Chapter 38
Alastor Locke looked like a human stick insect.
He was a senior figure in the UK’s intelligence service and Poe had crossed paths with him twice before – once when he’d worked under his direction when a murder had threatened to disrupt an international trade summit, and again during a sniper case, the one that had caused Poe to leave the National Crime Agency.
He quite liked Locke, although he’d never trusted anyone less.
The man was so twisty he slept on a corkscrew mattress.
Poe sighed. When he’d called Bradshaw and asked if she knew what to do, he’d assumed it was obvious.
She was to call his wife. Get the Doyle family solicitor on the case.
She wasn’t supposed to call one of the most senior spies in the country.
Bradshaw had worked for Locke. She still did freelance work for him.
And because she was arguably the most important asset at his disposal, he bent over backwards to accommodate her.
Poe reckoned she was one of the few numbers he answered immediately.
He suspected the prime minister didn’t enjoy that much access.
‘Tilly called you,’ he said. It wasn’t a question.
‘She told me you’d been wrongly arrested, dear boy. Asked if I could intervene.’
‘And did you?’
‘I was going to, but something told me you’d find a way to engineer your own release. Are there angry men in there, Sergeant Poe?’
‘It’s Mr Poe now, Alastor.’
‘Ah, of course,’ Locke said. ‘And are there angry men in there?’
‘Well, they aren’t happy.’
Locke chuckled. ‘How is married life treating you? How is Lady Doyle?’
‘Estelle’s fine,’ Poe said.
‘And Matthew? I gather there was an altercation with some local rapscallions the other day?’
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ Poe grunted.
Towler worked for Locke. He said he was Locke’s blunt instrument.
Poe doubted that. He thought Locke had plenty of blunt instruments.
Towler was more like a scalpel. A deadly, fun-loving, foul-mouthed scalpel.
‘What the hell are you doing here, Alastor? And don’t give me that intervening-at-Tilly’s-behest crap.
You could have done that without getting out of your smoking jacket.
But for some reason you’ve trekked all the way across to south London. I want to know why.’
‘Have you eaten, Poe?’
‘I’ve had a Mars bar.’
‘And did you find it conducive to work, rest and play?’
‘I ate it, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Come and have some supper with me,’ Locke said.
‘I have a train to catch.’
He waved away Poe’s protest. ‘I’ll get you back to Cumbria, dear boy.’