Chapter 39
Dookers was on the same street as the now closed embassy of the Republic of Equatorial Guinea.
Poe couldn’t remember the exact reason for its closure, but he thought it might have had something to do with the country’s vice president using public funds to buy a glove that had once belonged to Michael Jackson.
Dookers was a three-storey white stone building.
Six windows wide with a slate roof. The entrance was in the back of a flower shop. All very cloak-and-dagger.
‘Is this a club for spies, Alastor?’ Poe said.
‘Good heavens, no,’ Locke replied. ‘That would be dreadfully dull.’
‘Is it one of those weird ones where you’re not allowed to talk, then?’
Locke smiled but didn’t answer. He led Poe into what looked like the cloakroom of a boarding school. He removed his jacket and handed it to an elderly attendant. Poe did the same and said, ‘Thank you, Jeeves.’
‘Very good, Poe,’ Locke said, unflustered. ‘Come on, let’s get something to eat. You’ll enjoy the food here. It’s very … traditional.’
He wasn’t kidding. The menu only had three things listed. Potted brown shrimp to start, mutton for the main course and sticky toffee pudding to finish. The only choice was yes or no. Poe said yes, then asked Locke to tell Estelle he’d said no.
‘And why would I do that, dear boy?’
‘Because you want something from me.’
‘Shall we order drinks?’ Locke held up a hand, briefly. A white-suited waiter came over, notebook in hand. ‘I’ll have my usual, David. I imagine Washington will have a pint of London Pride.’
David looked to Poe for confirmation.
‘Twiggy imagines right,’ Poe said.
Locke’s phone rang. He answered it and started a whispered conversation.
Not urgent, just quiet. While Poe waited, he checked out his surroundings.
The dining room was large, with a high ceiling.
Wood-panelled walls and lots of green leather.
It was three-quarters full. Busy, but not the kind of busy Poe was used to.
The conversations in Dookers were hushed.
Muted. No one was raising their voice. No sudden laughter.
He got the impression that more decisions were made in this room than in the House of Commons.
Some tables were set for single diners, others for two.
No table was set for three or four. It seemed Dookers wasn’t the kind of place for family lunches.
Each table was covered with a spotless starched tablecloth.
The cutlery was so large it verged on impractical.
The salt and pepper pots were made of silver.
When Locke finished, he said, ‘Sorry about that, dear boy.’
‘How d’you become a member here?’
‘Your father, who would also have to be a member, would have to die.’
‘I couldn’t just pay an annual fee?’
‘Sorry, old chap, it’s hereditary membership. Keeps out the new money, the new ideas. Progress is necessary, of course, but clubs like this are the steady hand on the tiller.’
‘Which explains why the membership is whiter than Turkey teeth.’
Locke nodded. ‘It was founded by white men and they don’t like giving things up. It’s one of the few remaining clubs that doesn’t allow women.’
‘Then why …?’
‘Why do I frequent it?’
Poe nodded.
‘Because things are agreed here with a handshake more binding than an international treaty. Because on Fridays they serve steak and kidney pudding. And because Dookers is safe. There will be no eavesdropping here. We can talk freely.’
‘Let me guess, you want to know why I’m interested in Vincent du Buk.’
‘According to my counterpart, du Buk was a grubby man. He was in bed with some nefarious characters, but no one who threatens these shores.’
‘You’re not interested in du Buk?’
‘I’d never heard of him until Miss Bradshaw called me.’
‘The NCA are interested in him.’
‘Well, they’re an excitable bunch.’
‘That they are,’ Poe agreed. ‘But if we’re not here because of Vincent du Buk, then who are we here for?’
‘I was asked to intervene by Miss Bradshaw.’
Poe didn’t get a chance to force the issue as David arrived with the drinks and the potted shrimp.
The beer was bitter and hoppy with a strong foam; the brown shrimps came in a ramekin and were sealed with clarified butter.
Before he dug into both, he said, ‘Don’t let me stop you from explaining yourself, Alastor. I’m here for a reason. Out with it.’
‘What do you have, Poe?’
‘On the case I’m on?’
‘Yes.’
‘Next to nothing,’ he admitted. ‘I was hired to find a woman and all I had to go on was the tattoo on the sole of her foot. I identified a porn film she’d starred in and eventually tracked down the lighting photographs.
They’re the photographs taken before filming starts, to ensure the lighting rigs are in the right place. ’
‘Well I never,’ Locke said. ‘You and I operate in very different worlds, Poe.’
‘Don’t you lot use honeytraps?’
He laughed. ‘Touché.’
‘Anyway, I got a good photograph of the tattoo and I sent it to the pornographer I’d spoken to.’
‘Mark Buckby?’
‘That’s right. He said he would spread it around.
Tilly and I were on the train back to Carlisle when he called me in a panic.
Said the tattoo’s an urban myth. That it can’t exist. Told me there was a man, a proper hard case apparently, who took one look at the photograph and decided to leave London.
I made my way back to Elephant and Castle, where I’d arranged to meet them both.
Buckby was dead when I arrived. Tortured. ’
‘And his hard-case friend?’
‘He was a no-show.’
‘Which doesn’t bode well for him.’
‘No, it does not.’
‘Who hired you?’
‘Not saying.’
‘And I imagine Miss Bradshaw will say the same if I ask her?’
‘She won’t tell me what she does for you, even though I ask her every single day. She’s a vault.’
‘May I see the tattoo?’
‘Cops took my phone.’
‘Why?’
‘They think I took photographs of the crime scene.’
‘Did you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Ah, that’s a shame. I’d love to see it. Not to worry.’ Locke took a sip of his drink. Looked like a negroni. He glanced over Poe’s shoulder. ‘I hope you have a good appetite, Poe. The mutton here is referred to as the Dookers Blue. It’s a play on Tom Sharpe’s novel Port—’
‘I’ve read Porterhouse Blue, Alastor,’ Poe said. ‘Porterhouse is the name of a Cambridge college, and the blue refers to the inevitable stroke brought on by overindulgence in the heavy meals they serve there.’
‘Indeed.’
Poe looked at the meal David had just put in front of him. There was half a kilo of glistening mutton on his plate. Shoulder meat, by the way it was sitting. Cooked for hours in its own juices. There were roast potatoes and cauliflower cheese. A jug of thick gravy, shiny with grease, by the side.
He picked up his fork and speared a roast potato. ‘If anyone asks, I had a salad.’