Page 46 of The Killer’s Mark

‘You’re a civilian, Poe. You give, we take.’

‘I’ve told you everything I can.’

‘But not everything you know. Who’s your client?’

Poe stared at him. ‘Do you know something?’ he said. ‘When Tilly and I had the idea to start a PI business, neither of us really knew what to expect. And I don’t mean the kind of cases we’d be working; I mean the way we would work. What our ethos would be. We didn’t discuss it because it would only become apparent when we went live. When we were faced with a situation like this.’

‘What situation?’

‘When the state is putting their interests above the individual’s. You don’t care about my client. He or she is a means to an end. Nothing more. It seems I owe you a debt of gratitude. Because now I understand what my role is. It’s to stand up for the little person.’

Chapter 37

Detective Inspector Greene was apoplectic when Mutton Chops told him he had to release Poe. Poe didn’t blame him. He’d arrested him and was in the process of interviewing him when the NCA had waltzed in and taken over. And now, instead of handing him back, the NCA were insisting that Greene let him go.

Greene had tried the old ‘you have no authority here’ routine. Mutton Chops had agreed he didn’t, but the NCA director did. The NCA director had the never-yet-tested authority to overrule the Metropolitan Police Commissioner. No cop wanted to be the cause of the commissioner getting that call.

‘Well he’s not getting his phone back,’ Greene said. ‘It’s evidence.’

Poe shrugged. ‘Keep it,’ he said. ‘It’ll make a nice paperweight. You certainly won’t be able to use it.’

Poe was processed out of Walworth police station. It took time. There were i’s to dot, t’s to cross. Forms to sign. In Poe’s experience, people who were arrested then released without charge were offered a lift home. That wasn’t practical in his case, but he thought they might at least offer to drive him to Euston. When he asked if that was a possibility, he was told to perform a sex act on himself.

Rude.

It was half past eight. He’d missed the last train to Carlisle, but there was a later one out of King’s Cross he could catch. It would take him to Newcastle rather than Carlisle, so someone would need to pick him up. It wasn’t ideal, but it was better than spending another night in London.

In the end it was moot. When he was escorted from the police station, a Range Rover with blacked-out windows was idling outside. The back door opened and a familiar face looked out.

‘What pickle have you got yourself into this time, Poe?’ Alastor Locke said.

Chapter 38

Alastor Locke looked like a human stick insect. He was a senior figure in the UK’s intelligence service and Poe had crossed paths with him twice before – once when he’d worked under his direction when a murder had threatened to disrupt an international trade summit, and again during a sniper case, the one that had caused Poe to leave the National Crime Agency. He quite liked Locke, although he’d never trusted anyone less. The man was so twisty he slept on a corkscrew mattress.

Poe sighed. When he’d called Bradshaw and asked if she knew what to do, he’d assumed it was obvious. She was to call his wife. Get the Doyle family solicitor on the case. She wasn’t supposed to call one of the most senior spies in the country. Bradshaw had worked for Locke. She still did freelance work for him. And because she was arguably the most important asset at his disposal, he bent over backwards to accommodate her. Poe reckoned she was one of the few numbers he answered immediately. He suspected the prime minister didn’t enjoy that much access. ‘Tilly called you,’ he said. It wasn’t a question.

‘She told me you’d been wrongly arrested, dear boy. Asked if I could intervene.’

‘And did you?’

‘I was going to, but something told me you’d find a way to engineer your own release. Are there angry men in there, Sergeant Poe?’

‘It’s Mr Poe now, Alastor.’

‘Ah, of course,’ Locke said. ‘And are there angry men in there?’

‘Well, they aren’t happy.’

Locke chuckled. ‘How is married life treating you? How is Lady Doyle?’

‘Estelle’s fine,’ Poe said.

‘And Matthew? I gather there was an altercation with some local rapscallions the other day?’

‘That’s one way of putting it,’ Poe grunted. Towler worked for Locke. He said he was Locke’s blunt instrument. Poe doubted that. He thought Locke had plenty of blunt instruments. Towler was more like a scalpel. A deadly, fun-loving, foul-mouthed scalpel. ‘What the hell are you doing here, Alastor? And don’t give me that intervening-at-Tilly’s-behest crap. You could have done that without getting out of your smoking jacket. But for some reason you’ve trekked all the way across to south London. I want to know why.’

‘Have you eaten, Poe?’