by Tana Collins
‘The only distinguishing feature of the girl that we have is this tattoo.’ Carruthers gave copies of the tattoo photo to Fletcher. She handed them out to the team. ‘Make sure that gets to the press as well,’ he told Watson.
‘Anyone familiar with this tattoo?’ he asked. His question was greeted with silence. ‘OK, well, ask around. It may be recognised as the art of a particular tattooist. Has it been done locally? Does the tat itself have a meaning? There’s some interesting tattoos out there. Let’s see if we can find a home for this one.’ He looked at the tattoo of the eye once more.
‘Does it have to have a meaning?’ asked Fletcher. ‘It might have none whatsoever. Might just be a tattoo.’
‘Maybe,’ said Carruthers.
‘Yer no going to suggest bringing in a tattoo expert, are you?’ This from Harris who, snorting, was wiping away a smear of strawberry jam that had inadvertently squirted all over his sheet of paper.
Carruthers caught Fletcher’s eye. ‘That’s not a bad idea. Can you get me a list of local tattoo artists, Andie?’
‘You graduates are all the same,’ Harris continued. ‘Last year you brought in that psychologist. That was a pure waste of time.’
Carruthers thought back to the big case that had absorbed the team the winter before. The psychologist had been helpful in giving them the heads-up on the potential effects of abuse on a child. Of course, that depth of knowledge and lateral thinking had been lost on Harris. It had been a difficult case. A difficult case with a surprising ending. He hoped none of these cases were going to be as complex.
‘Moving on to other crimes, no less important,’ said Carruthers. ‘Let’s turn our minds to the art thefts. Andie, I want you to do some research on local airfields close to the robbery. Get a list of all those who’ve taken planes up. It’s possible that the robbers took aerial photographs when planning who to target. I’d also like you to work with Dougie, pulling any information we have on local bird poisoners.’
‘Is there any news on when this friggin’ air con’s going to get fixed?’ said Harris. He sniffed one of his armpits. ‘I smell rank.’
‘I shouldn’t worry,’ said Fletcher. ‘This is Scotland. If we have sun for more than two consecutive days you Scots call it a heatwave. The weather will break soon enough.’
Carruthers concluded the brief and they filed out. Fletcher fell into step with him.
‘Jim, if you can spare me for an hour or two I’d like to visit Ink It,’ said Fletcher, referring to Castletown’s only tattoo parlour. ‘They may recognise the tattoo on our victim’s ankle.’
‘OK, happy for you to do that,’ said Carruthers. ‘I was going to go myself but I should probably wait for the final PM results.’
‘I’ve never seen a design like this before,’ said the tattooist.
As he spoke Fletcher was trying not to stare at the skull pinned through the fleshy part of the man’s nose, or his long black greasy hair. Ink It was on the other side of Castletown, down a steep flight of stone steps into a basement shop. It had a good rep. The back of her legs complained just taking the few steep steps. She realised she hadn’t had any proper exercise for months. She’d been so fit before her pregnancy but after her miscarriage and Mark walking out on her she’d found it hard to get motivated. She would also have to do something about the extra weight she was now carrying.
The tattoo artist was scrutinising the photograph, holding it inches from his face. Fletcher wondered if he was short-sighted. She listened as he started to talk again. ‘It’s on the girl’s ankle, though. That can be meaningful.’
‘Can it?’ said Fletcher, feeling a bit more hopeful. And also ignorant, knowing next to nothing about tattoos. Getting a tattoo had never appealed to her. She looked around her at the photographs on the walls of men and women sporting them. Then back at the tattoo artist in front of her. His face was mercifully free of body art but his skinny arms were covered in a variety of saltires and Celtic designs.
The long-haired man nodded his head rigorously so that the skull dangling between his nostrils moved alarmingly. ‘The ankle is a delicate part of the body. Very sexy in women.’
He glanced down towards Fletcher’s ankles. She was glad she was wearing trousers.
He reluctantly looked up at her face again. ‘It’s very popular with women to get a tattoo on the ankle,’ he said. ‘Usually feminine designs. You know, butterflies, flowers, that sort of thing. Oh yes, it’s a popular patch of the human canvas,’ he said knowingly. ‘Do you have any tattoos?’
‘No.’
‘Interested in getting one?’
He smiled and Fletcher recoiled in horror at the blackened state of his teeth.
‘No.’
‘Pity.’ He resumed his study of the photograph. ‘She’s got a lovely ankle. I wonder what the rest of the body’s like?’ he said.
‘The girl’s dead,’ said Fletcher, a bit more harshly than she intended.
‘Of course. Wasn’t thinking. Sorry.’
‘Possibly murdered,’ she said unnecessarily. ‘So you don’t know where she would have got this tattoo?’
‘There’s literally thousands of tattoos.’
‘But you’ve never seen a tattoo like this?’
The man shook his head. Took a closer look. ‘An eye with what looks like a tear drop. Interesting tat. Haven’t seen this particular design before, mind. It doesn’t shout the style of any artist I’m aware of. Course it could be something the canvas designed herself.’
‘Do most tattoos that you give have a meaning?’ asked Fletcher. She wasn’t really enjoying her visit to the tattoo parlour, finding the man rather sleazy, but at least being underground it was cooler here, something to be grateful for.
‘Well of course, ignore the tattoos people get when they’re pissed. Sometimes the tattoo does have a meaning or the reason behind getting the tattoo might have meaning.’
‘Such as?’ said Fletcher.
‘A rite of passage, a life-changing event, the passing of a loved one. All of those events have meanings, even if the specific tattoo doesn’t.’
Fletcher remembered the tattoo of a bluebird on the body of one of her first murder victims in Fife. The man had been a Cardiff City fan. A bluebird had been the football team’s emblem. She stared at the photograph of the tattoo on the girl’s ankle. But she also remembered watching a recent documentary on a man who was obsessed with tattoos. None of his had had meaning. He’d got them all when drunk and had since regretted half of them.
The man ran his hands through his long greasy hair. ‘I find the teardrop interesting. I know a bit about teardrop tattoos. Saw a documentary about it. To do with prison gang culture in the States.’
‘What did you learn?’
‘Gangs use tattoos as a way of showing loyalty. So for example, the closed teardrop is a heavily symbolic prison gang tattoo.’
‘Ever done any of those?’ asked Fletcher.
‘Nah,’ the man said. ‘Course not. It’s American. But, like I said, it’s a highly symbolic tattoo though. Can have several meanings.’
Her curiosity growing, she said, ‘Like what?’
The man shrugged. ‘Can signify the number of years spent in prison or the number of times the person was raped whilst incarcerated.’
Fletcher went cold. Different world. She knew there were beatings and rapes in British prisons but American prisons were another thing entirely if the documentaries were anything to go by. And that was the prison system in a supposed first world country.
The man was clearly just starting to warm up. ‘Or the tear might signify the loss of a loved one or fellow gang member or the fact the wearer has killed someone.’ He stared at the photocopy Fletcher had given him. ‘An eye with a tear. Perhaps she’s been in prison. And not a British prison.’ Fletcher wondered just how much of this was relevant to their investigation.
‘Want me to keep this and ask a few people?’ said the man. ‘Maybe someone’s seen it before.’
/> ‘Be my guest.’ Fletcher thanked him and turned to go. She had just opened the door when she had a thought. Could the tattoo be connected to a crime after all? Weren’t prostitutes being run by gangs in Eastern Europe tattooed as a mark of ownership?
Still standing in the doorway she chewed her top lip whilst she thought about this piece of information. Brought back the Eastern European connection. Perhaps it hadn’t been a waste of time after all.
‘You sure you don’t want a tattoo?’
Fletcher turned round to see the tattoo artist was looking at her curiously. No doubt wondering why she was still there.
‘No thanks.’ Fletcher turned away as the man smiled, deciding she didn’t need to see his blackened teeth again.
Feeling a glimmer of hope for a possible lead, Fletcher left the subterranean premises and walked once more back into the brilliant sunshine.
Just as Carruthers returned to his desk with another black coffee his mobile rang. Bringing it out of his breast pocket he saw the caller ID – Dr Mackie. Eager to learn the findings of the post-mortem, he answered.
‘Jim, I’ve finished the PM.’
‘What have we got?’
‘First thing is she didn’t drown. No water present in the lungs. In fact, she hasn’t been in the water at all. Toxicology, of course, won’t be back for a while. However, she had recently had sex and from the bruising between her legs it may not have been consensual.’
‘She’d been raped?’ asked Carruthers, feeling his insides curdling.
‘It’s a possibility. Also her dental work’s most likely Northern or Eastern European,’ said Mackie. ‘What I mean by that is that she has some of the best dental work I’ve ever seen. And she’s had a lot done, for her age. There’s been a lot of decay in her mouth.’ He turned to Carruthers as he spoke. ‘My guess is she’s eaten too many sweeties. Did you know countries like Norway, Finland and Estonia lead the world in chocolate consumption?’
Carruthers didn’t. ‘Why’s that?’
‘Thought to be something to do with seasonal affective disorder. Along with depression and lethargy some folk get a disproportionate craving for sweets.’ Carruthers digested all this. ‘Also she’s very blonde. Looks Nordic.’
‘Anything else?’
‘I’m afraid so. She was pregnant. About eight weeks.’
As soon as he finished the call, Carruthers’ mobile rang again. This time it was Fletcher.
‘Anything useful from the tattoo artist?’
‘I drew a blank with the design, Jim. He hadn’t seen it before. He did say some interesting things about the tear drop, though. It can be a sign of gang or prison culture in places like the States.’
Carruthers felt his insides twist with disappointment. He couldn’t see how that piece of information would be useful to their investigation. ‘That it?’
‘Thought of something as I was leaving. Eastern European criminals are now branding their prostitutes with tattoos, aren’t they? Mark of ownership. Might be worth keeping in mind.’
Carruthers perked up. ‘Yeah, that’s true. There might be something in it. Mackie’s got back with the rest of the PM results. He thinks the victim’s dental work was Northern or Eastern European. He had a hunch about her nationality. Thought she looks Nordic.’
‘So it’s possible our victim is Eastern European or from one of the Baltic states,’ said Fletcher. ‘Perhaps a prostitute.’
‘Let’s keep an open mind. Whether she was a prostitute, at this moment in time that’s pure speculation. However, there are some disturbing findings.’ Wondering how Fletcher would take the news that the victim had been pregnant and possibly raped, he filled her in on the rest of Mackie’s call.
3
‘Boss?’
Carruthers swung round to see Fletcher. He’d been heading in the direction of the coffee machine. He needed another caffeine fix after doing paperwork for the last three hours.
‘You’ve had a phone call,’ Fletcher continued. ‘Your mother. Something about your brother. Can you give her a call?’
Carruthers’ heart leapt in his mouth. His brother had had a serious heart attack some months earlier. Alan had had to have a bypass. It had been a difficult time. He hoped the call wasn’t bad news, as guilt for not keeping in better contact pricked him. He looked at his watch. Midday. His mother would have left for her gym session by now.
Carruthers caught Fletcher staring at him with a concerned look. ‘Jim, I don’t think it’s anything to worry about. Your mother sounded fine.’
Carruthers allowed himself to expel a relieved breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. He instantly felt better. ‘Thanks, Andie.’
‘He’s OK, isn’t he? Your brother?’
‘As far as I know.’ He thought of Alan’s long road to recovery and of the impact it had had, particularly on Alan and their mother.
‘As far as you know?’ queried Fletcher. ‘I thought you were going to try to keep better contact with him.’
The guilt returned. Carruthers dropped his head a fraction and struggled to make his thoughts unreadable to his efficient but nosey DS. When Alan had first had his heart attack, Carruthers had kept his distance from his older brother. He’d felt impotent and not a little guilty that it had been the fitter, healthier sibling who’d suffered such a devastating heart attack completely out of the blue. Carruthers knew that his staying away in the early days had upset his family.
He turned his attention to Fletcher. ‘Are you OK? How are you getting on?’
She nodded her head. ‘I’m fine. You shouldn’t worry about me, you know. Making me see a counsellor after I lost Lara really helped. And I’m tougher than I look. I’m not going to fall apart because a dead girl was pregnant, as sad as it is. Anyway, if we can talk shop for a moment, I’ve got Dougie checking up on flying schools. I’m pulling the information on any known local bird poisoners. I’ll have it later today. Oh, I nearly forgot to tell you. Superintendent Bingham wants to see you. And don’t think I didn’t notice you changing the subject when we were talking about your brother. It’s what you do best when you feel uncomfortable. Change the subject, I mean.’
Carruthers knew his DS was right. When he found a personal subject difficult to deal with he either changed the subject or made a joke of things. He wondered if she was doing the same thing now. He didn’t know Andie had named her bump.
Bingham can wait, he thought. He called his mother back. Managed to get her on her mobile. Andie was right. His mother was fine, and just wanting to know if he was able to do a family meal that weekend with his brother. They weren’t close, him and his brother. He’d hoped that might change after Alan’s heart attack but it hadn’t. Most communication between him and his brother still went through their mother. Carruthers wondered if this was normal. It bothered his mother more than it bothered him. Since his brother’s heart attack and with his father dead, his mother had become worryingly needy and over-protective, on the phone at the slightest thing. He’d had to have a word with her about it in the end. He’d felt guilty for doing so, but she had backed off. Chasing the moment of regret away, he walked towards the coffee machine again. Moments later, with his hands wrapped round a scalding cup of steaming black liquid, he walked down the corridor to Bingham’s office.
Carruthers rapped twice on the door, opened it and popped his head round. He caught a whiff of what smelled like stale cigarette smoke. Bingham was on the phone. He waved Carruthers to take a seat in the low-back chair opposite his mahogany desk. Carruthers came in but remained standing. It was a game they played. Carruthers refused to take a seat in Bingham’s office. He disliked being inferior in height to Bingham and hated that particular chair. It always reminded him of the day he had been seated in it when he’d been demoted back to DI. He had not sat in it since.
Bingham finished his phone call. Looked Carruthers up and down with a furrowed forehead. Rubbed his hand over his balding head and said, ‘Have you got those forecasts you were doing for
me?’
Carruthers’ heart sank. Another dressing-down was on its way. ‘Not yet.’
‘Look, this really isn’t good enough, Carruthers. I asked for them a week last Tuesday. What have you been doing?’
Carruthers opened his mouth to speak but before he’d had a chance Bingham waved at him dismissively. ‘I’ve heard. Consorting with tattoo artists, apparently. That is not your job. You’re a bloody DI.’
Carruthers could feel the corners of his mouth turning down. How had Bingham found out they’d seen a tattoo artist? Most likely candidate was Harris, based on his reaction in the brief. But then Harris wasn’t known to be a station grass.
‘The forecasts’ll get done,’ said Carruthers. ‘Anyway, it was Andie who saw the tattoo artist.’
‘So when are you going to get them done? Bloody Christmas, the rate you’re going.’
‘I’ll do them tonight,’ said Carruthers. He spent the next few moments wondering whatever possessed him to lie so blatantly. It seemed to satisfy Bingham, though.
‘See you do. I want them on my desk tomorrow morning. Now, give me a quick update on the art theft case.’
Carruthers felt heat suffuse his face. ‘Don’t you want to know about the body on the beach first? After all, we haven’t ruled out foul play. I would have thought a suspicious death takes precedence over theft.’
Carruthers enjoyed seeing Bingham turn red and watched, fascinated, as the man’s hands bunched into fists. The veins looked like they might pop at any minute. One thing could be said about their relationship; they certainly knew how to press each other’s buttons.
Bingham looked at his watch and sighed. ‘Body on the beach?’ He looked confused for a moment. ‘Most likely suicide or accident. Go on then. Fill me in. But be quick about it. I need to know what progress you’ve made on the art thefts. People to report back to. That kind of thing.’
Most likely your golf cronies, thought Carruthers, despising Bingham for being the social climber that he was.
