Page 37 of The Final Vow (Washington Poe #7)

The new stall was showcasing a game called Empty Sky that was still in its beta phase.

The stall owner had arrived late – car trouble – which was why they’d both missed him the first time they’d walked around the NEC.

Poe grabbed a flyer, although he needn’t have bothered.

The guy knew Bradshaw. They were at Oxford together.

Bradshaw had been thirteen and he’d been twenty-one.

Ordinarily a twenty-one-year-old noticing a thirteen-year-old would have been enough to get Poe’s Spidey senses tingling, but, as Bradshaw had been the only thirteen-year-old at Oxford, she’d have stood out like a spoon in the fork drawer.

The guy also knew what Bradshaw was doing now, or thought he did anyway, and he willingly handed over his mailing list.

They talked about being characters in someone else’s game theory for a while, whatever the hell that meant, then the guy said, ‘Here’s my email address. I’d love it if we could stay in touch.’

‘No, thank you,’ Bradshaw replied. ‘That would bore me senseless.’

Poe was still laughing when they finished their final trawl around the NEC, which happened to be, by a massive coincidence that he definitely hadn’t planned, at one of the hog-roast vendors.

Poe marched up to the window and, before Bradshaw could force-feed him any more mango, he said, ‘A roast pig belly buster, my good man. And don’t spare the crackling, the hairier the better. ’

Bradshaw made some vomiting noises but didn’t try to stop him.

The vendor went to work. A minute later he handed Poe a pork-filled sub the size of a javelin thrower’s arm. Poe was about to take his first bite when his mobile began chirping. So did Bradshaw’s. Poe ignored his, Bradshaw didn’t.

Poe tore off a chunk of bread and meat as he watched Bradshaw.

She had an expressive face. He’d know straight away if it was good news or bad news.

Good news would mean he could carry on eating.

Bad news might mean he’d have to stop. Right now, his sandwich was like that stupid cat Bradshaw kept talking about.

The idiot one that had trapped itself in a box.

Might be dead, might be alive. No one sensible gave a shit.

Bradshaw certainly didn’t. She said the cat in the box was a ridiculous thought experiment and proved once and for all that theoretical physicists were as dumb as a box of shoes.

Poe kept chewing.

And then he stopped. Because Bradshaw was clearly getting bad news. Her face was going through the wringer. She was upset and she was confused. He handed the sandwich back to the vendor. ‘Wrap that for me, please.’

The vendor, sensing something was up, accepted it wordlessly.

Bradshaw finished her call.

‘Who was that, Tilly?’ Poe asked.

‘It was Commander Mathers, Poe. There’s been another shooting.’

Poe briefly closed his eyes. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Where?’

‘That’s just the thing,’ she replied. ‘It doesn’t make sense. The shooting was in Gretna Green again.’