Page 57 of The Killer’s Mark

Esmerée stood. ‘You want me to wait outside?’ she said. ‘I kinda get the feeling I’m bugging the S.H.I.T. out of the Till-meister.’

‘I would like you to stay, Esmerée,’ Bradshaw said. ‘Poe said you’re a teenager and teenagers can’t be reasoned with. That the more logical and well-considered the argument, the more you’ll break wind in my face. I assume he was using a colourful idiom to express his point. He does that. Therefore, each time you’re rude to me, I shall ignore you and try to be kind and understanding.’

‘I wasn’t rude, Till-meister.’

‘I don’t like that name, Esmerée. You should call me Tilly or Matilda.’

‘Everyone needs a nickname.’

‘Poe doesn’t have a nickname. Everyone calls him Poe. Even Estelle.’

‘Well I think we should fix that. What does he like to do? What hobbies does he have?’

‘He likes listening to punk and rock music, eating Cumberland sausage and drinking beer. He also likes to shout at the grey squirrels in the trees around Highwood. He says they’re f-word … bottomholes. They’re the only animals he doesn’t stop Edgar from chasing, even though he’s never ever caught one.’

‘Why’s he hate squirrels? They’re as cute as a bug’s ear.’

‘Because they’re an invasive species from North America and their introduction had a disastrous impact on the native red squirrel. He says that Sciurus carolinensis is yet another reason to dislike Americans. Except he says f-word grey squirrels because he refuses to learn the scientific nomenclature.’

‘Hey, I’m American.’

‘I know,’ Poe said.

‘Do you like me?’

‘Jury’s still out.’

‘Squirrel-man it is then.’

Bradshaw considered this carefully. ‘No, I don’t think so, Esmerée. It’s a very silly name and he almost certainly won’t answer to it.’

Poe smiled to himself. He’d gladly accept a stupid nickname if it meant Bradshaw and Esmerée could get on. He said, ‘If you two have stopped bonding, can you place the call, Tilly?’

‘Poe still doesn’t know how to use the phone system I installed, Esmerée,’ Bradshaw said. ‘Perhaps we should call him Homer Simpson.’

‘I do like doughnuts,’ Poe admitted.

Chapter 47

Hester Flynt was in her eighties but curiously modern in the way she liked to work. After Poe had called and ascertained that she wouldn’t copy the tattoo photographs, wouldn’t share the tattoo photographs, wouldn’t talk about the tattoo photographs, Bradshaw sent them via an encrypted email. An hour later, Hester sent a Zoom link. The subject line said, We need to talk.

Bradshaw didn’t like Zoom. She said the company’s claim that their meetings were end-to-end encrypted wasn’t accurate. Their employees had technical access to the meetings so they could collect IP addresses and device details. It meant that even if Hester kept quiet about who she’d spoken to, a determined third party would be able to identify her through Zoom’s data. Instead, she sent Hester a link to the video communication system she used when she was talking to Alastor Locke. She clicked the ‘host meeting’ button. Hester joined the waiting room and Bradshaw let her enter.

For someone who dressed like an ageing, sockless beatnik, Hester was a formidable-looking woman. She was thin but not delicate. Steely with piercing green eyes. A nose you could have used to split kindling. Her long grey hair went down to her waist. Half-moon spectacles hung from a leather strap. She was sucking on a thin cheroot like she was in a spaghetti western. She looked unsettled. As though she’d seen something she didn’t like.

‘You Mr Poe?’ she said.

Poe confirmed he was.

‘But you don’t like the honorific?’

‘I’m used to Poe.’

Hester nodded. ‘Eric says I can talk freely in front of you,’ she continued. ‘I don’t know the woman next to you, though, and unless it’s bring-your-daughter-to-work day, I don’t understand why there’s a child in the room.’

‘Hey, screw you, old lady,’ Esmerée said.

‘The woman is Tilly Bradshaw, and she has higher clearance than anyone else on this call, and the girl is—’