Page 43 of The Killer’s Mark

Poe told her what he’d told the responding cops and what he’d repeated to Detective Inspector Greene. Nothing more.

He finished by saying, ‘You know what to do?’

‘I do, Poe.’

‘OK, see you tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Even if they let me out tonight, it’ll be too late to get up north.’

‘Who was that?’ the custody sergeant said.

‘Who are you, the gazpacho?’

Poe was put in a cell with a Styrofoam cup of tea and a Mars bar. He’d always loved Mars bars. Loved the luxury, the thick chocolate, the caramel. The seductive packaging. And he loved that one of his all-time favourite bands, the Undertones, had written and sung a ridiculous song about them. Put it out as the B-side to ‘Jimmy Jimmy’. It became a fan favourite and was now the first song on every setlist.

He didn’t have to wait long to be questioned. No more than fifteen minutes, which told him they knew he hadn’t done it. If they thought he had, they’d have spent more time gathering evidence. They’d have taken away his clothes for testing. Put him in a paper suit. This wasn’t about charging him with murder; this was about finding out what he knew. Poe would share what he could, but he wouldn’t tell them about Esmerée. Not yet. Including Vincent du Buk, Buckby was the second person to be murdered. Better to keep her name out of it.

He was taken from his cell and put in a bog-standard interview room. A table, chairs, recording equipment. Panic strips.

Detective Inspector Greene and a man Poe hadn’t seen before entered the room.

‘Stand up,’ Greene said.

‘Who for? Jesus?’

‘Stand up.’

‘No.’

‘It’s going to be like that, is it?’

‘You started this shitshow, not me.’

Greene sighed and took a seat on the opposite side of the table to Poe.

The new guy did the same. ‘I’m Detective Constable Markus Fitt,’ he said. ‘That’s Markus with a k.’

‘Thanks,’ Poe said. ‘That’ll be handy when it comes to doing my Christmas cards.’

Greene frowned. ‘You’ve said you don’t want a solicitor present.’

‘Don’t need one.’

‘You seem very sure.’

‘So do you.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You know I didn’t do it,’ Poe said. ‘The blood that had pooled by his feet was already dry. By now you’ll have checked CCTV. Seen I was on a train out of London when Mark Buckby called and was probably still at Warrington Bank Quay when he was killed. You have no intention of charging me.’

Greene sighed. ‘This is why I hate interviewing ex-cops,’ he said. ‘They think they know everything.’

‘Why not try asking me what you want to know?’ Poe said. ‘We’re on the same side; I won’t conceal anything.’

‘Give us the password to your phone.’

‘Apart from that.’

‘You took photographs of the crime scene. Videos too, I bet. That’s a criminal offence.’