Page 19 of The Killer’s Mark

Whoever it was knocked again.

It wasn’t Bradshaw. She was in her office showing Esmerée her computers.

Poe closed his laptop and went to see who it was. He opened the door.

Bugger Rumble stepped through.

Bugger Rumble was a Carlisle institution, the same way McVitie’s biscuit factory was a Carlisle institution. McVitie’s made Carlisle smell like a witch’s gingerbread house; Bugger Rumble made Carlisle smell like a wet dog. He was the most eccentric man Poe had ever met – and Poe had once spent an evening at the Authors’ Club in Whitehall. Bugger called himself a street entertainer, but only if you used the loosest possible definition. A more accurate definition would be an arsehole who arsed around until people paid him to go away. He’d started out as the world’s only low-rope walker. He would draw a line in chalk on the pavement outside the town hall and pretend to wobble along it like he was above the Grand Canyon. When he got to the end, he’d hold out his top hat. As soon as he had enough money for a pint, he’d dive into the Kings Head. Wash, rinse, repeat.

The reality was that Bugger was homeless and happy. He wore a three-piece suit, a top hat and a pair of white plimsolls. He had a beard like ZZ Top’s hairy uncle. He was so homeless you wouldn’t have been surprised to see him carrying his possessions around in a bindle: a stick with a polka-dot bag tied at the end.

Poe had always thought of him as a hapless, bark-at-the-moon nutjob. And he was. His relationship with reality was at best fleeting. But there was more to Bugger Rumble than lunacy. For one thing, he could hold his own with Bradshaw when it came to pure mathematics. He didn’t have her intellect – no one did – but he could at least follow some of her arguments. They’d formed an unlikely friendship. Carlisle’s geekier and much grubbier version of Lady and the Tramp. The two of them would ensconce themselves in her office for hours on end, talking about things that made no sense to any normal person. Bugger was a complex man. Bradshaw said he’d once been a brilliant man.

And who knows, maybe he was. Maybe, if he could stay off the turps long enough, he could be again. But right now, he was still one hundred per cent nutter. And because of that, people who should know better paid him scant attention. That meant he went where he wanted, drank where he wanted. And he overheard everything.

When Poe was a Cumbrian cop, Bugger Rumble had been his best source of intelligence by a country mile. He was completely reliable. So when Bugger came into his office and told him there was a group of men in a Botchergate pub drinking up courage to exact retribution against him because he’d twisted the ear of one of them, Poe took him seriously. If Bugger said it was happening, it was happening.

Poe got some details, then tapped out a text. While he waited for a reply, he walked across the office waiting area and knocked on Bradshaw’s door.

‘What is it, Poe?’

‘Can you and Esmerée stay in here for a while? I think that idiot who threatened Indica is coming back for round two.’

‘You need help kicking his butt?’ Esmerée asked.

‘Gosh, should I call the police?’ Bradshaw enquired.

‘It’s in hand,’ Poe said.

He went back to watching porn. This time it was an overweight man who needed help after accidentally overdosing on Viagra.

Chapter 13

‘Will Poe be OK?’ Esmerée asked Bradshaw.

‘He told us not to worry about it.’

‘So?’

‘So we don’t need to worry about it.’

‘You trust the guy that much?’

‘I do. And you should too. DCI Stephanie Flynn once said that Poe was the throbbing haemorrhoid in her bottom. She has lots of colourful metaphors like that and I’m sure we wouldn’t have her any other way. But she also said he’s the best detective she’s ever met.’

‘Who’s Desiree Stephanie Flynn?’

‘DCI Stephanie Flynn. It’s the acronym for detective chief inspector. DCI Flynn was our boss when Poe and I worked for the Serious Crime Analysis Section. We used to investigate serial killers. Two years ago, one of them nearly killed him and he hasn’t been the same since. He had PTSD, and we were all very worried about him. It’s one of the reasons we left the police to become private investigators.’

Esmerée threw a thumb over her shoulder. ‘That guy? The one bashing his beef truncheon to my mom? He used to catch serial killers?’

‘We all did.’

‘OK … that’s quite cool, I suppose.’

Esmerée hoisted herself up onto Bradshaw’s desk. Swung her legs.

‘So is this what you do all day? Search computers and shit? Sift through data?’