Page 3

Nine months earlier

As a way of getting Poe to stop moping over his lunchtime drink, a well-heeled man holding a posy of flowers marching into the pub and yelling, ‘Bloody badgers!’ was as good as any. Poe had been about to ask for a second pint of Borrowdale Bitter. Maybe add a Scotch egg to the order. Make it a government-approved substantial meal. Now, he wanted to know what the ‘bloody badgers’ had been up to.

But the man had slunk to the other end of the Crown Inn’s polished mahogany bar. He was now muttering to himself. The landlady, a no-nonsense woman in her mid-forties, winked at Poe before making her way to the man’s end of the bar. She planted her elbows on the wood and said, ‘You want some water for them flowers, Stephen?’

Instead of answering, Stephen said, ‘Bloody badgers’ again. Less venomous this time.

‘What have you got against badgers?’

‘My poor mum. Went to put flowers on her grave. Bastards have only dug her up.’

Poe leaned sideways so he could hear better, all thoughts of Scotch eggs abandoned.

‘But she’s been dead, what, fifteen years?’ the landlady said.

‘Seventeen.’

‘That’s right. I was at her funeral.’

‘I remember. Mum liked you.’

‘Not as much as she liked a drink though, am I right?’

‘She did enjoy the occasional milk stout,’ Stephen admitted.

‘What’s all this nonsense about badgers then?’

Which was when Poe’s mobile rang. He frowned. Stephen was about to get to the good bit, and he didn’t want to miss anything. He glanced at the screen, readying himself to reject the call.

He stayed his hand.

It was Estelle Doyle.

‘You were on your own when this happened?’ Doctor Lang asked.

‘I was,’ Poe replied. ‘Why, is it important?’

‘Possibly. Why wasn’t your partner with you? I thought you lived together?’

‘Estelle’s my fiancée, actually.’

‘She is?’

Poe nodded, a little bit proud, a little bit embarrassed.

‘Congratulations are in order then. Is this new? There’s nothing in the file.’

‘Couple of months now.’

‘I’ll make a note.’ She glanced at the bare desk. ‘Darn it, I’ve forgotten my pen.’ She opened the desk drawer and searched inside. ‘Would you believe it? A doctor’s office without a pen. Could I borrow yours, Washington?’

Poe reached into his pocket. Came out empty. ‘I’ve forgotten mine as well,’ he said.

‘A police officer without a pen,’ Doctor Lang said, her eyes twinkling. ‘Isn’t that unusual?’

‘I’m an unusual police officer.’

She tapped the file. ‘Of that I need no convincing. I’ll make a note later. Anyway, was it romantic? Where did you propose?’

‘I didn’t,’ Poe said. ‘Estelle proposed to me.’

‘That’s . . . unconventional.’

‘You don’t know the half of it. She lured me to a post-mortem and when I got there she’d spelled out “Will you marry me?” with finger bones.’

‘Finger . . .’ Doctor Lang said incredulously. She did some mental calculations. ‘But that’s forty-three bones.’

‘Forty-seven,’ Poe said. ‘You forgot the question mark. You don’t want to know which bone she’d used for the dot.’

‘I actually think I do.’

‘I’ve forgotten its name, but it sits at the roof of the nasal cavity.’

‘The ethmoid bone,’ Doctor Lang said automatically. ‘Where on earth did she get it all from?’

‘I was too scared to ask.’

‘You accepted, obviously?’

‘I love her,’ Poe said. ‘We haven’t been together that long, but I think I’ve loved her for years. I didn’t realise on account of her being so terrifying. We toasted it with some beer she’d chilled in one of the mortuary’s cadaver fridges.’ He paused. Looked at Doctor Lang’s incredulous expression. ‘Like you said, it was an unconventional proposal.’

‘So where was she? Why were you on your own?’

‘Estelle was in the States.’

‘For work? I understand she’s one of the world’s foremost forensic pathologists.’

‘She is, but she wasn’t in America to work. She was there to support Tilly.’

Doctor Lang checked the file. Flicked through to the personal statements Bradshaw, Flynn and a few others had made. The ones he hadn’t bothered to read.

‘That would be Miss Bradshaw?’ she said. ‘I have her statement here.’ She started to read it. ‘Good grief, that’s a lot of letters after her name.’ She looked up. ‘She’s a friend?’

‘My best friend. She was being presented with a maths breakthrough award at some swanky ceremony in New York. Something to do with the Kissing Number Problem.’

‘I’m not familiar with it.’

‘Apparently, if a bunch of spheres are packed together, each sphere has a kissing number. That’s the number of other spheres it can touch. For example, in a one-dimensional line, the kissing number would be two. Each sphere could kiss the one on its left and the one on its right, like if snooker balls were lined up against the cushion. And in two dimensions it’s six.’

‘That doesn’t seem too complicated.’

‘The kissing number for the twenty-fourth dimension is 196,560.’

‘OK, that sounds a bit more complicated.’

‘Indeed. And Tilly’s equation was for the twenty-eighth dimension,’ Poe said. ‘I was with her when she wrote it. Took her about half an hour.’

‘She’s good at maths then?’

‘I’m not exaggerating when I say she might be one of the best there’s ever been.’

‘Did you not fancy going with her?’

‘I’d have loved to.’

‘Then why—’

‘I was giving evidence in a murder trial. Absolutely no way of getting out of it. Neither could the boss.’

‘Detective Inspector Flynn?’

‘Yes. She was at the same trial so couldn’t get away either. Tilly had never been abroad before. Never even been on a plane. She asked Estelle if she wanted to go with her.’

‘OK, so you’re in the pub and Estelle calls. What happened next?’