Page 40 of The Killer’s Mark

‘Just left. What’s up, Mark?’

‘That photo you sent me,’ Buckby said. ‘It’s caused me a bit of trouble.’

He’d only had it an hour, Poe thought. He said, ‘Trouble? What kind of trouble?’

‘I did what you asked. Forwarded it to a load of my old contacts. Thought someone might recognise ’er cos of the tattoo.’

‘And someone did?’

‘Nothing like that, Mr Poe,’ Buckby said. He didn’t add anything and Poe thought they might have been cut off. The phone signal on the West Coast Main Line was notoriously spotty.

‘Are you still there, Mark?’

‘One of my old mates called me in a panic. Said something strange.’

‘What?’

‘Wouldn’t say much. Not over the dog and bone.’ Buckby paused, then went on, ‘Look, ’ow quickly can you get back down ’ere? You’ve fair spooked this geezer. And this is a man who don’t spook easily. Did some heavy work back in the day. Muscle for some of the local faces. He said he’s going to pretend he didn’t see the photo. Suggested I did the same. But he’s agreed to talk to you, though only if it’s today. Tomorrow he’s leaving London and he ain’t saying where he’s going.’

Warrington Bank Quay was the first stop, and they weren’t due there for another hour. If Poe got off there and caught the first train back to Euston, he reckoned he could be at Elephant and Castle within four hours. Certainly no more than five. He said this to Buckby.

‘OK, that’ll ’ave to do. I’ll text you my ’ome address. Get my pal to meet us there. See you in four hours, Mr Poe.’

‘Wait!’ Poe said before he could hang up. ‘Did your friend say anything?’

‘Yeah, he did,’ Buckby replied. ‘He said the tattoo’s an urban myth. That it shouldn’t exist. That it can’t exist.’

Chapter 32

Poe got off at Warrington Bank Quay; Bradshaw stayed on the train. She’d wanted to go with him, but he told her she was needed back in Cowie House. That something weird was happening, and now that they had the tattoo, she had something to work with. She could do reverse-image searches, she could access databases the public couldn’t. Law enforcement. The security services. A hundred others Poe didn’t know about. And to do that, she needed something quicker than the train’s weak-ass Wi-Fi. Poe had seen bodies decay faster.

The other reason, the main reason, was that he had no idea what he was about to walk into. He didn’t think there was anything at Elephant and Castle to be concerned about, but he wasn’t sure. Buckby’s contact had said the tattoo was an urban myth. That it couldn’t exist. Which was nonsense, because it clearly did exist. He’d also said his contact had done muscle work for some of the faces in south London and was now leaving the capital. ‘Faces’ was a colloquialism for gangsters and muscle work was self-explanatory. In plain English, Buckby’s contact had been a hired thug. In Poe’s experience, the only thing that scared hired thugs was bigger, badder hired thugs.

Poe smiled. He’d missed this. Missed the scent warming up. Putting out feelers and getting a return on your investment. The trip to London could have been a colossal waste of time. He could have spent it talking to people who knew less than him. But he hadn’t. And that was because he was good at this. Good at finding the right people. The people who knew things. Or who knew the person who knew things. It could have been a colossal waste of time, but instead a hired thug was leaving London because the tattoo had terrified him. Poe had no idea what was happening, only that something was happening. That was why he had smiled.

He got lucky with the train back to London. He only had to wait at Warrington for ten minutes before one arrived. Bradshaw had said there were fifty-three trains a day, so perhaps he wasn’t lucky. Perhaps it was maths.

He was back in Euston two hours later. The cabbie wasn’t a talker. No anecdotes, no whining about the mayor or the congestion charge or the roadworks. Just a woman doing her job. She looked tired. Poe gave her Buckby’s Elephant and Castle address. The cab ride took fifty minutes. The street was quiet. Residential. Lots of trees, well-kept gardens. Semi-detached houses mainly. Couple of bungalows, a block of flats at the end. Poe gave the cabbie seventy quid. The fare had been sixty; the extra ten was because she hadn’t complained about the gazpacho police.

He checked the text message Buckby had sent. Made sure he was at the right house. He didn’t want to go to the wrong house and ask to speak to the pornographer. But the text message said he lived at number 23, and the cab had dropped him off directly outside. He was at the right house. The garden path was short. Poe assumed most of the land would be at the back of the house. He pressed the bell.

No answer.

He pressed again. Put his ear to the door and listened.

Still nothing.

Maybe Buckby was in his back garden. Poe checked his watch. He was on time. He’d told Buckby he’d be there within four hours, and he was. Even if the man was in the garden, he should have been listening out for him.

Poe started to feel uneasy. Something wasn’t right. He pressed down on the door handle and pushed. The door opened. That was unusual for London. Judging by how much barbed wire he’d seen in Elephant and Castle, he’d have thought the residents would keep their doors locked. Even when they were in. Even on a street like this.

He was about to shout out Buckby’s name when a familiar and unwelcome smell washed over him. An organic smell that police officers became attuned to but never got used to. He sighed. Buckby wasn’t going to hear him. Buckby had dropped his last aitch. Poe removed his phone from his jacket, found the video function and started filming.

Then he stepped into the house and went to look for the body.

Chapter 33

He found the mutilated corpse in the kitchen.