Chapter 7
Poecould count on one hand the number of friends he had. And he’d still have his thumb left.
There was Bradshaw, of course.
And he’d known Flynn for years.
His full-time neighbour/part-time dog sitter, Victoria Hume, he considered a friend, too.
And then there was Estelle Doyle.
Like Bradshaw, she was brilliant. Unlike Bradshaw, who always walked down the sunny side of the street, Doyle’s personality lurked in the shadows, in the half-light. She was considered the foremost forensic pathologist in Europe and was Poe’s go-to person any time he had questions about something wet and organic.
Ordinarily, she treated police officers with disdain. Her legendary barbed tongue meant some detectives refused to use her. But for some reason she tolerated Poe. Would take the time to ensure he understood something. She worked long hours when he needed her to. Even attended his crime scenes, and sheneverdid that. She had once described him as a perennial underdog with Capraesque qualities. Poe had been too scared to ask what she had meant.
And she shamelessly flirted with him. She said things that made him blush. Wore figure-hugging clothes that had him squirming. Her heels and cheekbones were high, her lipstick scarlet. Her eyebrows could have been carved with a scalpel.
Poe was terrified and bewitched in equal measure.
But he liked her. Considered her a friend. Knew in his gut that she would be there for him,reallybe there, when it mattered.
The detective inspector he’d spoken to wouldn’t give any details. Just said that Doyle had been arrested for murder and since beingtaken into custody had only said three words: tell Washington Poe.
‘Please consider yourself told,’ the DI had said.
‘I’ll be there in five hours.’
‘This was a courtesy call, Sergeant Poe. It’s a Northumbria case – stay out of it.’
‘I’ll be there in five hours,’ he’d repeated.
Poe glanced at the dashboard clock and decided he wanted to be there in four. He pressed down on the accelerator.