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‘I can’t believe he used that,’ Poe grumbled. ‘It was just something stupid I said.’
He flicked to the index, ran his fingers down it until he got to the ‘P’s, hoping he’d got away with it.
Fat chance.
Poe, Washington (detective sergeant, National Crime Agency) 5–19, 23, 45, 67, 78–83, 101, 105, 139, 145, 157–8, 198, 204, 237, 256, 283–5, 301, 329, 385, 390–8, 402, 404, 408, 410–13
clothes shopping 25
death of Karen Royal-Cross 185
erectile dysfunction 357
evidence at trial 400
Moroccan goat 302
reaction to guilty verdict 414
role in Chance’s Park 234
tabloid headlines 217
the ‘sting’ 386
‘Bloody hell,’ he said, showing Doyle the index page. ‘Have you seen this?’
‘I have.Page 357is particularly funny.’
‘Are you in it?’
‘I am.’
‘Why aren’t you cross?’
‘My father’s murder was handled sensitively and, at the end of the day, it’s good exposure for the lab.’
‘You’re such a capitalist,’ he said.
She winked at him.
Poe threw down the book in disgust. Perhaps it was because the pages were glossy, rather than uncoated, but it flipped open to the photograph section in the middle.
‘I’ll look at the pictures,’ he said. ‘If he asks, I’ll tell him I haven’t had time to read it properly.’
‘I have some felt tips in my old bedroom if you want to draw a moustache on his face.’
Poe didn’t answer.
‘What’s up?’ she asked.
‘You got that magnifying glass handy? The one we used when we did that jigsaw. The one where each piece was a tiny picture, but they all blended together to form theMona Lisa.’
‘The photomosaic? I think so. Why?’
But Poe had gone back to staring at one of the photographs. Doyle got out of bed and found the magnifying glass. She passed it to him and he took it without a word. He focused on the photograph of Frederick Beck’s flat, the one with the scientific equipment.
Eventually he looked up from the book.
‘I’m sorry, Estelle,’ he said. ‘Tonight’s a work night.’
