’s a suspect. That means he keeps our hours; we don’t keep his.’

Chapter 47

They arrived in Skelton a little after 8 p.m. Bradshaw directed Poe to Israel Cobb’s house. It was a mile out of the village, at the dead end of a single-lane track where the weeds had punched through the tarmac and tyre-piercing stones lay like spilled marbles. The house was almost derelict. It was in the shade of three tall oaks and Poe doubted it had ever seen sustained sunlight. The low, misshapen roof sagged, and the walls were wet with algae. If it hadn’t been for the light coming from the partially drawn curtains, it would have looked abandoned.

Poe rapped his knuckles against the thin door and winced when the wood splintered. He waited twenty seconds then knocked again, harder. He was about to knock for a third time when he heard a shuffling noise from behind the door.

‘Who’s there?’

‘National Crime Agency, Mr Cobb,’ Poe said. ‘We need to talk.’

‘Talk to each other then; I’m busy.’

Poe knocked again. The door opened.

Israel Cobb was as thin as garlic skin and twice as pale. He had hair like an unshorn sheep, and the physique of someone who drank his meals. His back was banana-curved. Given his background, Poe had been expecting an older version of Joshua Meade. Prim and prissy with a distasteful look, as if he had something smelly on his upper lip. But, in his ratty dressing gown and even rattier sandals, Israel Cobb looked like a featherweight Merlin. His toenails were jagged and yellow and dirtier than a dustbin lid.

‘May we come in, Mr Cobb?’ Poe said, stepping past him before he’d finished asking.

‘Apparently you may,’ Cobb replied in a voice sculpted by filterless cigarettes. He had teeth like baked beans.

Bradshaw stepped inside too. She said, ‘Good evening, Mr Cobb. My name is Matilda Bradshaw and I work with Poe at the Serious Crime Analysis Section.’

‘Is that right?’

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