Page 7 of The Killer’s Mark

Bradshaw shook her head. ‘Our MI5 freelance work more than covers our rent and salaries.’

Poe appreciated the ‘our’ part of that. He had nothing to do with the MI5 stuff. He wasn’t even allowed in her office when she was working. And the security in her sectioned-off computer suite made Fort Knox look as secure as kid’s piggy bank. When Alastor Locke, the guy at MI5 she’d briefly worked for, had found out she was leaving to become a private investigator, he’d begged her to reconsider. Said that the country needed her. Taking on the occasional bit of freelance work had been their compromise. Locke had sent a team of specialist engineers to the top floor of Cowie House and made her office soundproof, bugproof, even windproof. They’d installed lightning-fast secure broadband and a phone system that Poe had no idea how to operate. He’d tried to call his wife the week before and had somehow got through to GCHQ. The woman at the other end had said, ‘This isn’t a toy, Poe,’ and hung up on him.

The thing was, Poe knew Bradshaw was right. Knew that his reasons for putting off work were becoming increasingly desperate. He also knew that she knew why.

‘I’m scared, Tilly,’ he said. ‘Our last case saw someone making threats against us.’

‘He’s dead, Poe. He can’t hurt you, me or Estelle. He can’t hurt anyone.’

‘And the case before that gave me a decade’s worth of PTSD.’

‘Estelle tells me you’re sleeping better now.’

Poe nodded. He was. ‘But what harm is there in just having a bit of peace and quiet for a while?’

‘I’m not suggesting we start looking for serial killers or axe murderers, but you need to exercise your brain. If you don’t, it’ll rot.’

Poe threw up his hands. ‘Fine, I’ll take the next case that walks through the door. Happy?’

‘The very next case? Even if he looks like Ken Dodd?’

To be fair, Poe only hesitated for a fraction of a second. ‘Yes,’ he said.

Which was when the office door burst open and William Bickerstaff, the painfully shy antiquarian book dealer, ran in. His face was red. His eyes were wider than Bambi’s. He was wearing his usual attire of cardigan, corduroy trousers and flat-footed tan brogues. Hair all over the place. Despite looking like Tolkien’s absent-minded brother, he was only twenty-seven.

‘What is it, William?’ Poe said. William had never been in his office before. He’d never been on their floor before. Something was wrong. He looked terrified.

William tried to reply, but all that came out was a big old stutter. Poe had never heard him speak, so didn’t know he had a stutter. He wondered if that was the reason he was so shy. Or whether his shyness caused it. William gave up, started beckoning behind him. Pointing to the floor.

‘I think William wants you to go with him, Poe,’ Bradshaw said. ‘Something must be happening downstairs.’

‘Lead the way,’ Poe said. He resisted adding ‘Lassie’.

Bradshaw was right: something was happening downstairs. Trouble. Small t.

Poe didn’t need William to tell him where to go. As soon as he left his office, he knew where he was needed. William shared a floor with Indica, the tattooist. Poe had long suspected that William had a crush on her. Not that it would have mattered. William was a sweet and gentle man, and crush or not, Indica was in trouble. He would have tried to help her regardless of any unrequited feelings. He would have tried to help anyone.

Indica’s trouble was a man the size and build of a 1970s English wrestler. He was glassy-eyed and shirtless. Strong but flabby. Angry. He had cornered Indica in her studio and was trying to climb over the tattooist’s table that separated them. She was holding him at bay with a bunch of needles, which she kept stabbing into the palms of his outstretched hands.

Poe didn’t hesitate. He ran into the studio, jabbed the idiot in the right kidney. Watched a ripple go all the way up his back fat. He then grabbed his ear and twisted until something tore. The man screamed. Dropped to his knees. Swung a meaty fist behind him, tried to swipe away Poe’s legs. Poe sidestepped and said, ‘Calm down, big fella.’

‘Stay out of this,’ grunted the man.

Poe twisted his ear harder. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked Indica.

She was a slender woman. Probably only eight stone wet. Heavily tattooed, as all tattooists seemed to be. Crew cut, sleeveless top and low-slung jeans. Pair of sneakers. Same thing she wore every day.

‘Idiot came in three weeks ago for his wife’s portrait.’

Poe looked at the man’s back. Indica had tattooed his wife in blacks and greys. Good tattoo, he thought. JANIS was inked underneath in a beautiful Gothic script.

‘What’s the problem?’

‘The problem is he misspelled her name. I checked with him a dozen times, but he insisted that was how it was spelled.’

‘Let me guess, it’s not Janis, it’s Janice. J-A-N-I-C-E?’

Indica nodded.