Page 14 of The Killer’s Mark

‘Where is she now?’

‘Who, Esmerée?’

‘Yes. Where is she right this second?’

‘I have no idea. Why?’

‘Because if what she told you is true, if she was a live-in chambermaid and she did flee Adam Malloy’s unwanted advances, then she has nowhere to go tonight. I know you’re not responsible for every waif and stray who crosses your path, but she’s just fifteen years old. And you put her out on the street.’

Poe sank his head into his hands and groaned. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t think to ask.’

Estelle put down her wine. ‘I’ll get the car,’ she said. ‘Come on, let’s go and look for her. If she’s coming back to Cowie House tomorrow, she won’t have gone far.’

Chapter 8

If Cumbria was a week-old slice of bread, Carlisle would be the big green splat of mould in the middle. The kind that made you question the whole loaf. The antibiotic breakthrough waiting to happen. Surrounding the big green stinky splat would be the lesser moulds. The spores, the bluey-green spots with white edges. Some the size of pinheads, others the size of mouse turds. You wouldn’t throw away the loaf because of the mouse-turd spores, but you’d definitely pick them off. You might sniff the slice and say, ‘Maybe we should toast this?’

Musgrave Hall was one of the mouse-turd mould spores. It was an independently owned hotel, restaurant and spa, yet somehow managed to look like a chain. Its website claimed it was in the North Lakes. It wasn’t, but Poe had noticed lots of places implying they were situated in the picture-postcard Lake District without explicitly saying it. He approved. The more the dumb-dumb tourists got suckered, the less likely they were to return.

The main building dated back to 1760. It was a former manor house. The Musgrave family had hung on to it for as long they could, but succumbed when they failed to convert their cotton mills to steam power. A few other families had made it their home over the years, but its size meant it was impractical. The current owner had bought it at a knock-down price after the pandemic. They’d hired a big-name chef and embarked on an expensive refurbishment programme. Under the previous ownership, Musgrave Hall had had thirty-four bedrooms, but with work habits changing, and in a bid to attract and retain staff, the new owner had turned eight of the bedrooms into employee accommodation. According to Esmerée, she’d been a live-in chambermaid for six months.

Poe parked next to the entrance and checked his phone. No word from Estelle or Bradshaw. Esmerée was still in the wind. He and Estelle had searched Carlisle the previous night without luck. Estelle had checked the pubs and restaurants. Poe had walked through the major parks, visited the homeless shelters and made sure Esmerée wasn’t lying on a train station bench. He’d even hunted down Bugger Rumble, a happy tramp and one of his old snouts. Bugger always had his ear to the ground. It was why it was so dirty. Bugger didn’t know where Esmerée was, although he promised to keep a lookout. That was the best Poe could hope for. Bugger was the Carlisle equivalent of the Baker Street Irregulars, the street urchins Sherlock Holmes used.

Poe got out of his car and followed the arrow sign. He walked between two cherub fountains by the front door and entered Musgrave Hall’s reception area. It was empty but had a dinger bell. He pressed it, once, twice, three times. Increasingly urgently. After a few seconds, a pale, spotty man in his early twenties appeared. Like the shopkeeper in Mr Benn.

‘Can I help you?’

‘Adam Malloy, please,’ Poe said.

‘May I ask what it’s—’

‘Just go and get him. I’m not in the mood.’

‘Sir, I’m the assistant manager. Anything you want to say to Mr Malloy can be said—’

‘Adam Malloy!’ Poe shouted. ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are!’

The spotty man picked up the phone. Raised his eyebrows. ‘I will call the police, sir.’

Poe removed his mobile from his jacket pocket. ‘Race ya.’

A man in black trousers and a gold waistcoat stepped into the reception area. ‘What’s going on, Rowan? What’s all this racket? We have guests in the bar.’

‘Is that him?’ Poe said. ‘Are you Adam Malloy?’

‘And who might you be?’

Poe noticed that the left side of his face was badly scratched. Four deep gouges.

‘I’m your worst nightmare, mate.’

‘Do you want me to call the police, Mr Malloy?’ Rowan said.

‘Please do,’ Poe said. ‘We can wait for them together. You can tell them how I raised my voice in your hotel, and I can tell them how you recently sexually assaulted a fifteen-year-old girl. I wonder who’ll do seven years in prison.’

Chapter 9

‘I don’t know what Esmerée Blue has been telling you, Mr Poe, but she is not fifteen years old,’ Adam Malloy said. ‘And speaking of the police, she stole my wallet after I sacked her. If she persists with this nonsense, I will have no choice but to press charges.’