Chapter 3
As Poe was twisting the ear of a man who didn’t know how to spell his own wife’s name, a young girl called Esmerée Blue was staring in dismay at the exterior of Cowie House.
This was where she’d been told to come? This was where the guy with the dumbass name worked?
She glanced up and down Fisher Street. It had cobbles.
Actual cobbles. Like something out of Mary goddam Poppins.
Or Harry goddam Potter. She’d never seen anything as stupid in her life.
And as for the building, it looked as though a strong fart would bring it crashing to the ground.
Why would a guy with such a solid rep work in this dump?
Maybe she’d been punked. It wouldn’t be the first time the douchebag locals had told her to go left when she should have headed right.
They didn’t seem to like Americans much. They didn’t seem to like anyone.
Fucking assholes.
Even for Carlisle, Esmerée Blue stood out.
She was fifteen years old and she had a nose ring, an eyebrow ring and a lip ring.
Her ear had so many holes she could have used it as a sieve.
Her make-up was French-clown white; her hair was black and purple and styled like she was in a Japanese cartoon.
She wore scuffed DMs, ripped jeans and a Green Day hoodie.
She looked like a cross between Siouxsie Sioux and Lisbeth Salander. And she didn’t give a rat’s ass.
There was only one thing that mattered. She had rematerialised.
And Esmerée needed to find her. It was why she ignored her instinct to walk away from the butt-ugly building.
Why she gritted her teeth and hardened her jaw and walked up the steps.
Why she pushed open the front door and stepped into the lobby.
A formidable-looking woman was seated behind an ancient reception desk. She was eating an apple and reading a novel. Sardan by Indie D. Looked like a fantasy book. She glanced up. Raised her eyebrows.
‘What the hell are you looking at, you bald asshole?’ Esmerée said.
The woman smiled politely, as if she heard smart-ass kids all day, every day. She tilted her head and said, ‘Poe and Tilly are on the top floor, dear.’
‘How did you know?’
‘You seem … troubled,’ the woman replied.
Esmerée grunted something unintelligible and stormed past her.
Monica Costelloe shook her head and chuckled. If the American kid did have a problem, she’d come to the right place. Poe hadn’t worked much since he and Tilly had taken the office on the top floor, but if anyone could help her, it would be them.
Esmerée walked up the stairs. She passed a door with Lesley Sykes, Talent Agent stencilled on the glass. It opened, and a sweaty man peered out. He was overweight and underdressed. His face was beet red; his nose was fat and round.
‘Are you here for The Wizard of Oz audition?’ he said hopefully.
‘Do I look like a fucking Munchkin?’
She stomped up the next flight of stairs. There was a commotion going on in the tattooist’s. Some asshole was twisting another asshole’s ear while a scared-looking geek hopped up and down biting his lip. Esmerée ignored them and carried on up to the top floor.
There were two offices. Left and right. She walked to the office on the right.
Read the sign. Nigel Flowers. Palmist. He must have seen her shadow outside, as he opened the door immediately.
What was it with this place? Didn’t anyone have anything better to do than hassle her?
Nigel the palmist was as thin as Lesley the talent agent was fat.
He had a sparse moustache and a patchy beard. He looked like an anaemic Mr Miyagi.
‘Are you here for a—’
‘Go back to the commune, you basket-weaving asshole.’
Esmerée spun on her heel, leaving Nigel open-mouthed, and marched up to the door on the left. She stopped when she saw the stencilled sign.
Washington Poe & Tilly Bradshaw
Gumshoes For Hire
‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ she muttered. ‘Gumshoes? What a pair of jerks.’
She stared at the sign for almost a minute. This is a bad idea, she thought. Then she took a deep breath and knocked.
And became the very next case that walked through Poe and Bradshaw’s door.