‘Hi, Poe,’ Emma said. ‘Rough day?’
‘I’ve had better,’ he replied.
Emma was one of Doyle’s oldest friends. She was a medical doctor who, unlike Doyle, practised on the living. Poe thought she was an oncologist. Doyle was not only a professor but a medical practitioner, too; as she was a pathologist, though, her patients were already dead. There used to be a handwritten sign on the mortuary door saying ‘Pathologists have the coolest patients’ but when they’d moved into a more modern suite, she’d been told she couldn’t take it with her. She now had it tattooed on her shoulder. Poe didn’t like most of Doyle’s friends, but he did like Emma. She didn’t take herself too seriously.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
The table was covered in boxes, soggy newspaper, ornate vases, ribbons and, bizarrely, what looked like plastic tubs of flies.
‘I’ve decided carnivorous plants will make ideal wedding favours,’ Doyle said. She reached into a box and pulled out two plants. ‘Venus flytraps for the ladies. Huntsman’s horns for the gentlemen.’
Poe stared at the phallic-shaped huntsman’s horn, the red, glistening globes of the Venus flytrap. ‘Subtle,’ he said.
Doyle grinned. ‘We think so.’
‘And the flies?’
‘Drosophila melanogaster,’ she replied. ‘Flightless fruit flies. The plants arrived early, so after we’ve potted them, we’re feeding them.’
‘Looks fiddly.’
‘You have no idea.’
‘Then why . . . ?’
‘We’re not doing this because it’s easy, Poe,’ Doyle said. ‘We’re doing this because wethoughtit would be easy.’
They collapsed into fits of giggles. Picked up their wine glasses and clinked them together. ‘There’s some Spun Gold cooling in the fridge,’ Emma said. ‘Why don’t you grab a bottle and join us?’
Poe did. He drank half the beer in one go. It had been a long day. He pressed the bottle against his forehead.
‘Do you think this is over the top, Poe?’ Emma said.
‘The sex plants?’
‘Yes.’
‘The wedding I’ve just come from was supposed to take place in a tent that P. T. Barnum once owned. It was themed aroundThe Night Circus. The bride’s father had hired a midnight performance by Cirque du Soleil. The last venue the weddingband played was Madison Square Garden. They’d built a walk-in wine cellar.’ He took another drink. Enjoyed the fresh, hoppy taste. The cool finish. He turned the bottle in his hands. Thought how he’d prefer a Spun Gold to a glass of the Macallan M any day of the week. ‘They had a live lobster tank and a Michelin-starred chef to cook them.’
‘And the sniper got her?’
‘The marquee was open-sided,’ he said. ‘He shot her through a crowd of people. Almost took her head off her shoulders.’
Doyle said nothing. Emma stayed quiet too.
‘Her father’s almost certainly a crook,’ Poe continued, ‘but I don’t think I’ve ever seen such despair. He was waiting in Barnum’s tent, surrounded by his daughter’s blood and bone fragments. He refused to move until he’d spoken to me.’
‘Why you?’
‘He had a file on me. He had a file oneveryone.’
‘Between his daughter being murdered and you arriving,’ Doyle said, ‘what was that? About four hours?’
‘He said he’s connected, but something’s not adding up.’ Poe shrugged. ‘Or maybe I’m overthinking things. He’s a rich man and rich men have powerful friends. He also had a personal protection officer who knew me.’
‘He knew you? From where?’
Poe shrugged again. ‘Cumbria, apparently. I have no idea who he is. There was something about him, though. Familiar but unfamiliar, you know what I mean?’
