Page 27 of The Killer’s Mark

Which was Susan’s cue to leave the pub to make her calls. As soon as she’d gone, Flynn said, ‘OK, out with it, Poe. What’s up?’

Poe, right up until that point, hadn’t realised anything was up.

‘I dunno,’ he said. ‘I’m getting an uneasy feeling about this case, boss, and I don’t know why. On the surface, it’s a straightforward misper.’

‘But?’

‘But I don’t understand Océane Blue and Vincent du Buk’s relationship. If it’s transactional, I can’t see how. And I don’t know where the kid fits into it at all.’

Poe was happy discussing names in front of Flynn. He trusted her the same way he trusted Bradshaw and Estelle.

‘You’ll get there; you just don’t have enough data yet.’

Bradshaw looked up from her computer. She always did when someone used words like ‘data’ or ‘software’ or ‘program’. She was like Edgar. He could sleep through a war, but if you picked up some crisps in a completely different part of the house, he was at your feet before you’d opened the packet. ‘We don’t have enough of anything yet, DCI Flynn,’ she said.

Susan returned. She slipped Poe a bit of paper. ‘This guy’s been in the porn business his entire life,’ she said. ‘Started out making low-budget films before moving into distribution. He’s legit. Or as much as you can be in that business. He knows all the movers and shakers and he’s expecting your call.’

‘He’ll take it?’

‘He will. He occasionally throws us some intelligence, so he’s not anti-police.’

‘Is he in London?’

‘A thirty-minute walk from here.’

Poe grunted his thanks. ‘And du Buk?’

‘Squeaky clean, both sides of the pond,’ Susan said. ‘He doesn’t even have intelligence markers against his name, and you know how rare that is. If he was involved in something, he was doing it well below the radar.’

Poe finished his drink and stood. He wanted to get going. They were on the 7.30 p.m. train back to Carlisle and he didn’t want to miss it. Flynn and Susan needed to get back to work as well. He paid for their lunch, and was just about to say goodbye when his phone chirped. A text from Estelle. It said: HOW WAS YOUR GARDEN SALAD?

Flynn winked at him. ‘Estelle and I don’t have secrets,’ she said.

Chapter 19

The pornographer’s name was Mark Buckby. He lived and worked in the Elephant and Castle area of Southwark. Poe made the mistake of asking Bradshaw why it was called Elephant and Castle. She said that it was named after a coaching inn and that the earliest surviving record of the name was in 1765. He then asked why the coaching inn had been called the Elephant and Castle. She said it was likely a homage to the Worshipful Company of Cutlers, whose crest, dating back to 1622, showed an elephant carrying a castle. Poe asked what the Company of Cutlers was and why he should worship them, at which point Bradshaw ignored him for the rest of the way.

During the supposed golden age of pornography, the late sixties to the mid eighties, when everyone in the industry was making money hand over fist, literally, Buckby had run sex shops all over the city. According to Susan Hawksworth, he had made films, starred in films, distributed films, and sold films directly out of his shops. He had some minor arrests on his record, but nothing serious.

These days his office was a grubby little pub called the Fennell Arms. They found him in the back. Poe wasn’t expecting him to be wearing an I LOVE TITS T-shirt, but he could have had the decency to look a little bit grubby. It was like he wasn’t even trying. He was a bland sort of man. Forgettable. A little bit bald, a little bit paunchy. A nose that would have better suited a cartoon dwarf. He was wearing an England cricket top and watching a game on TV while he finished a phone call. A one-day international. England versus New Zealand. England were losing. He put his hand over the speaker and said, ‘Are you Poe?’

Poe confirmed he was.

‘Get yourself a drink, mate, I’ll be with ya in a minute.’

Poe walked to the bar. It was stickier than warm sugar. He asked for a pint of whatever local cask ale they had. The barman poured him a London Black, a nitro porter brewed by Anspach & Hobday. Poe waited for it to settle, then took a sip. He nodded appreciatively. The Fennell Arms might be a shithole, but they knew how to keep beer. He got Bradshaw a sparkling water. No ice, no lemon.

‘Anything else?’ the barman asked.

‘Whatever Mark Buckby’s drinking.’

The barman poured a neat gin into a tulip-shaped glass. Poe carried the drinks to Buckby’s table while Bradshaw got a VAT receipt. Business expenses. Poe brushed some crisp shards off a stool and sat down. Bradshaw cleaned hers with a wet wipe.

Buckby finished his call and said, ‘Cheers.’ He swilled the gin around the glass. Examined the side like he was a wine expert. ‘Now, what can I do for my pals in the National Crime Agency?’

Poe passed him one of his gumshoe business cards. Buckby read it without comment and tucked it into his shirt pocket. Poe brought out the printed screenshot of the woman Esmerée claimed was her mother. Handed it to Buckby. ‘I’m trying to find this woman.’

Buckby didn’t look at it. ‘Why?’