‘I don’t need part two, dickhead,’ Poe said. ‘But if Karl here ever wants to use that hand again, he needs a hospital right now. Not in the morning when you’ve all sobered up.’
The silence was broken by Karl’s sniffling.
‘Now, please fuck off out of this hotel.’
Guiding Karl by his ruined hand, he led them back through the bar into the reception area. The sober man turned towards the stairs. ‘Where the hell are you going?’ Poe asked.
‘I’m getting my bag.’
‘No, son,’ Poe said. ‘I told you to fuck off and that means now, not when it suits you.’
‘But our stuff. I have computers up . . .’ He trailed off under Poe’s gaze.
Poe called to the receptionist. ‘Zoe, can you order these gentlemen a taxi? Tell the driver he needn’t bother driving down to the hotel, these three idiots will meet it on the A6. I think they could use the fresh air.’
He turned to the three men. ‘The taxi will take you to hospital. I’d get a move on if I were you, it’s at least a mile to the main road.’
Poe let go of Karl’s hand and they staggered into the car park. ‘Before you go, how much money do you have?’
‘You’re robbing us?’ the sober one asked.
Poe said, ‘Karl’s blood is on the carpet in the bar. I don’t think the hotel should have to pay for it. Do you?’
Bradshaw was still in the bar. She was trembling but smiled when Poe walked back in. She was stroking Edgar who’d been quiet throughout the whole shebang. He ordered drinks. The barman didn’t want his money.
‘You OK, Tilly?’ he asked. ‘Sorry you had to see that.’
‘Why do you keep rescuing me, Poe? That’s twice now.’
Poe laughed. Bradshaw didn’t. She was being serious.
‘It was hardly that,’ he replied. ‘And anyway, I can’t stand bullies.’
‘Oh,’ she said. She looked a little bit deflated.
‘And come on, Tilly, we may have had a rough start but you’re my friend. You must realise that?’
She didn’t reply and for a moment Poe thought he’d said the wrong thing. A single tear was running down her face.
‘Tilly—’
‘I’ve never had a friend before,’ she said.
He couldn’t think of anything to say, so he settled for, ‘Well, you do now.’
‘Thank you, Poe.’
‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘it’s your turn to rescue me next.’
‘I will.’ She frowned, ‘Spit or swallow what, Poe? Whatever did he mean?’
He was saved by the receptionist; she’d entered the bar area with a sheaf of papers. He raised his eyebrows and she nodded.
His fax had arrived. He read the cover sheet.
For some reason it was happening at eighteen minutes past five, but the preparatory work would begin in the next few hours. He wasn’t required to be there for that, but he wanted to be.
‘I’m going to have to get away, Tilly.’ He stood, all thoughts of asking her to delve into Francis Sharples forgotten. ‘You going to be OK?’