Page 47 of The Killer’s Mark

‘I’ve had a Mars bar.’

‘And did you find it conducive to work, rest and play?’

‘I ate it, if that’s what you mean.’

‘Come and have some supper with me,’ Locke said.

‘I have a train to catch.’

He waved away Poe’s protest. ‘I’ll get you back to Cumbria, dear boy.’

Chapter 39

Alastor Locke took Poe to Dookers, his private members’ club. It was in St James’s, near Buckingham Palace. Locke told him it was established in 1760, two years before Boodle’s. Poe said he didn’t know what the hell Locke was talking about. He didn’t know what Dookers was, and he didn’t know what Boodle’s was.

Dookers was on the same street as the now closed embassy of the Republic of Equatorial Guinea. Poe couldn’t remember the exact reason for its closure, but he thought it might have had something to do with the country’s vice president using public funds to buy a glove that had once belonged to Michael Jackson. Dookers was a three-storey white stone building. Six windows wide with a slate roof. The entrance was in the back of a flower shop. All very cloak-and-dagger.

‘Is this a club for spies, Alastor?’ Poe said.

‘Good heavens, no,’ Locke replied. ‘That would be dreadfully dull.’

‘Is it one of those weird ones where you’re not allowed to talk, then?’

Locke smiled but didn’t answer. He led Poe into what looked like the cloakroom of a boarding school. He removed his jacket and handed it to an elderly attendant. Poe did the same and said, ‘Thank you, Jeeves.’

‘Very good, Poe,’ Locke said, unflustered. ‘Come on, let’s get something to eat. You’ll enjoy the food here. It’s very … traditional.’

He wasn’t kidding. The menu only had three things listed. Potted brown shrimp to start, mutton for the main course and sticky toffee pudding to finish. The only choice was yes or no. Poe said yes, then asked Locke to tell Estelle he’d said no.

‘And why would I do that, dear boy?’

‘Because you want something from me.’

‘Shall we order drinks?’ Locke held up a hand, briefly. A white-suited waiter came over, notebook in hand. ‘I’ll have my usual, David. I imagine Washington will have a pint of London Pride.’

David looked to Poe for confirmation.

‘Twiggy imagines right,’ Poe said.

Locke’s phone rang. He answered it and started a whispered conversation. Not urgent, just quiet. While Poe waited, he checked out his surroundings. The dining room was large, with a high ceiling. Wood-panelled walls and lots of green leather. It was three-quarters full. Busy, but not the kind of busy Poe was used to. The conversations in Dookers were hushed. Muted. No one was raising their voice. No sudden laughter. He got the impression that more decisions were made in this room than in the House of Commons.

Some tables were set for single diners, others for two. No table was set for three or four. It seemed Dookers wasn’t the kind of place for family lunches. Each table was covered with a spotless starched tablecloth. The cutlery was so large it verged on impractical. The salt and pepper pots were made of silver.

When Locke finished, he said, ‘Sorry about that, dear boy.’

‘How d’you become a member here?’

‘Your father, who would also have to be a member, would have to die.’

‘I couldn’t just pay an annual fee?’

‘Sorry, old chap, it’s hereditary membership. Keeps out the new money, the new ideas. Progress is necessary, of course, but clubs like this are the steady hand on the tiller.’

‘Which explains why the membership is whiter than Turkey teeth.’

Locke nodded. ‘It was founded by white men and they don’t like giving things up. It’s one of the few remaining clubs that doesn’t allow women.’

‘Then why …?’