Poe shrugged. ‘Well, I no longer carry a truncheon if that’s what you’re worrying about.’
An unwitting fool approached their table and asked if he could take the spare seat.
‘No, you damn well can’t!’ Bertie snapped. ‘Me and the sergeant have a lot to talk about and I want to put my feet up.’ The unwitting fool skulked back to the overcrowded table he and his friends were on. Every so often one of them would glance their way. Uncle Bertie paid them no attention. ‘Now, tell me about this pubic hair thief you caught yesterday. Grabbed him by the short and curlies, eh? Damned pervert should be—’
‘Horsewhipped?’ Poe said.
Chapter 46
If Victor Meldrew and Larry David had had a son the result would be Uncle Bertie. He saidwhathe wanted towhohe wanted, and he threatened to horsewhip every second person he met. As far as Poe could tell, his only redeeming feature was being held up as a cautionary tale about narrow gene pools.
Poe was having a great time, though. Uncle Bertie could remember every whisky he’d ever drunk, every bird he’d ever shot and, in his words, every ‘filly’ he’d bedded. He was appalling, but in a funny way. Poe only had the one pint but he made it last two hours. Uncle Bertie had seven whiskies, three brandies and a foul-smelling liqueur that the landlord would only pour when he was wearing rubber gloves. Poe texted Doyle a photo. She sent one back by return: YOU’RE WITH U BERTIE EARLY? He tapped out another text, explaining that his meeting with Clara Lang had been cancelled.
Three seconds after he’d pressed send, his phone rang. ‘You haven’t left York yet, have you?’ Doyle asked.
‘We’re still here.’
‘Good. The local tailor has been on the phone. They were supposed to deliver Uncle Bertie’s suit, but they thought he was going to collect it. You couldn’t . . . ?’
‘I’ll get it,’ Poe said. ‘Text me the directions.’
‘More ale, landlord!’ Bertie yelled after Poe had hung up.
‘No more,’ Poe said. ‘That was my Estelle, your Lady Doyle. She wants us to pick up your suit. There was a problem with your tailor.’
‘Damn idiots should be—’
Poe grabbed Bertie by the lapels. Pulled him in. ‘Listen to me, you cranky old bastard,’ he said. ‘We’re going to collect your suit and we’re going right now. You’re not going to complain and you’re not threatening to horsewhip anyone. Are we clear?’
Uncle Bertie grinned. ‘You’ll do, lad,’ he said.
Bertie’s tailor was in York city centre. Poe got lost in the one-way system but soon figured it out. He put Doyle’s Land Rover in one of the staff parking bays. Bertie nodded in approval.
‘Stay here,’ Poe said.
‘I’m not setting foot in the damn place.’ And after Poe had got out, he bellowed, ‘And tell them I expect a discount! Damn disgrace a man having to collect his own suit.’
Poe ignored him.
A fussy shop tailor met him at the door. He looked like he was about to tell Poe he couldn’t park there, but when he saw who was already snoozing in the passenger seat, he perked up.
‘I’ll get his suit, sir. Sorry about the miscommunication.’
He stalked into the back. Poe wandered the racks, touching the expensive-looking cloth. He wondered how much a bespoke suit from these guys would cost. Poe had only ever had machine-washable suits. They were the best option for cops. And they had all been dark. Either black or navy blue. Anything that hid the blood. Poe spotted a tie rack. He thought he might surprise Doyle by buying something new for the wedding. He pulled out a jazzy-looking one. It was orange flecked with pink and turquoise and unlike anything he’d ever considered before. He grimaced at the two hundred pound price tag and draped it over his arm. He sauntered back to the till area.
A tailor’s dummy caught his eye. He started laughing. It was the spitting image of Bradshaw. He snapped a picture and sent it off with the accompanying message – PUT YOUR CLOTHES ON AND GET BACK TO WORK, TILLY ?
He was still laughing when the tailor returned with Bertie’s suit. He picked up Poe’s tie.
‘Ah, the Great Gatsby,’ he said. ‘Excellent choice, sir. Did you find everything you needed?’
‘Why, were you hiding things?’
‘Very good, sir. Is the tie to go on Bertie’s account?’
Poe was tempted to say yes, but instead he whipped out his debit card and punched in his PIN. Felt good about what he’d done.
His phone rang. It was Bradshaw. He pressed the reject icon. Slipped it back in his pocket. It immediately rang again. Poe sighed. He answered it.
