EXCLUSIVE SHORT STORY FROM M.W. CRAVEN

Strange Ink

A Poe and Bradshaw Story

M. W. Craven

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The interview room was cramped and hot, with as much charm as a Dutch euthanasia clinic. Detective Sergeant Washington Poe hadn’t been in a good mood before he’d entered the room, and the two jokers—he’d forgotten their names, but was internally referring to them as Homer and Marge—weren’t helping. They were either there to do a hitjob on him or to collect evidence for the National Crime Agency’s end-of-year blooper reel.

He suspected the latter, but was playing it as if it were the former. Throughout the last few months he’d been over the events of that night again and again and had nothing new to add. And Marge and Homer were more interested in how he said things rather than what he said. They hid it, but he’d sat on the other side of the table for more years than he could remember and he knew subtext when he heard it. There was something he wasn’t being told.

Poe realised Marge had just said something. ‘Sorry, I missed that,’ he admitted.

Marge sighed. People did that a lot around him. ‘I asked if at any point during the evening you identified yourself as a police officer.’

‘Of course.’

‘Before or after you entered the house?’

‘After.’

‘Surely this whole thing could have been nipped in the bud if you’d identified yourself earlier?’

‘I doubt it,’ Poe said.

‘Why not?’

‘Because, at the time, I was inside a pantomime horse.’

Marge and Homer shared a glance. ‘Excuse me?’ Marge said.

‘The front half, to be precise. The bit with the head.’

‘You were inside a pantomime horse?’

‘A Sleipnir, actually.’

‘I don’t know what that is.’

‘I’m reliably informed that Sleipnir was the horse of Odin, king of the Norse gods. He had eight legs.’ Poe grimaced as he remembered the costume. ‘My… friend had sewn on the extra four legs.’ He looked at Marge defiantly, daring her to laugh. ‘So no, I took the pragmatic decision not to identify myself as a police officer while I was dressed as an eight-legged horse.’

‘I think you’d better start from the beginning,’ Homer said, looking up from his file for only the second time. He was holding it to his chest like it was a baby.

‘Oh goody,’ Poe said.

 

* * *

 

Of the many reasons Poe wouldn’t forget that evening, being one half of an eight-legged horse from Norse mythology was the least of them. Well, maybe not the least, but it certainly wasn’t the most unusual thing…

On reflection, that would have been the zombies. And the ghosts. And the vampires and the monsters and, for reasons unknown to him, the superheroes. It was strange seeing oversized toddlers stuffed into Batman and Spider-Man costumes, waddling from door to door, fat and shiny and full of sugar, but nowhere near as strange as seeing fully grown adults, possibly on day release from the local asylum, dressed as Iron Man and Captain Marvel, and a whole other bunch of superheroes that his friend Tilly Bradshaw had excitedly pointed out. That was when she wasn’t busy being the rear end of Sleipnir, the eight-legged nag that Poe would happily condemn to the glue factory if he ever happened upon it in real life.

So there was that.

And there was another thing, of course, but we’re getting ahead of ourselves.

Because, for Poe, the evening had turned sour the moment DI Stephanie Flynn, his boss in the Serious Crime Analysis Section, had rumbled his cunning plan.

It had involved the Blues Brothers…

Again.

 

* * *

 

‘You’re not going as Jake Blues, Poe!’ Flynn snapped. ‘It’s not happening, not again.’

‘OK, I’ll go as—’

‘And you’re not going as Elwood Blues either!’

Poe scowled.

‘Oh pack it in. We only do this once a year and everyone has to wear a costume. And yes, everyone feels silly, and yes, everyone tries to get out of it—’

‘Not everyone,’ Poe cut in.

‘Well, no,’ Flynn admitted. ‘Obviously there is one person who enjoys the evening, but my point is this: you’re the unit’s detective sergeant and, like it or not, the staff take their cues from you. If you don’t dress up, no one will dress up.’

‘One person will.’

‘Yes, Tilly Bradshaw will,’ Flynn sighed. ‘But she’s the exception that proves the rule. No one else will.’

‘Going as one of the Blues Brothers is dressing up.’

‘That’s your minging work suit, Poe. All you’ve done is put on your funeral tie.’

‘I’ll also be wearing sunglasses and a trilby.’

‘That white hat you found behind the back of the butchers? Don’t think I haven’t seen you colouring it black with a felt-tip pen all afternoon.’

‘Fine,’ he fake sighed. ‘I’ll go as Walter White instead. Happy?’

‘The guy from Breaking Bad?’

Poe nodded.

‘The guy who wears a black hat and sunglasses?’ she said. ‘That’s just Elwood Blues by the back door. Forget it.’

‘I’ve nothing to wear then,’ he said. ‘Oh well, never mind. I guess I’ll see you in the pub afterwards?’

Flynn grinned evilly. ‘As if we’re falling for the old “I’ve forgotten my PE kit, miss” trick again. That isn’t going to work this year, Poe. This year I’m the teacher who makes you do PE in your underpants.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘We planned for this,’ Flynn said.

Poe felt a chill run up his spine. ‘What do you mean “we”? Who else have you roped into this?’

‘Who do you think?’

‘Oh God,’ Poe said. ‘You didn’t?’

Flynn smirked.

‘You let Tilly sort out my costume?’

‘How is your Norse mythology?’ Flynn asked.

His eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’

‘Humour me.’

Poe shrugged. His job, the unit’s job really, was to identify and hunt serial killers. He kept himself up-to-date with all the fads and religions and crazes as he never knew where the next mutation would come from. ‘As familiar as I need to be,’ he said.

‘Do you know who Sleipnir is?’

‘Not a clue.’

She told him.

‘And?’

‘Did you go to the pantomime when you were a kid?’

‘We used to go to the Theatre Royal in Newcastle,’ Poe said, smiling at the memory. ‘Me and my dad would get the train from Carlisle. We’d check out Fenwick’s Christmas window and I was allowed to take my ice cream into the stalls. Haven’t been for years, obviously.’

‘But you know what a pantomime horse is?’

‘Of course I…’ He trailed off. ‘Tilly’s putting me in a pantomime horse?’

‘Of course not. That would be ridiculous.’

Poe breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Oh thank—’

‘No, she’s putting you in a Sleipnir costume,’ Flynn said. ‘Which she’s made from a pantomime horse.’

‘You have to be joking.’

‘She’s been sewing on the extra legs all week. She’s incredibly excited and you aren’t going to spoil it for her.’

‘I’m not walking to the orphanage in a bloody horse outfit.’

‘Oh, he’s just being a Mr Cranky Pants, DI Flynn,’ Bradshaw said, entering the room. Two of the Mole People, the affectionate name Poe had coined for her team of fellow analysts, followed her. They were dragging a suspiciously sparkly lump of cloth behind them.

‘Never mind Mr Cranky Pants, Tilly,’ Flynn sniggered. ‘He’ll be Mr Horsey Pants soon.’

‘You’ll wear it, won’t you, Poe?’ Bradshaw asked.

Poe sighed. Objecting to wearing a stupid costume was fine when the person who’d spent hours making it wasn’t in the room to hear said objections. Now she was, he had nothing defensible to say. Bradshaw was his friend and he would never intentionally upset her. A few years ago she wouldn’t have had the social skills to cope and would have withdrawn into herself. Now, she would do something like change his ringtone to Girls Aloud or alter his satnav so it kept directing him to one of those alcohol-free bars that were cropping up everywhere, and Poe didn’t have the technical skills to undo anything Bradshaw did.

No one did. It was why she was the unit’s most valuable asset.

But mainly Bradshaw’s enthusiasm for all things geek, for life really, was infectious. So he’d wear her silly costume and he’d join in and he’d try not to moan, but next year he’d make sure he got his leave request in early.

‘I’ll wear your horsey outfit, Tilly,’ he confirmed. ‘But as you had lentil casserole for lunch, I’m going to be the front end. I’m not walking behind you.’

‘OK, Poe.’

‘And, Poe,’ Flynn said, ‘please don’t call it an orphanage when we get there.’

‘What is it?’

‘You know full well it’s a residential home for children with challenging behaviour.’

‘You can say that again,’ Poe grumbled. ‘Little bastards egged me last year. And those weren’t fresh eggs. It was a premeditated egging.’

‘Which you brought entirely upon yourself with your stupid, “How are my favourite twockers doing?” question.’

‘That was a joke!’

‘And I can’t believe you’re wearing the same suit. The egg stain on your shoulder is still shiny.’

And so it went on.

 

* * *

 

‘OK, so you were wearing a horse costume,’ Marge said.

‘I was.’

‘And how long was the walk to the’—she referred to her file—‘the residential home for children with challenging behaviour?’

‘About half a mile. We deliver sweets every year at Halloween.’

‘And when did you notice something was wrong?’

‘When I saw the dog.’

 

* * *

 

‘Can you hear me, Tilly?’ Poe said. His voice echoed around the inside of the hollow head of the horse. He wanted Bradshaw talking. Because when she wasn’t talking, she was doing clippety-clop noises and Poe was embarrassed enough already. Flynn had scarpered as soon as Bradshaw had started doing them. She said she would meet them at the children’s home. Poe had heard her laughing all the way down the street.

‘I can, Poe,’ Bradshaw replied directly into his backside, her voice muffled.

They had found an easy rhythm, a coordinated left-foot/right-foot thing, a bit like being back on the drill square from Poe’s days in the Black Watch. Bradshaw had said it wasn’t the correct gait, to which he’d replied they were inside an eight-legged mythological horse, so no one really knew how it walked, did they? She’d said she would write a paper on it and, in a moment of weakness he blamed on the fumes coming from the glue the Mole People had used to secure the horse’s mane, he’d agreed to read it.

‘When did Halloween get so…’ He trailed off as he searched for the right word.

‘Get so what, Poe?’

‘So… American?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘When I was a kid Halloween meant walking round to your neighbours’ with a sheet over your head holding a rock-hard turnip it had taken your dad all day to carve. It had a glob of candle inside that was always going out or falling over and if you didn’t go home with third-degree wax burns you’d been having fun wrong. But now look at them.’

‘I can only see your bottom, Poe.’

‘It’s all pumpkins and expensive fancy dress. And as for the bloody lawn decorations? God only knows—’

‘I can still only see your bottom, Poe.’

‘—how much electricity is being used tonight. I’ve never seen so much tat in my life. I’m telling you, Tilly, there are loads of good things to come out of America—’

‘Like what, Poe? You always say America is the world’s cultural drip tray.’

‘Like the Ramones and Blondie and the Dead Kennedys and seventy-two-ounce steaks and Pop-Tarts and hot dogs with chilli on them. But I’ll never get on board with this obsession with adopting their holidays, Tilly. Did you know there are dribbling simpletons in this country who now celebrate Thanksgiving? Bloody Thanksgiving! What the hell have we got to be to thankful for? And don’t get me started on…’ He didn’t finish.

‘What is it, Poe?’

‘There’s a dog, Tilly.’

‘Aw, a dog! What kind of dog?’

‘Er… a boxer, I think. It’s hard to tell while I’m wearing this horse’s head.’

‘Are we stopping to play with it, Poe?’

‘No, it’s being a bit odd.’

‘Odd, how?’

Poe didn’t immediately respond. When he did, he said, ‘I think something’s wrong, Tilly.’

 

* * *

 

‘I’ve read your statement, Sergeant Poe,’ Marge said. ‘You’ve written: “The dog was acting suspiciously.”’

‘It was nearly five in the morning when I wrote that,’ Poe said. ‘You try formulating lucid thoughts after all that drama. But fair point. It’s probably more accurate to say the dog was behaving weirdly.’

‘Weirdly, how?’

‘I need to give you the context first,’ Poe said. ‘We were on a residential street at seven p.m. on Halloween. It was packed with kids, all high on sugar, and parents trying to make sure the local paedo didn’t snatch one of the slower ones. It was so loud I couldn’t even hear Tilly’s clippety-clops.’

‘Which was why you didn’t hear the screaming?’

‘Oh, I heard the screaming. Everyone was screaming. But until I saw the dog I wasn’t trying to differentiate between screams of excitement and screams of terror.’

‘Tell me about the dog.’

‘Friendly thing,’ Poe said. ‘Probably why it wasn’t on a lead. I never spoke to the owners, but I suspect it came from a house on the street we were on. Anyway, this dog was walking ahead of us, but it was stopping to lick the pavement every few feet.’

‘I’m surprised you noticed with your head in that horse.’

‘Ah, that’s the thing, you see. They’re designed so you can look down as well as straight ahead. Although Tilly had sewn on four extra legs, it was, to all intents and purposes, a mangy old pantomime horse. And that means the people inside had to be able to walk across a stage without falling through a trapdoor or trotting straight into the orchestra pit. Tilly couldn’t see a thing; I could see just about everything.’

‘So, you noticed the dog licking the pavement?’

‘I did. So I stopped to see what it was finding so tasty.’

‘Which was when you saw the blood.’

‘Oh, there was lots of blood,’ Poe said. ‘But most of it wasn’t real. You can buy that fake shit for next to nothing these days, especially at Halloween, and the kids were covered in it.’

‘But the dog was ignoring this and lapping up the good stuff?’

‘It was.’

‘How could you be sure it was real?’

‘I’ve been a police officer for a long time now—I know what spilled blood looks like. It doesn’t stay red for long, not even the highly oxygenated arterial stuff; it goes dark, almost black. And the blood the dog was licking had clotted. Fake blood doesn’t do that.’

‘OK, what did you do then?’

‘I stopped to study one of the drops the dog had missed.’

‘Why?’

‘Because although I’m not a crime scene investigator, I understand rudimentary blood pattern analysis. And the drops weren’t round, they were oval with tails.’

‘Forgive me, Sergeant Poe,’ Marge said. ‘I’ve never attended a live crime scene, I don’t understand the significance of that.’

‘You’ve never been to a crime scene?’ Poe said, surprised. ‘But you’re a cop?’

‘Nevertheless.’

‘Oval drops mean that the blood wasn’t falling from ninety degrees when it hit the pavement. If it had fallen from ninety degrees, the drops would have been round.’

‘The person was moving?’

‘And probably at speed. The blood hits the pavement then carries on moving in the direction of travel, you see? The tail indicates which way the person was heading.’

‘So you followed the drops to see who’d been hurt?’

Poe shook his head. ‘I’m not wired that way,’ he said. ‘And neither is Tilly. We headed towards the source of the wound.’

‘Oh?’

‘The blood drops were well spaced out and small so I figured there was no immediate danger to whoever was injured, and I needed to know there wasn’t a knife-wielding maniac a bit further up the street. It was a judgement call, and if you guys are here to review a decision I made in a split second, so be it. But that’s where I ended up. Instead of searching for the person who was wounded, Tilly and I went looking for whoever had done the wounding.’

 

* * *

 

‘Are you sure it’s real blood, Poe?’ Bradshaw said.

They were running now or, to be more accurate, cantering, and Bradshaw was out of breath. She wasn’t used to physical activity, and even if she had been, she was bent at the waist¾

 

* * *

 

‘Wait,’ Marge said incredulously, ‘you were still wearing the horse outfit?’

Poe reddened. ‘We were.’

‘And you didn’t think to take it off?’

‘You see, when you say it like that it seems silly,’ Poe admitted. ‘All I can say is at the time, it didn’t occur to either of us.’

‘And you weren’t…?’

‘What?’

Marge sighed. ‘You have a track record for being awkward, Sergeant Poe. Are you sure you weren’t getting in a dig at DI Flynn for forcing you to wear something ridiculous?’

‘One,’ Poe said, holding up a finger, ‘I don’t like looking silly; if I’d thought to take the costume off, I would have.’ He held up a second finger, making sure to aim the ‘V’ in Marge’s direction. ‘And two, forgetting to take off the costume turned out to be a blessing in a silly disguise.’

Marge looked unconvinced, but it seemed this wasn’t the hill she wanted to die on. She continued. ‘What happened next?’ she asked.

 

* * *

 

The urgency of the situation hadn’t filtered through to the mums and dads and the kids dressed as Spider-Man yet. As Poe and Bradshaw¾now getting up a decent lick of speed¾cantered along the trail of clotting blood, they were cheered on. Someone even offered them a sugar lump. Someone else shouted, ‘Giddy up!’

They had overtaken the dog by then. It had stopped to terrorise a toddler with some low-hanging candyfloss.

‘Can you still tell which blood is real and which is fake, Poe?’ Bradshaw said breathlessly.

‘I can, Tilly.’

He didn’t add that the blood drops were getting bigger, closer together and had clotted so much they were almost solid. They were close to the source of what Poe hoped was a superficial injury. He resisted saying, ‘Whoa!’ and instead opted for, ‘We’ll walk from here, Tilly. I don’t think we’re too far away.’

‘Should we climb out of Sleipnir now, Poe?’

Which was when Poe realised that he’d been running to a crime scene in a horse costume, when he could have been running to a crime scene in jeans and an old Dropkick Murphys tour T-shirt. He was about to say, ‘Yes, of course we should,’ when something stayed his hand. The street they were on was like all the others they had passed through; full of families and children and gangs of teens, all having fun, all dressed up in their Halloween finest. But while the other streets had been filled with screams of laughter and excitement, the tone of this one had just begun to change. There was an edge to it now. Something was happening, something up ahead. And whatever it was, like walking the wrong way down a one-way aisle in a COVID-compliant supermarket, Poe now found himself fighting against a crowd. People weren’t exactly panicking, but there was a definite sense of unease. A desire to be somewhere else. Parents were dragging unwieldy children; teens were trying to act cool as they sidled away as fast as they could while still pretending to be bored.

And instinctively, Poe knew that being inside a pantomime horse was now a big advantage. What better way to hide in plain sight on Halloween?

Someone screamed. Fear, not excitement this time. It had burst, staccato-like, from a semi-detached two doors away. A single, drawn-out scream, cut off, then another, muffled this time. Then nothing.

‘We’re here, Tilly,’ Poe said quietly.

‘What?’

‘I said, “We’re here.”’ Louder this time.

‘Shush, Poe,’ Bradshaw whispered. ‘They’ll hear you.’

He told her what he could see.

The street’s houses would have looked bland and samey twenty years ago, but time had aged each property differently. Gardens were mature and windows and doors were on their second or third refit. Some properties were covered with ivy, others had south-facing conservatories. The house in question¾and the splash of blood on the path near the door left little room for doubt that this was the one¾was as well maintained as the others on the street. The lawn was a bit brown maybe, and the paint on the fence separating the two gardens was peeling. But other than that, there were no obvious signs of neglect. If the person inside was having some sort of breakdown, it was quite recent.

‘It’s too quiet,’ Poe muttered.

And, in the context of this street, on this day, it was. Now, Poe was as misanthropic as it was possible to be when it came to Halloween, and, when he’d lived down south, he’d been well versed in avoiding a pestilence of beggar-children knocking on his door, who threatened violence if he refused to divvy up his mini Mars Bars. The unwritten, but universally understood, rule was that if you didn’t want to be bothered on Halloween, you didn’t put out any of the bullshit. No fake carved pumpkin, no stupid skeletons, no broomsticks leaning against the side of your house. And you left your lights off. Nothing to see here, move along.

And if the house Poe was now standing in front of had been like that, the unnatural stillness might not have caused a red light to start flashing. But this house wasn’t like that. This house belonged to someone who wanted to join in. The owner had kids, liked kids, or had, at the very least, a dungeon full of them. The brown lawn had three tombstones staked into it, one with a grey hand¾presumably belonging to a reanimated corpse¾clawing its way to freedom. A trick-or-treat sign hung from the door handle and the obligatory pumpkin sat on the welcome mat.

But the lights were off and people had been scurrying away from the house. It was quiet now, but there had been a scream. A cut-off scream. Poe was sure someone had already called 999 but, even in a silly outfit, he was the cop on the ground. Leaving it to someone else wasn’t in his DNA.

‘Shall we knock on the door, Tilly?’ he said. ‘See if the homeowner has any toffees?’

‘I can’t eat toffee, Poe; I’m a vegan.’

‘Maybe an apple then,’ he said as they made their way up the unlit garden path, adjusting their step so they weren’t tripping over each other. We’re getting good at this, he thought. He also thought he never wanted to do it again. Next year, if he forgot to put leave in, he would do a Basil Fawlty and fake a heart attack.

The front door was blue and sturdy with a spyhole between two opaque windows. Poe knew it was an insurance requirement to have spyholes in all front doors, even those with windows, but as a security feature it was worse than useless. When you surreptitiously checked who was knocking, you were in full view.

Poe removed his arm from the horse outfit and rapped his knuckles on the wood between the two panes of glass, low down, the way a child might.

Nothing.

He knocked again.

This time there was muffled whispering and two people appeared on the other side of the opaque panes in the door, one standing behind the other. The door opened a fraction, as much as the security chain would allow. A pale face peeped through. A young woman. Poe couldn’t see who was standing behind her.

The woman’s face was painted white, like a clown, and her bleached hair was dyed red on one side and blue on the other. She wore small, tight, blue and red shorts, fishnet stockings and fingerless gloves. Her white T-shirt was ripped and her upper thigh was tattooed with four red diamonds, like a playing card. It was vibrant and fake and clearly something to do with whoever she was dressed as.

She looked terrified.

‘Penny for the guy,’ Poe said.

The woman frowned. ‘It’s… it’s not Bonfire Night.’

‘Oh yeah, I forgot. Gimme all your toffees then.’

‘Sorry, I… we don’t have any treats left.’

She stared at Poe, wide-eyed, silently trying to communicate a message that Poe had received the second she’d opened the door.

‘What’s your name, miss?’ Poe asked.

‘It’s Harley Quinn, sir.’

‘And is everything OK, Miss—’

Bradshaw prodded him in the back. She urgently whispered something.

‘One moment, Miss Quinn,’ he said. Then to Bradshaw, ‘I’m sorry, Tilly, I didn’t quite catch that.’

Bradshaw repeated what she’d said, louder this time.

Poe sighed. He turned back to the pale woman. ‘Can I have your real name, Miss Quinn? My hindquarters have just informed me that Harley Quinn is a Batman villain.’

‘Oh yes, of course. My name is Jacqui Harper.’

‘And do you live here, Jacqui?’

‘I don’t,’ she said, her mouth quivering. ‘I’m… visiting my friend.’

‘And who’s that behind you?’

‘My friend.’

‘And does your friend have a name?’

She gave him a tiny, almost imperceptible, shake of her head. A warning. Big enough for Poe to know his questions were putting her in a dangerous position, but small enough that whoever was behind her wouldn’t notice.

‘OK,’ Poe said, sensing now was the time to make a tactical withdrawal. ‘Maybe they’ll have sugar lumps for us next door. Goodbye, Jacqui.’

He lifted his horse head a fraction, enough to show his face for a second. He winked and mouthed, ‘It’s going to be OK.’

Jacqui shut the door, but not fully. The security chain was still on, but the door’s latch hadn’t caught. He wondered if she’d done that on purpose.

They did an awkward about-turn, their real legs tangling with the extra four, but were soon back on the pavement. Poe led them a few yards down the street, far enough for a large oak tree to shield them from view from the house’s bay windows.

‘Did you hear all that, Tilly?’

‘I did, Poe,’ Bradshaw replied. ‘And even without seeing Jacqui Harper, I could tell she was scared.’

‘She was,’ Poe agreed. ‘Do you have your phone on you?’

‘Of course.’

‘Can you call the boss?’

‘What am I to tell her, Poe?’

‘Tell her we’ve cantered our way into a hostage situation.’

 

* * *

 

‘What did you do then, Sergeant Poe?’ Marge asked.

‘I waited.’

‘For?’

‘For the blues and twos, for the boss, for anyone,’ Poe said. ‘I’m not a trained negotiator so the most useful thing I could do was ensure that part of the street stayed empty.’

‘What happened then?’

‘The oak tree we were hiding behind didn’t afford us the protection I’d hoped for.’

‘He saw you?’

‘From the window on the landing.’

‘And this was when he asked for help?’

‘He did.’

‘I assume this was a surprise?’

‘Big one,’ Poe agreed. ‘I’d assumed it was him holding the woman hostage.’

‘You re-evaluated that it was the other way around? That it was the woman holding the man hostage?’

‘I did.’

‘And?’

‘It turned out that was wrong too.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yep,’ Poe said. ‘There was a third person in the house, in a manner of speaking, someone who, up until then, hadn’t shown himself.’

 

* * *

 

‘Has he just shouted for help?’ Poe said.

They had climbed out of the horse costume, although Poe still wore the trousers, held up with a pair of oversized braces. He was so hot he steamed. Bradshaw was uncricking her back and rolling her shoulders.

‘He did, Poe.’

‘Have we just messed up? If I’d known Jacqui Harper was the hostage taker, I could have grabbed her through the gap in the door. Held on until the mystery man made his escape.’

‘But she was scared, Poe. You saw it and I heard it.’

‘And that wasn’t nerves, that was terror,’ Poe agreed. He placed the horse’s head carefully on the ground. ‘So what aren’t we seeing? Jacqui Harper’s terrified and a man’s just yelled out for help. Is there a third person in there? A bad actor who hasn’t yet played his hand?’

‘A bad actor?’ Bradshaw said. ‘Do you mean someone like Hayden Christensen?’

‘That’s not what that phrase means, Tilly. And who the hell is Hayden flippity-do-dah?’

‘The man who ruined Darth Vader in the Star Wars prequels, Poe.’

‘Star Wars? Are they the films about the dinosaur theme park?’ Poe said as he studied the house. It remained shrouded in darkness. No shadows flitting between rooms. If Jacqui hadn’t answered the door he’d have assumed the house was empty. ‘You did call the boss?’ he asked, ignoring Bradshaw’s protests. He actually knew about Star Wars; he’d watched the first three films with his dad. He hadn’t known prequels had been made, though.

‘I did, Poe.’

‘Tell me what she said again.’

‘That she would be along soon, but she would call the local police team and get them to send everyone out.’

‘Where are they then?’

Bradshaw shrugged. ‘Apparently there’s a boring football match on tonight and they’re stretched.’

‘Did she say anything else?’

‘Only that you weren’t to do anything stupid. She said that three times actually. And then texted it to me.’

‘As if I woul—’

Another scream ripped through the frigid air.

‘Doing nothing is now the stupid thing, Tilly,’ Poe said, climbing over the picket fence and running across the brown lawn, Bradshaw hot on his tail. ‘As far as I’m concerned,’ he panted, ‘there’s a threat to life. We have blood on the path and we have a hostage. And that means’—he gathered speed and crashed, shoulder first, into the front door—‘I don’t need a warrant to enter.’

The door’s security chain, the only thing keeping it closed, was no match for the momentum Poe had built up. It opened so suddenly that he tumbled into the hallway and sprawled onto the carpet. The door swung back and bounced off his head.

‘Ow,’ he said.

He clambered to his feet and took his bearings. The room to his immediate right was the lounge and there were more rooms ahead. The stairs were on his left.

Two people stood on the landing.

Jacqui Harper and a man who was holding a knife to her neck. No sign of Hayden Christensen.

‘Hello,’ Poe said. ‘Sorry about your door.’

The man didn’t respond. He was looking at Poe, his head tilted, his expression curious.

‘You OK, Jacqui?’ Poe asked.

‘She’s not called Jacqui!’ the man snapped. ‘Stop calling her that!’

‘My mistake. Who is she then?’

‘A killer!’

‘Oh. And who has she killed?’

‘I don’t know! Tens, hundreds of people.’

Poe reached into his jeans and removed his warrant card.

‘It’s your lucky day then, sir,’ he said, holding up his ID. ‘As you can see, I’m a police officer. Why don’t you hand her over to me? See if we can’t get to the bottom of this.’

‘Do you have any tattoos?’

This threw Poe for a second. ‘Actually, I do,’ he said after a beat. ‘I got one when I was in the army.’

‘You’re one of them!’

‘One of who, sir?’

‘You know!’ the man yelled, the knife scratching the terrified Jacqui’s neck.

‘I know I know,’ Poe said, ‘but my friend here doesn’t. She doesn’t have any tattoos, you see? Why don’t you tell her? She’ll believe you; she won’t believe me.’

The man considered this before nodding.

‘The bad people come through the tattoos, miss,’ he called out. ‘They take control of your mind and make you do the bad things they no longer can.’

Which was the most eloquent description of psychosis Poe had ever heard. Bradshaw said nothing.

‘I thought it would be a cool thing to do,’ the man whispered. ‘I thought it might help me get some friends. But I didn’t know this would happen!’

‘What did happen?’ Bradshaw asked.

‘He’s inside me now,’ the man said.

‘Who?’

‘The ghost of Alaric Jackson.’ Something flickered in his eyes, like his mind had just switched channels. ‘And if you don’t leave me alone I’ll cut this bitch!’

 

* * *

 

‘He actually said Alaric Jackson?’ Marge asked, leaning forwards. Homer did too. ‘Those were his exact words?’

‘You can imagine my surprise,’ Poe said. ‘But yes, he said the ghost of Alaric Jackson had possessed him. He was clearly in the midst of a psychotic episode. Kept switching between the two personalities without warning.’

Marge and Homer looked at each other.

‘Did his face change at all?’ Marge asked.

‘Change, how?’

‘The colour of his eyes. That type of thing.’

‘Of course not,’ Poe said. ‘What type of stupid question is that?’

‘And he definitely meant the serial killer?’ Marge asked, ignoring the insubordination.

‘Alaric Jackson was a spree killer, not a serial killer.’

‘What’s the difference?’

‘Serial killers require a temporal separation between murders. An emotional cooling-off period. Spree killers tend to murder during the same event, with no distinctive time between murders. Usually it involves a single location, where the victims are killed during an ongoing incident. And as you know, Alaric Jackson burst into a nursing home and stabbed eight residents, killing six of them, before trying to kill himself.’

‘And he believed Jackson had possessed him through his new tattoo?’

‘As ridiculous as that sounds, yes.’

‘How?’

‘Because the world’s a messed up place, ma’am,’ Poe said, ‘and for the right money, anything is for sale. Even the remains of a spree killer.’

 

* * *

 

Poe didn’t know when tattoos stopped being the preserve of criminals, hardcases, squaddies and sailors, but they had. Nowadays, hipsters, footballers, mums, even Fortune 500 executives were covered in them. And chefs. For some reason, men who spent their days tempering chocolate felt they deserved more tattoos than Popeye.

The man who thought he’d been possessed by the ghost of Alaric Jackson walked down the stairs like he had just had experimental arse surgery: a mixture of limp and swagger. He looked like the type of man who made his own Easter eggs and watched BBC Four documentaries. Bradshaw had checked the council tax register on her phone and he was called Norman Wilson. Poe thought the name fitted him well.

‘I think we all need to calm down, Norman,’ Poe said. ‘Miss Harper here hasn’t done anything wrong and I think you might have scared her a little. I’m no detective… Wait, I am a detective, and if I’m reading the situation correctly, Miss Harper was probably out trick or treating with a friend, and when they knocked on your door they caught you in the middle of an… episode. How am I doing?’

Norman nodded. Jacqui Harper obviously wanted to as well, but the knife was still tight against her throat.

‘And because a trail of blood led us here, I think you accidentally nicked Miss Harper’s friend. He or she screamed and it frightened you, and while they made their escape, you panicked and grabbed hold of Miss Harper.’

Norman Wilson stared at Poe, his eyes wide, his nostrils flared. ‘How do you…?’

‘Because I’m a detective.’ He pointed to the bandage on Norman’s arm. ‘Now, would I be right in saying you’ve just had a tattoo?’

‘I have. And he’s inside me now.’

Poe sighed. A mental health specialist should be talking to Norman, not him. He wasn’t trained for this. And even if he was, it was hard to have a sensible discussion with anyone while you were wearing horse trousers.

‘Why don’t you tell me what happened?’ Poe said.

 

* * *

 

‘And he did?’ Marge asked.

Poe nodded.

‘And?’

‘It seems old Norman had grown tired of being known as the neighbourhood crank. He told me that while no one was actively rude to him, he didn’t get invited to the parties and the barbeques everyone else seemed to. He was never asked if he wanted to go to the pub to watch the football. Through no fault of his own he was being excluded.’

‘Because he was a… crank?’

‘That’s just the thing,’ Poe said. ‘I don’t actually think he was.’

‘Then why—’

‘He was a single man and he lived alone,’ Poe cut in. ‘And in a street filled with young families, that meant he was viewed with suspicion. The yummy mummies, with their four-by-fours and their book clubs and their affairs with their personal trainers, thought anyone who didn’t have, or want their life, was someone their pampered brats needed to stay away from. I checked the system the day after the incident, and the police had received eight Sarah’s Law requests from residents on that street in the last three years, all about Norman.’

Sarah’s Law was the police’s Child Sex Offender Disclosure Scheme. It allowed members of the public to register concerns about someone’s behaviour towards a child. Or get their own back on someone they didn’t like. Poe missed the days when neighbourhood disputes were settled with fisticuffs, or wheelie bins being set alight.

‘But he wasn’t a sex offender?’ Marge asked.

‘He worked in the council’s planning department. Bit of an apple-polisher, never been in trouble in his life. But, because he misunderstood how the street viewed him, he thought getting a tattoo might help him shed his stuffy, no-fun image. And as people like Norman occasionally do, he went from one extreme to the other. Because he didn’t just get a tattoo, he got a tattoo made from the remains of a dead man…’

 

* * *

 

‘Let me get this straight, Norman,’ Poe said, anxious to avoid another appearance from Alaric Jackson. ‘To help you fit in, you went to a tattoo artist whose services were advertised on the sixth page of a Google search, instead of, you know, going to a reputable one on the high street?’

‘He said he could do me something a bit different,’ Norman said miserably. ‘Something cool I could use as an ice-breaker.’

‘And what was that?’

‘A tattoo made from the cremated remains of a serial killer.’

‘Alaric Jackson?’

Norman nodded.

‘Alaric Jackson was not a serial killer,’ Bradshaw said. ‘That’s a common misperception, he was actually—’

‘Tilly?’ Poe said.

‘Yes, Poe?’

‘That’s not important right now.’ He turned to Norman. ‘That’s a thing now, is it? Using cremated remains as tattoo ink?’

‘It is, Poe,’ Bradshaw said, already on her phone. ‘Specialist tattoo artists will remove all the heavy metals and contaminants found in cremation ashes before putting them through a multilayer sterilisation process. They then molecular-match the ashes and the pigment to make the tattoo ink. It is a safe and, of course, absurd way of keeping your loved one with you forever.’

‘So some shameless chancer told you he had ink made from the bones of a spree killer?’

‘His ashes being stolen was in the newspapers,’ Norman said. ‘I had no reason to doubt him.’

Poe looked at Bradshaw, who nodded. ‘Alaric Jackson was murdered in prison, Poe,’ she said. ‘And his ashes were stolen from the funeral home.’

‘OK,’ Poe said. ‘Let’s say that this moron somehow got hold of these ashes—how do you know he used them on you? How do you know he hadn’t been offering this to every gullible fool?’

‘I am not a fool,’ Norman said. ‘I watched him open Alaric Jackson’s sealed urn. I watched him mix the ashes with the pigment I’d chosen for my tattoo and I watched him make the ink. The ashes never left my sight, not for a second. It’s why I paid him four thousand pounds for a Grim Reaper tattoo, one that would have cost a fraction of the price on the high street.’

‘And this somehow transferred Alaric’s mind into yours? You now share a body?’

‘Yes.’

‘I hate it when that happens,’ Poe said.

‘I’m being serious!’ Norman’s face went through that peculiar change again. ‘I own this bastard now, copper!’ he yelled.

He lunged forward, more a warning parry, but the blade slipped and caught the taut skin covering Jacqui Harper’s windpipe. She cried out as she felt blood on her neck.

‘You’re OK, Miss Harper,’ Poe said, more calmly than he felt. It looked like she wanted to struggle, which, considering how close to her jugular the blade was, would be a death sentence. ‘It’s just a scratch. Alaric did that by accident. Do me a favour though: try not to move.’

‘I was supposed to die in that nursing home,’ Norman/Alaric said, as if nothing had happened. ‘The paramedics had no right saving my life. Do you know what they did to me in prison?’

‘It must have been tough for—’

‘You said the tattoo artist made up the ink in front of you, Mr Wilson?’ Bradshaw said, cutting Poe’s sentence in half.

‘My name is Alaric Jackson!’

‘No it isn’t,’ Bradshaw said. ‘And I think I can prove it.’

And with that, she left the house.

‘She does that sometimes,’ Poe said before adding, ‘and I’m sure we wouldn’t have her any other way.’

‘Where has she gone?’ Norman/Alaric asked.

‘Who the hell knows?’ Poe said, unsure who it was he was talking to now. ‘She might have gone to check something on her laptop; she might have gone to compete in a Sonic the Hedgehog tournament. There’s really no way to tell.’

Poe was waffling. And the reason he was waffling wasn’t just to buy Bradshaw the time she obviously needed, it was because Jacqui Harper was trying to tell him something. Keeping her neck as still as possible, she began to gesture with her eyes and her little finger to her left, Poe’s right.

‘What’s that?’ Poe said, nodding towards the window on the landing.

As Norman/Alaric turned to look, Poe risked a glance to where Jacqui had pointed.

Ah, he thought, that’s interesting. He nodded to show he had seen it.

‘There’s nothing there,’ Norman/Alaric said.

‘I thought I saw a penguin,’ Poe replied.

‘I-I-I don’t want to live with the spirit of a killer inside me,’ Norman—it was very clearly just Norman again—said. ‘I just wanted someone to go to the pub with. Now I’m hurting people.’

His arms fell limply to his sides. For a moment Jacqui Harper, like a startled rabbit, didn’t know what to do.

But Poe did.

‘Run!’ he screamed.

She didn’t need to be yelled at twice. She leaped down the remaining stairs and sprinted out of the house.

‘And keep running until you see a cop!’ Poe shouted after her.

Norman held the knife to his own throat. ‘Perhaps I’ll be able to do what Alaric couldn’t,’ he said. He pressed the blade into his skin. It sprang back like elastic. Blood flowed freely.

‘Wait!’ Bradshaw cried, running into the house and retaking her place at Poe’s side. ‘Before you cut yourself any deeper there’s something you need to know, Mr Wilson.’

Norman paused. He didn’t lower the blade, but he didn’t push it further into the wound on his neck. ‘What’s that, miss?’ he asked.

‘My name’s Tilly,’ Bradshaw replied. ‘And I’m a scientist. Actually, I’m a profiler with the National Crime Agency’s Serious Crime Analysis Section, but, because Poe is so dumb when it comes to technology, I have to do everything.’

‘Thanks, Tilly.’

‘You’re welcome, Poe. Anyway, as a scientist, I considered what you said earlier, about sharing your body with Alaric Jackson, and decided it was the biggest load of baloney I’d ever heard in my life. And last year I had to suffer through Poe trying to explain how Bitcoin worked.’

Although Poe rolled his eyes, while Norman’s eyes were firmly on Bradshaw, he started to inch his way to the thing Jacqui Harper had left behind.

‘When you told me about the processes the tattoo artist went through to make up the ink, it got me thinking about the processes he didn’t go through,’ Bradshaw continued. ‘Can you confirm he opened a sealed urn, then immediately mixed Alaric’s ashes with the ink pigment?’

‘He did, miss.’

‘He didn’t do anything else?’

‘He didn’t,’ Norman said. ‘The ashes never left my sight. If they had, I wouldn’t have paid him.’

‘Then you’re a moron,’ Bradshaw said.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Yeah, steady on, Tilly,’ Poe said.

‘You heard me tell Poe that reputable tattoo artists remove the heavy metals and contaminants found in cremation ashes before putting them through a multilayer sterilisation process?’

‘I did. But my tattoo artist claimed they were unnecessary processes designed to inflate the price,’ Norman said. ‘The cremation process destroys anything harmful.’

Bradshaw snorted. She was one of the leading scientists of her age; a once-in-a-generation mind. She had degrees, masters, PhDs, probably a load more things she hadn’t bothered telling Poe about. She was also the kindest person he knew.

But she was bobbins at talking to someone who wanted to die.

‘Tilly, can you get to the point?’ Poe said.

‘Did you know Alaric Jackson used to be a heroin addict, Mr Wilson?’ she asked.

‘How could I?’

‘And that one of the side effects of heroin addiction is dental cavities?’

Norman shook his head. ‘I don’t see what that has to do with—’

‘When Alaric Jackson was sent to prison, those cavities were filled. And as the taxpayer funds prison healthcare, only the most basic dental restorative materials are used. In Alaric’s case, it was something called amalgam. Do you know what that is, Mr Wilson?’

Norman said, ‘I don’t.’

Poe said, ‘Me neither.’

Bradshaw said, ‘Your lack of metallurgical expertise surprises me, Poe.’ She fiddled with her phone before turning it so Norman could see the screen. ‘Amalgam is a mixture of elemental mercury, which is mercury that’s liquid at room temperature, and a powdered alloy mix of copper, silver and tin. Over fifty per cent of dental amalgam is elemental mercury.’

‘I don’t see—’

‘Let her finish,’ Poe said. He didn’t dare ask how Bradshaw had managed to access the medical records of a dead man using just her mobile phone. Sometimes she scared him.

‘Thank you, Poe,’ Bradshaw said. ‘Because when the tattoo artist failed to remove the heavy metals from Alaric Jackson’s ashes, everything that was in those ashes went into that tattoo ink. And that tattoo ink then went into your arm, Mr Wilson.’

‘What are you saying, Tilly?’ Poe asked.

‘Mr Wilson has acute elemental mercury poisoning, Poe. Symptoms include insomnia, tremors, twitching, headaches and, finally, the important one: cognitive dysfunction. In other words, his auditory and visual processing, his problem-solving skills, his reasoning skills, are all compromised. You’re not possessed by the spirit of Alaric Jackson, Mr Wilson; you’ve poisoned yourself.’

‘No!’ Norman, back using Alaric’s voice, screamed.

‘Yes,’ Bradshaw said.

‘How soon does he need a hospital, Tilly?’ Poe said.

‘Because he’s hallucinating, I would suggest immediate medical attention is required, Poe. Mr Wilson’s kidneys will soon shut down.’

Poe nodded once and reached for the item Jacqui Harper had directed him towards. It was a baseball bat, one of Harley Quinn’s weapons of choice, Bradshaw would tell him later. It was Jacqui Harper’s Halloween prop. In two quick steps Poe was close enough to Norman to swing it at his legs. The bat hit him just below the knees. Norman toppled like a felled tree. He tumbled down the stairs, not stopping until he had reached the bottom.

Poe knelt on Norman’s back, took the knife off him, and pinned his arms to the floor. ‘This’ll soon be over,’ he said kindly. ‘Tilly, I assume the boys in blue are outside?’

‘At least fifty, Poe. And DI Flynn.’

‘Tell them they can come in now. Let’s get Norman to a hospital.’

 

* * *

 

‘And that was that,’ Poe said to Marge and Homer. ‘I know you have a job to do, but I’m calling it a positive result. No one was seriously hurt and Mr Wilson was able to get the medical attention he needed.’

‘You’re aware he’s just been sentenced?’

‘I wasn’t. What did he get?’

‘Ten years for kidnapping.’

Poe blew air through his teeth. ‘I’m no cheese-eating liberal,’ he said after a beat, ‘but that seems harsh. The man was full of that mercury stuff. His brain was basically fried. And yes, Jacqui Harper’s friend had been accidently cut when he grabbed Jacqui, but her wound was superficial and she got away. Jacqui herself didn’t want to press charges.’

‘The CPS took a different view. They said he was culpable because his state of mind that night was self-inflicted. Just like you can’t use being drunk as a defence.’

‘So this poor guy makes one stupid mistake and that’s it, his life is over?’ Poe said. ‘When did we become so risk-averse in this country? How does Norman Wilson being in prison benefit anyone?’

‘It is what it is, I guess,’ Marge said.

Poe leaned forward. ‘What is it you guys do again?’

‘I’ve already told you,’ Marge replied.

‘You really haven’t.’

‘We’ve been asked to evaluate the events of that night. See if the legislation pertaining to the security of cremation ashes needs to be amended.’

‘Bullshit,’ Poe said. ‘Everything you needed to know is in the case file. I haven’t told you anything new and you’ve been studying my body language since the moment I sat down.’ Marge reddened. ‘Just as I’ve been studying yours,’ Poe continued. ‘Now, tell me what’s so special about this case? And what’s in those files you won’t let go of?’

‘Thank you, Sergeant Poe,’ Homer said. ‘You’ve been extremely helpful.’

‘You aren’t going to tell me then.’

Homer and Marge both stood. Poe remained in his seat. For a fraction of a second Homer’s file had no hands on it. It was just there on the edge of the table, beside Poe’s glass of water. Poe pretended to reach for his drink, ‘accidentally’ knocking Homer’s file to the floor.

‘Whoops-a-daisy, how clumsy of me,’ he said, bending to retrieve the spilled papers. ‘I’ll just pick these up for you.’

Homer was down on his knees, scrabbling around on the interview room’s carpet before Poe could even finish his sentence.

‘I’ll take those,’ Homer said, grabbing them from Poe.

‘You’ve missed one,’ Poe said, offering the single document he’d managed to keep hold of.

Marge snatched it out of his outstretched hand, but not before Poe had read the heading.

‘What’s Project Hanx?’ he asked.

Marge paled.

‘Nothing!’ Homer snapped, checking the floor to make sure he hadn’t missed anything else.

‘Really?’ Poe said. ‘Yet there you are on your hands and knees, panicking.’

‘I said it’s nothing!’

Poe reached for his phone and scrolled down until he found Bradshaw’s number.

‘What are you doing?’ Marge asked.

‘I’m calling Tilly,’ he replied. ‘She’ll know what Project Hanx is. And if she doesn’t, there’s not a firewall that can stop her finding out.’

‘Please don’t do that.’

‘Then tell me what it is you two do.’

‘And then you’ll let it go?’

‘If I believe you.’

Marge checked with Homer. He was clearly in charge. He nodded.

‘Did you know that before he was murdered by his cellmate, Alaric Jackson had had all his teeth kicked out?’ she asked.

Poe winced. Knocking out an unpopular inmate’s teeth—and in prison, granny killers were right up there with sex offenders and bent cops—meant they couldn’t bite down on whatever was being thrust into their mouths.

‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ he replied. ‘Adult prisons aren’t nice places.’

‘But you understand the significance?’

‘I don’t think I…’

But then he did.

No teeth meant no fillings. No fillings meant no elemental mercury in his body when it was cremated. Which meant there couldn’t have been elemental mercury in the tattoo ink used on Norman Wilson.

‘Funny that,’ Poe said.

‘Indeed.’

‘Do you know why Norman went a bit potty then?’

Marge didn’t respond.

‘You’re trying to find out, aren’t you? That’s what this was all about. Which means it isn’t the first time something like this has happened.’

‘Goodbye, Sergeant Poe,’ Homer said.

It was delivered with a finality Poe knew well. The interview was over. He wasn’t getting anything else out of them.

‘Goodbye,’ he said. ‘And good luck with whatever it is you do.’

Poe closed the door behind him and immediately reached for his phone. Bradshaw’s number was still on the screen. He pressed call.

‘How did it go, Poe?’ she asked.

‘Fine. Pair of cube dwellers. Can you do me a favour, though?’

‘What is it, Poe?’

‘Find out everything you can on something called Project H-A-N-X,’ he said. ‘My guess is you won’t find anything on the surface, but I want you to go a bit deeper. See if anything’s there. Do it carefully; don’t leave any traces.’

‘As if I ever do,’ she said. ‘Why do you want to know about Project Hanx?’

‘Because, unless I’m mistaken, I think I’ve just been interviewed by the idiot cousins of Mulder and Scully…’

 

M.W. Craven

 

Multi-award winning author M. W. Craven was born in Carlisle but grew up in Newcastle. He joined the army at sixteen, leaving ten years later to complete a social work degree. Seventeen years after taking up a probation officer role in Cumbria, at the rank of assistant chief officer, he became a full-time author. The Puppet Show, the first book in his Cumbria-set Washington Poe series, was published by Little, Brown in 2018 and went on to win the Crime Writers’ Association Gold Dagger. It has now been translated into twenty-one languages. Black Summer, the second in the series, was longlisted for the 2020 Gold Dagger as was book three, The Curator. The fourth in the series, Dead Ground, was published this June and became an instant Sunday Times bestseller.