Page 11 of The Killer’s Mark

Esmerée began to weep. Didn’t look like she was working an angle. ‘You’re an asshole,’ she sniffed.

‘Yes, I’ll hold,’ Poe said into the phone. Then, ‘Look, you’re a mixed-up kid. You don’t need a private investigator; you need a social worker. They’ll either contact your mum or they’ll—’

‘They can’t contact my mom!’ she yelled.

‘Social workers have almost as much power as police officers,’ Poe said. ‘They can certainly track down an errant mother. Whether she likes it or not, she has obligations. She can’t just abandon you, Esmerée.’

‘She can if she’s dead.’

Which wasn’t what Poe had been expecting her to say. ‘What do you mean, she’s dead? Why would you want me to look for a dead woman?’

‘It’s a long story.’

‘Yet you don’t have time. You have from now until the duty social worker gets on the phone.’

‘My mom isn’t dead,’ Esmerée said. ‘What I meant was, I thought she was dead.’

‘Why did you think she was dead?’

She squirmed in her seat. It made her look like she had worms. She didn’t answer.

‘OK, let’s try an easier one: why do you think she’s alive?’

‘Because I’ve seen her.’

‘If you’ve seen her, why didn’t you speak to her?’

‘I couldn’t.’

‘Why?’

‘Because she was in a goddamn porn movie!’ she yelled. ‘Are you happy now, asshole?’

Something else Poe wasn’t expecting her to say. Without thinking, he said, ‘Why were you watching your mother in a porn film?’

She flung the wallet at him. It hit him on the shoulder. A load of wallet tinsel fell out. A couple more credit cards. Some loyalty cards. The usual stuff.

‘Because that goddamn pervert Adam Malloy made me watch it with him.’

‘Kyle Samson, duty social worker,’ said someone, Kyle Samson presumably, at the other end of the phone. ‘How can I help you?’

Poe gently placed the phone back in its cradle. ‘How old are you?’ he said through gritted teeth, his voice low and flat.

‘I’m twenty-one,’ Esmerée replied sullenly.

‘How old are you?’

‘I’m twenty-one!’

‘Esmerée,’ Poe said gently. ‘It’s important I know. How old are you?’

‘You can trust Poe,’ Bradshaw said.

‘I’m sixteen,’ she mumbled.

Poe waited.

‘OK, I’m nearly sixteen.’