Page 68 of The Killer’s Mark

‘No, Esmerée. You’re the opposite of forgettable. I’d go as far as to say you’re memorable. But if he knew who I was, how to find me and what I was doing, why didn’t he know anything about you?’

‘Because I don’t fucking exist,’ Esmerée snapped. Immediately calmed down. ‘Or perhaps he did know about me. Perhaps he was bullshitting.’

Poe shook his head. ‘That’s not it. He didn’t know who you were, and saying you were my daughter just now seemed prudent. Why? Wasn’t a problem, was it?’

‘No. Don’t be an asshole.’

But Poe thought maybe it was a problem. He wondered why.

The Royal Banquet at the Szechuan Palace was described as a two-hour journey across China’s fourteen international borders, a celebration of three thousand years of culinary history. All Poe knew was that he was now fuller than he’d been when he’d eaten all that mutton at Dookers. Esmerée had given up after forty minutes, but Poe finished everything they put in front of him. Peking duck. Honey-roasted pork. Braised sea bass with wild tiger prawns. Rabbit. Slices of Wagyu beef drizzled with chilli oil. Gong bao chicken. And to finish, a steamed duck yolk custard bun. It was an extraordinary meal.

‘How you’re not a lardass, I’ll never know,’ Esmerée said when he finally put down his pudding spoon. ‘You ate stuff you weren’t supposed to eat.’

‘Like?’

‘Bones, Poe. You ate the freaking rib bones. Cracked them open and sucked out the marrow. That shit ain’t right.’

‘Bone marrow’s full of collagen. It’s good for my joints.’

‘I noticed you left the salad garnishes, though. Would a carved radish kill you?’

‘Guess we’ll never know,’ Poe said.

‘Tilly’s right, you eat like a cartoon bear.’

The waiter came over with coffees and petits fours. Two fortune cookies. There were three petits fours. Poe hated it when restaurants pulled stunts like that. He knew petit four wasn’t literal. You didn’t have to have four. Bradshaw had told him it was French for ‘small oven’, but it still bugged him. He thought you should always get four. That it wasn’t fair when you got less. He ate them anyway. They were delicious.

Esmerée picked up her fortune cookie and cracked it open. She stuffed the sweet crispy biscuit into her mouth and ate it with her mouth open. She unfolded the paper inside. Rolled her eyes and passed it to Poe. It said: NO SNOWFLAKE IN AN AVALANCHE EVER FEELS RESPONSIBLE.

‘Sounds like you’ve just been told off,’ Poe said.

‘You not gonna eat yours?’

He patted his stomach. ‘No thanks, I’m trying to be good.’ He pushed it across the table. ‘Be my guest.’

Esmerée picked it up, snapped it and read the fortune. Her eyes widened. She said, ‘You need to see this, Poe.’

‘What does it say? You do not have to worry about your future? Live each day as if it’s your last? May you live in—’

‘Poe, just read it.’

She looked around, nervous.

Poe read the fortune cookie. Except it wasn’t a fortune.

It was an address.

Chapter 56

Poe told the waiter he wanted to see the old man.

‘He’s not here,’ the waiter said.

Poe checked his watch. ‘He was here two hours ago.’

‘What can I tell you?’

‘When will he be back?’