Chapter 50
Bradshaw didn’t want to go to Newcastle with Poe.
Not now she had a name. Kai Jin. She said it wasn’t good use of her time.
That her strengths lay in research, not in walking around a city where the locals spoke with a frightening accent.
She said the last Geordie she’d met may as well have been speaking duck.
Poe agreed. He’d been in the same meeting and it had sounded as though the Newcastle cops were insisting their murder suspect was a ‘monkey hanger’, a reference to someone from Hartlepool, a moniker dating back to the Napoleonic Wars, when frightened locals hanged a shipwrecked monkey believing it to be a French spy.
Poe checked his Timex. It was coming up to lunchtime and he was hungry.
He thought about going to the Kings Head for fish and chips, but Esmerée was only fifteen and the landlord didn’t allow children in the pub.
It was one of the reasons Poe liked it so much.
And he couldn’t leave her with Bradshaw.
That had disaster written all over it. Bradshaw tended to zone out when she was working.
He’d once told her that he’d had a showdown with HR, another Edgar/emotional support dog incident, and she’d said, ‘Very nice, Poe. Try to only have one pie.’ It was her stock reply when she was concentrating.
That meant Esmerée was with him that afternoon.
‘How d’you like Chinese food, Esmerée?’
She tutted. Rolled her eyes. ‘Sure, this lame-ass country has Chinese food.’
Poe frowned. ‘Er … yes. Well, maybe not in Carlisle.’ Which was true. Carlisle hadn’t had a Chinese restaurant for years. Probably a record for a supposedly modern city. ‘But like Hester said, Newcastle has a thriving Chinese community. C’mon, we can be there in an hour. I’ll treat you to lunch.’
Esmerée sighed. ‘It’ll taste like dried shit compared to what we have in New York, but sure, I guess I could go for some crispy duck.’
Bradshaw made vomiting sounds.
‘Not like the crispy duck, Tilly?’
‘You’ll find Tilly makes that noise each time you eat something with bones.’
‘The last time we went for a Chinese meal, you ate seventeen frogs’ legs,’ Bradshaw said. ‘And then you complained to the waiter that you’d been served an odd number.’
‘Frogs have two edible legs, Tilly. I should have been served an even number. I was curious about the missing one.’
‘I don’t think the words “edible” and “frog” should ever appear in the same sentence. It’s totally gross. But what do I know? My blood pressure is one-twenty over eighty, my cholesterol is one point four and you could set your watch by my bowel movements.’
Esmerée sniggered. ‘Got to side with Tilly, Poe. You ain’t ordering frogs’ legs today. Not if you don’t want me to barf on you.’