Page 106 of The Killer’s Mark

By the time they got back to the house, Bradshaw had returned and Estelle had sent a text saying she was finishing early and would stop at the Indian restaurant and get a takeaway for everyone. Poe had asked for lamb vindaloo. Esmerée said she didn’t know what that was, but she wanted the same anyway.

Bradshaw was sipping herbal tea and reviewing her notes. Poe made a pot of Yorkshire Tea for himself and Esmerée. She liked it even stronger than he did. He found a loaf of bread, cut some thick slices. Estelle liked artisan bread; Poe liked Hovis. His bread, he argued, looked like bread. Her bread had so many holes it looked like un-darned socks. He spread butter and farmer’s honey over a couple of slices. Frowned when it dripped straight through the holes. That was the problem with bread made by arseholes – most of the honey ended up on the plate.

‘Want some?’ he asked Bradshaw and Esmerée.

Bradshaw said she’d already eaten. Esmerée said, ‘I don’t like honey, remember?’

‘Oh yeah. Because of your mother.’

She nodded. ‘She spread that shit everywhere. Got Vincent the asshole to buy her that expensive gunk. Verruca honey, I think it’s called.’

‘Sounds delicious.’

Bradshaw rolled her eyes. ‘It’s called manuka honey. It’s produced from the nectar of the manuka tree, Leptospermum scoparium. Obviously, “tree” is a misnomer as Leptospermum is actually a genus of shrubs. Leptospermum scoparium is native to New Zealand, therefore manuka honey is a monofloral honey. That means it’s derived predominantly from a single plant species.’

The kitchen door opened and Estelle walked in, laden down with a briefcase and gloriously greasy takeaway bags. She put them on the table, grabbed some of Poe’s bread and popped it in her mouth.

‘We were just discussing monofloral honey, Estelle,’ Bradshaw said. ‘Poe and Esmerée were deeply interested in how manuka honey is made.’

Estelle nodded. ‘Did you know that despite being indigenous to New Zealand, it’s produced by the European honey bee. And the European honey bee originated in Africa. A lesson in geopolitics if ever there was one.’

Esmerée put her head in her hands and groaned. ‘I’m surrounded by freakin’ dorks,’ she said.

They went back to Cowie House the following day. Estelle’s restricted-access post-mortem had finished and she’d said Esmerée could spend the day with her. Esmerée had wrung her hands and politely declined. She wanted to be in Carlisle.

After checking the office wasn’t bugged – Poe was annoyed that was something he now had to do – they gathered around the conference table in Poe’s office. Bradshaw opened her laptop and Esmerée unlocked her iPad. Poe dug out his notebook and licked the end of his pencil.

‘I’ve had time to develop the line of enquiry Esmerée came up with yesterday,’ Poe said. ‘She said we need to check if there are pimps who mark their girls with tattoos, and she’s right, that is something we need to check. But I think we need to go deeper. Are there any gangs out there who tattoo their female members? We know tattoos are synonymous with gangs, but they tend to be big and in your face. Sometimes literally. We need to find out if there are gangs who use a small tattoo to identify themselves to each other the same way members of the Freemasons use a creepy handshake.’

‘I’ll start with the tattoo database,’ Bradshaw said. ‘We don’t know what Océane Blue’s shoulder tattoo is, but we can work out its shape and dimensions.’

‘How will you do that?’ Esmerée asked.

‘By comparing it to objects in the room.’

‘Maths,’ Poe said, tapping the side of his nose.

Bradshaw shook her head and tutted. ‘Once I have that, I can begin ruling things in or out. That will narrow it down until we can refine the search parameters.’

‘And how will you do that?’ Esmerée asked again.

‘I won’t,’ Bradshaw replied. ‘Poe will.’

Poe nodded. ‘I want to look at club stamps as well. It’s possible that’s all it is. Most clubs stamp the back of your hand, but I imagine the shoulder occasionally gets done.’

They settled down to work. Bradshaw logged Esmerée into the NCA’s most wanted database. Told her that she should go through the archives and see if any of the female records listed shoulder tattoos. If they did, she was to make a note. Bradshaw would collate everyone’s work every hour on the hour.

Esmerée lasted twenty minutes before she put her arms in the air and stretched. Yawned like a hibernating bear. ‘This is some boring shit, guys,’ she said.

‘Detective work is boring, Esmerée,’ Poe said. ‘Except when it’s not. And trust me, boring is by far the better of the two.’

‘You know what we need to kick-start this party?’ she said. ‘We need some of those greasy-ass sausage flats, that’s what we need. Who wants one? I’m buying.’

Bradshaw looked at her watch. ‘It’s half past ten in the morning.’

‘They’ll still be hot, then.’

‘Poe, tell Esmerée you’re not allowed to eat junk food before one p.m.’