Page 55 of The Final Vow (Washington Poe #7)

‘Uncle Bertie is safely ensconced in Lady Doyle’s ancestral home, Poe,’ Locke said.

‘You grabbed him too?’

‘We did.’

‘I hope he had you horsewhipped.’

‘He did give one of my guys a crack on the noggin with that stick of his, if that’s any consolation. I rather think the old chap enjoyed himself.’

‘And Estelle’s old Land Rover?’

‘Went back with Uncle Bertie,’ Locke said. ‘There’s a car waiting outside to take you anywhere you need to go. Where will you start?’

‘Can I share what you’ve told me?’

‘With Tilly only. She has the right clearance, the others don’t.’

‘Broad strokes, though? What he is rather than what he did .’

‘That seems a fair compromise, Poe,’ Locke said. ‘And I’ll send Tilly everything we have on Puck once you’ve explained the need for discretion. So, where will you start?’

Poe thought about it. ‘Does he have a link to Gretna or Gretna Green?’

Locke leaned forward, his eyes wide. ‘He does.’

‘Tell me.’

‘His ex-wife is from that part of Scotland. I think she might still live there. May I ask how you made that connection?’

‘Puck was an official witness at a wedding vow renewal,’ Poe said. ‘We haven’t worked out why yet. He wasn’t related to the family and he wasn’t part of the original wedding party. What do you know about her?’

‘She’s called Joanne Addy, although I imagine she’ll have reverted to her maiden name by now.’

‘Which was?’

‘It escapes me.’

‘Not to worry,’ Poe said. ‘Tilly will have her whole life in seconds.’

‘And the range in Scotland you found. The people overseeing it are competent?’

‘Chief Superintendent McCloud knows what she’s doing. She’s set up military-grade surveillance cameras, a covert perimeter, and her armed cops are on a two-minute notice-to-move order. If he turns up, we’ll have him.’

Locke considered this. ‘Now the disinfectant of sunlight has been shone upon his Ripon hideaway, I assume you’ll speak to his neighbours. Get an artist’s likeness? Maybe get one from his ex-wife as well. Cross-reference them?’

‘We call it an E-FIT these days, Alastor,’ Poe said. ‘Electronic Facial Identification Technique.’ He took a moment. ‘Although now I’ve said it out loud in full, I’m sure “technique” was only added to make the anacronym catchier.’

Locke slid a business card across the table. It was white with crisp edges. Black writing. Looked like Times New Roman. A serif font. Nothing cartoony like Comic Sans for Alastor Locke. Poe didn’t pick it up.

‘I can always be contacted on this number, Poe,’ he said. ‘When you get your E-FIT, I’d like you to send me a copy.’

Which was when the thing that had been bothering Poe finally made itself known. He frowned. He was right – Locke was withholding something.

Something important.