Page 142 of The Killer’s Mark

Poe turned off the M6 at Junction 42.

Bullace & Sloe.

It felt like he was going home.

Chapter 117

Bullace & Sloe had once been Cumbria’s only Michelin three-star restaurant. It had retained its stars even after the owner, a psychopathic chef called Jared Keaton, had been convicted of his daughter’s murder. Six years later, when Keaton’s audacious bid for freedom failed, Bullace & Sloe’s fortunes had turned. No one wanted to eat there any more, not after the horrific truth had come out. The building, a beautiful old watermill, should have sold for three quarters of a million pounds, but the estate agent couldn’t get rid of it. It was damaged goods. It had been on the market for seven years.

Poe was shocked at the old mill’s transformation. He knew it had been abandoned, but he hadn’t realised it would look so abandoned. He had assumed someone would be maintaining it.

Nature was slowly reclaiming it. The front drive, once resplendent with gas lanterns and manicured lawns, was now covered in Japanese knotweed. It was so tall, so thick that the grounds could have been used by the army to train recruits in jungle warfare.

‘This is where you and that chef had that showdown, isn’t it?’ Towler said.

‘Yes,’ Poe replied. ‘Never expected to be back.’

Towler turned to Océane. ‘Remember to act scared.’

She nodded. ‘I won’t be acting.’

Poe came to a halt. A Red Chamber guy slipped out of the Japanese knotweed like it was the set of Apocalypse Now. All that was missing was napalm and ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ playing through some helicopter-mounted loudspeakers. Poe lowered his window. The triad shone a torch into his face.

Poe shielded his eyes and said, ‘Where to now?’

‘You were supposed to be on your own.’

‘Change of plan,’ he said. He flicked his hand over his shoulder. Océane was struggling against Towler’s iron grip. ‘She’s no longer a willing participant. Short of whacking her on the head with a croquet mallet, someone had to keep hold of her while I drove. It was either that or leave her behind.’

The guy grunted something in Chinese into a handheld radio. Got an equally Chinese reply. He reached into his pocket and handed Poe a slip of paper.

Poe read it. ‘Are you kidding me?’ he said.

‘Where are we going?’ Towler asked.

‘Brampton fucking golf course.’

He put the car in reverse and backed out of Bullace & Sloe’s jungle courtyard.

‘They’re playing your greatest hits, mate,’ Towler said.

The sixteenth hole at Brampton golf course was another blast from Poe’s past. His adversary that time had been an ex-soldier. He’d had the man he blamed for the death of his friends hanging from a barbed-wire noose. Was ready to hang him in front of the world’s media. Poe had talked him down while simultaneously shielding him from the police marksmen who’d been ordered to kill him.

‘But why?’ he asked.

‘To show they know everything about you. Your past, present and future. It’s the kind of stupid power play I expected from amateurs like this. Means they’ll probably be doing the exchange somewhere you’re well known for. Any ideas?’

‘Not yet.’

‘If that idiot chained to your office radiator is right, they’ll be drawing a net around us. Where else have you been?’

‘I went to Montague Island a few years back. Caught a weirdo contract killer. Hit him with a sock full of rocks.’

Towler considered it. ‘It won’t be an island,’ he said. ‘It’ll be somewhere close if they’re using the checkpoint guys as backup. Where else have you been?’

‘Shap Fell.’

‘Won’t be there. You know it too well. They won’t concede home advantage.’