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‘Hello, Poe,’ Bradshaw said. ‘It’s Tilly.’
‘I know it’s you, Tilly. A photo of you appears on my screen and it says “Tilly” above it. Also, you’re the only person who rings me.’
‘Are you still going tomorrow night?’
‘Unfortunately.’
‘Don’t be such a grouse. Henning Stahl is our friend and he is doing an event to promote his book. I am picking up DI Flynn at nine a.m. and we should be at Estelle’s ancestral home by midafternoon. Henning Stahl wants to take us out for a meal afterwards. He has to go on to Edinburgh but we’re staying the night.’
‘You bringing sleeping bags?’
‘Poe …’ Doyle warned. ‘Don’t tease her. You know she’ll go out and buy one.’
‘Estelle says you need a tent as well.’
Bradshaw giggled. ‘Unfortunately for you, buster, Estelle and I still have regular correspondence. I know you’ve got beds ready for us.’
‘You bringing anything to eat?’
‘No. DI Flynn says I am never allowed to buy food again. She says I ruined the Spring-heeled Jack stakeout.’
‘Youruined it? I drank her breast milk.’
‘Did you get the book Henning Stahl sent?’
Poe glanced at his bedside table. Stahl’s book sat on it, unopened. ‘I did.’
‘Are you going to read it?’
‘Wasn’t planning to.’
‘But what if he asks you about it?’
Poe looked at the book again. ‘Fine,’ he sighed. ‘I’ll skim through it tonight.’
After Bradshaw rang off, Poe picked up the book. ‘What’s it like?’ he asked Doyle.
Stahl had sent two signed and dedicated hardbacks to Highwood. Doyle had almost finished hers.
‘Surprisingly well written,’ she replied. ‘Bit sensationalist, and some of the science has been dumbed down. And from what you told me, he massively downplays the mess he was in when you first approached him.’
‘There was a dead cat in his kitchen. Is that in?’
Poe grabbed his reading glasses and turned to Stahl’s photo on the inside jacket.
‘He’s looking well, isn’t he?’ Doyle said.
‘He is. Although I imagine multiple six-figure book deals, movie rights and talk of major book awards are helping him keep off the booze.’
‘He still takes Antabuse.’
‘You’ve spoken to him?’
‘It’s in here. Page one hundred and forty. Says he’ll be on it for the rest of his life.’
Poe turned the book over. The cover was sober and understated, just a scientific drawing of a flower petal and the title.
The Nightmares You Deserve: Hunting the Botanistby Henning Stahl.
