Page 82 of The Killer’s Mark

‘No.’

‘Good that you thought of my dog first, though, Tilly.’

Esmerée scowled. ‘Can you morons stick to the … you-know-what.’

Poe winked at her. She scowled some more. ‘How long to delete the email, Tilly?’ he said.

‘I can do it now,’ Bradshaw replied. ‘But to be ultra-cautious, I’ll backdoor into your email server. Delete it at source as well. Once I’ve done that, even I couldn’t recover it. It’ll take me forty minutes. Thirty if you get me a green smoothie.’

‘On it,’ Poe said. ‘Come on, Esmerée. I’ll buy you a milkshake.’

Poe left the office. Esmerée followed him. Instead of walking down the stairs, he grabbed the stepladder from the cleaner’s cupboard. He put it under the hatch, climbed up and was soon back in Cowie House’s loft.

He checked his watch. Five minutes since their little play had begun. He figured that would be enough. Two for the people listening in to realise they had a problem, another three to scramble their resources. He didn’t think there would be anyone left to listen, but he kept as quiet as possible anyway. He disconnected the cables and picked up the G-LEM 5674 high-performance camera unit. Leaving the cables in situ, he carried the unit to the hatch and lowered it down to Esmerée.

‘What now?’ she whispered after Poe had rejoined her on the third floor.

‘What you whispering for? I’ve disconnected everything.’

‘Oh yeah,’ she said. ‘What now, asshole?!’

‘We wait,’ Poe said. ‘Although I doubt it’ll be for long.’

Chapter 68

It wasn’t.

The first sign was shouting from downstairs. Monica Costelloe, screaming like a trumpet. Poe could hear someone trying to shush her. Bad move. Monica yelled even louder. She wasn’t trying to stop whoever was downstairs. This was a warning to Poe.

‘Are we ready?’ he said.

Esmerée popped a can of Irn-Bru. She took a swig and burped. ‘Bring it on, douchebags,’ she said.

Bradshaw just nodded.

‘OK, kids,’ Poe said. ‘Remember, it doesn’t matter if we win or lose; the important thing is that we have fun.’

The door to the outer office burst open. Two men marched in like they could smell fresh doughnuts. Susan Hawksworth followed them. She had the grace to look embarrassed.

The lead guy held out his NCA ID card as if he thought Poe might give a shit. ‘My name is John Gilliard. I’m a detective chief inspector with Organised Crime Command. This is my colleague Andrew Gotobed. You already know Detective Constable Susan Hawksworth. We have a search warrant for your office and cars. It authorises us to seize anything relating to the case we’re working on.’

‘Hi, Poe,’ Susan said.

Poe waved. ‘Wassup?’

Gilliard scowled at her. He was a big man with close-cropped dark hair. He was carrying extra weight in his gut and his jowls. He wore a dark suit with a white shirt. Blue tie with gold flecks. Didn’t look machine-washable. An office cop then. Field cops wore clothes they could wash for two hours at sixty degrees. Hot enough and long enough to get the blood and puke out. He handed Poe the search warrant.

‘Are you going to be a problem, Mr Poe?’

‘Almost certainly.’

‘Because if … What do you mean, “Almost certainly”?’

‘What type of stupid surname is Gotobed?’

‘It dates back to the thirteenth century, Poe,’ Bradshaw said. ‘Opinion is divided on its etymology. It either stems from beds being such a rare thing it was worth commenting on, or, and I think this is more likely, it was a nickname for someone whose circadian rhythm was geared towards rising late.’

‘It is not a stupid name,’ Gotobed said through gritted teeth.