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Chapter 51

EstelleDoyle wasn’t a convicted prisoner; she was on remand. That meant, among other things, she didn’t have to wear the prison uniform. Poe doubted she’d ever worn an outfit like this, though. A shapeless jumper, and jeans so baggy she had to hold them up with her left hand. Straight out of the prison spares cupboard, no doubt. She looked like a child who’d lost her school uniform. When she reached across the table to shake their hands with her right, Poe held her hand a little longer than he was comfortable with. Her thin, strong fingers, gripped him back. He looked down and saw blue veins visible under her translucent skin. He turned her wrist slightly and checked her lower arm for bruises. There weren’t any.

‘Don’t worry, Poe,’ Doyle said softly. ‘They call me Doctor Death in here. My cellmate, a lovely heroin addict called Britney, was, in her words, “clucking like a C-word” last night. She used a sharpened toothbrush on the inside of her thigh, just to get away from me. Nicked her femoral vein. I tried to help, apply pressure to the wound, but she was so scared of me she pressed the panic button. I think she survived.’

Poe let go of her hand and sat on one of the four moulded plastic seats. The Formica-topped table was scarred with cigarette burns. A tinfoil ashtray was the only thing in the room that wasn’t bolted to the floor. The cubicle smelled of body odour, industrial disinfectant and despair.

‘It’s better to be feared in here,’ he said.

She held him in an intense gaze. ‘I disagree,’ she said finally.

‘May I hug you, Estelle Doyle?’ Bradshaw asked.

‘I think I’d like that, Tilly.’

Bradshaw walked around to her side of the table. The two women held each other for a long time, long enough for the prison officermonitoring the official visits suite to get interested. Poe shook his head at him. ‘It’s OK,’ he mouthed.

When they’d finished embracing, Doyle sat down. Poe could see her eyes were glistening. He pretended not to notice. Sometimes Bradshaw’s innocence was exactly what people needed.

‘Shall I ask for the wine list, Poe?’ Doyle said.

‘He only drinks beer, Estelle Doyle,’ Bradshaw said.

Doyle smiled. Poe did too.

‘What?’ Bradshaw said.

‘Your solicitor tells me she’s knocked down the CPS’s motivation,’ Poe said. ‘That your father’s new will didn’t materially change that much.’

‘So I’ve been told.’

‘Without motivation our alternate theory holds more water.’

‘And what alternate theory is this?’

‘Someone is setting you up.’

‘That’s your theory?’

‘No,’ Poe said. ‘It’sourtheory.’

‘I’m a doctor and a pathologist. I’m not in a position to make enemies like this.’

‘You’d be surprised how easy it is for someone to work up a good grudge. Tilly’s profiling people you’ve given evidence against.’

‘If this is true, some—’

‘It is.’

‘—Someone’s gone to an awful lot of trouble,’ Doyle said. ‘If they hate me that much it almost seems rude to fight it.’

Poe considered this. ‘Sod that,’ he said.

‘How long are you up here?’

‘Another three days. I’m hoping Northumbria will release the crime scene before we have to go back down south.’

‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t go to my father’s home, Poe.’