Page 127 of The Killer’s Mark

No one laughed, but that was OK, because Towler wasn’t joking.

Chapter 103

They drove through the night, taking turns at the wheel. When Towler was driving, Poe tried to sleep, but he couldn’t. It was like he’d been mainlining espresso. When Poe drove, Towler slept like an overfed Labrador. Head back, mouth open, drool everywhere.

They’d left Bradshaw and Estelle in charge of Susan. She wasn’t going anywhere. The last thing Poe had done before he’d left Cowie House was drag her up to his office and use an old pair of his handcuffs to secure her to the cast-iron radiator. The one that was noisier than a steamboat. He’d slipped the key into his pocket.

‘What if there’s a fire?’ Susan had yelled as he walked out.

‘If we don’t get Esmerée back, I’ll start one myself,’ Estelle had replied.

Poe couldn’t sleep, but the look on Susan’s face when his wife had said that was tonic enough.

They stopped just before they hit the M25, London’s orbital motorway. Grabbed bacon sandwiches and ink-black coffee. Topped up the fuel tank. Towler grabbed the wheel and sped out of the service station like he owed the manager money. At 7 a.m. the M25 would be busier than a Black Friday John Lewis, but at two in the morning it was quiet. Towler kept to eighty-five. Fast enough to make good time; not so fast that a white-hatted traffic cop would put down his doughnut and give chase. When they left the M25 and joined the M23, Poe called Bradshaw.

‘She’s still at home, Poe,’ she said without preamble. ‘Well, her phone is anyway.’

‘We’ll be there in an hour. How’s our prisoner?’

‘Sulking. She wants her money back. I keep telling her it doesn’t belong to her any more, but she doesn’t seem to care.’

‘And how’s Estelle?’

‘I’m worried about her, Poe,’ Bradshaw said. ‘She’s just sitting in the dark staring at Susan Hawksworth. She doesn’t answer any of her questions. I’m scared she’ll do something horrid to her if Esmerée dies.’

‘She’s not going to die, Tilly. We’re going to get her back.’ He ended the call. Turned to Towler. ‘Just how big is this sack of yours?’ he said.

Chapter 104

‘Smallholding’ was a bit of an exaggeration for the Midnight Beekeeper’s honey empire. Océane didn’t live in a house; she lived in a static caravan – maybe the first ever static caravan – on the edge of a small orchard.

The caravan was near, but not too near, her beehives. Poe counted them. She had twenty that he could see, but he suspected there were more he couldn’t. Even at this time of night he could hear the low rumble of nesting bees. It sounded like vibration, which didn’t make sense, but it was the best description he had. Bradshaw had explained that although individual bees did sleep, the hive didn’t. Night-time activities included keeping the hive warm, processing that day’s nectar and pollen, cleaning up debris. Some other stuff he couldn’t remember.

‘Would you eat honey made by a porn star?’ Towler had asked on the way.

‘Probably,’ Poe had replied. ‘You?’

‘Exclusively.’

Océane’s business vehicle was a panel van. A Peugeot. Chance Ryzcek had said she’d been driving a car when he’d met her. She’d clearly upgraded. Poe could see the magnetic bee logo. He thumbed Bradshaw a text. Told her they’d arrived.

Towler walked around the caravan. When he came back, he said, ‘There’s an escape window at the back in case there’s a fire; otherwise she has nowhere to go.’

‘Do you want to cover it?’

He shook his head. ‘Nah, it’ll take at least thirty seconds to open, so we’ll have plenty of time. Best we just knock on the door and see what she has to say.’

Which was exactly what they did.

Except Towler did it and he didn’t seem to have a subtle bone in his body. He thumped the side of the caravan with the flat of his fist. Sounded like he had just belted a marching band’s bass drum. The noise coming from the beehives changed. Became angry. Anxious. Towler didn’t care, though. He kept hammering until a light came on.

‘Who is it?’ a woman on the other side of the metal door said. American accent.

‘My name is Washington Poe, Océane,’ Poe said. ‘This is my friend Matt. We need to talk to you about your daughter, Esmerée.’

She didn’t respond. Poe hadn’t expected her to. Not immediately. He reckoned Océane was a name she’d hoped never to hear again. Towler repeated his thumping on the side of the caravan.

‘My name is Donna Reed,’ she said eventually. ‘I think you must have the wrong caravan. There’s a static site on the other side of Tarring Neville. You’d be better looking there.’