Page 30 of The Killer’s Mark

‘Is Goldie Hardman his real name?’

‘Doubt it, mate. None of them use their real names. They all use nom de blooms.’

Poe ignored the malapropism. It wasn’t the worst one he’d heard. It wasn’t even the worst one he’d heard that day. Their Euston cabbie had moaned about the ‘gazpacho’ police ‘fragrantly’ violating his rights during the first COVID lockdown. Poe assumed he meant the Gestapo police had been flagrantly violating his rights. Then again, he was in London. Perhaps they did have gazpacho police. For when it was served hot instead of cold. He said, ‘Who might know his real name?’

‘I’ll give me mate a bell.’ Buckby picked up his iPhone and searched through his contacts. Pressed call. It was answered immediately. ‘Hullo, John—’

‘Gotta new motor?’ Poe said without thinking.

Buckby gave him a look.

Poe said, ‘Not an Alexei Sayle fan then?’

‘… Nothing, mate, just some northern monkey,’ Buckby said into his phone. ‘… Yeah, they do, don’t they? Anyway, listen, I’m trying to track down Goldie Hardman. You know anyone who ’as his number? … Yeah, that’s ’im. Used to have a massive yellow barnet. When it fell out, he started wearing that stupid syrup …’ They chewed the fat for a few minutes, then said their goodbyes. ‘OK, mate, nice one. Speak soon.’ He threw his phone back onto the table. ‘He’s gonna text me Goldie’s old number. Thinks it might be out of date, but it’s somewhere to start.’

And somewhere to finish, Poe thought. Bradshaw had found people with a lot less than an out-of-date mobile phone number.

While he waited for Buckby’s text to arrive, he called Estelle. He got her voicemail. Probably still showing Esmerée the best way to fold down someone’s face before you sawed off the top of their skull. Poe never knew how to talk to voicemail. A year or so ago, Estelle had played back one of his messages. It sounded like English wasn’t his first language. He kept it simple this time.

‘We might be late tonight,’ he said. ‘The case is breaking.’

Then he called back and added, ‘Oh, and it’s Poe, by the way.’

Chapter 22

Goldie Hardman’s real name was Chance Ryzcek. Bradshaw traced him via three mobile phone number changes. It had taken her thirty minutes. She said that he lived in Haringey, north London. Poe knew the area. He’d been to Finsbury Park in 1996 to see the Sex Pistols. He still bore the scars, mental and physical. Good times.

Bradshaw figured out the Underground map and they hopped on the Northern Line. Poe hadn’t called Ryzcek. Hadn’t wanted to warn him he was coming. Bradshaw opened an app on her phone and told him it was a ten-minute walk from the station. It took them eight.

It was mid afternoon and Poe didn’t expect Ryzcek to be home. He assumed that now Buckby’s ‘golden age of porn’ was over, those still working in the industry had to supplement their income with a proper job. He was right. Ryzcek wasn’t home. He was also right about him having a regular job. After Poe had knocked on his door, peered through his letter box and peeped in his window, he turned to leave. Ryzcek was standing on the pavement watching him. He looked worried. He was wearing a uniform for a fast-food chain that even Poe didn’t like. A Southern fried chicken place that made the national news when they ran out of chicken.

‘Mr Ryzcek? Mr Chance Ryzcek?’

For a moment, Poe thought Ryzcek was going to run.

Instead, he dropped his eyes and said, ‘What took you so long?’

Chapter 23

‘So you’re not Old Bill?’ Ryzcek said again.

‘I’ve told you three times I’m not,’ Poe replied. ‘I’ve given you my business card, which clearly states I’m a private investigator, and I’ve given you a number if you want to check my credentials. I don’t know what else I can do.’

Ryzcek looked at the business card again. ‘Actually, it says “gumshoe for hire”, not private investigator.’

‘It’s the same thing.’

Chance Ryzcek looked like a slightly overweight Peter Stringfellow. He was a few inches shorter than Poe. He wore the same wig he’d worn in the movie with Esmerée’s mother. Bouffant style, Poe thought it was called. His face was lined and craggy, but otherwise he wore his age well.

They had moved off the street and into Ryzcek’s neat and tidy two-up, two-down mid-terrace house. It was small, but all houses in London were small. And they were packed together tighter than books on a bookcase. Ryzcek had gone upstairs to get out of his work clothes and had come down wearing a pair of shorts and a white T-shirt. They were now in his kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil. Ryzcek was having instant coffee, Poe was having tea. Bradshaw said she didn’t want anything.

‘Can you prove you’re not cops?’ Ryzcek said.

‘Can we prove a negative? No, we can’t. No one can.’

‘I heard someone’s been asking about me.’

Poe stuck his hand in the air. ‘Me,’ he said. ‘And now I’d like to know why you think I might be a cop. Have you broken the law?’