Josiah Dark Thrillers Box Set

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Because a taskforce would cost ten times what I cost?’

  ‘Exactly. And in these dire financial times . . . Well, I think you can imagine how a senior officer who wastes resources is perceived. And as my old instructor at Bramshill used to say: “Perception is everything.” So, the bottom line – and that mantra has never been truer – is that you probably have two days at most to solve this case.’

  ‘I’ll be on the taskforce, won’t I, Sir?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. A new brush and all that . . . The new Taskforce Commander would expect you to hand over all your research and evidence, and then for you to ride off into the sunset. It’ll be no reflection on you, of course, but there’s always the possibility that you could sabotage his efforts in order to make yourself look good.’

  Two days! Was that counting today? Shit! Today was nearly over. Why was he surprised? He should have expected it. This was how it was now. Get a result, or we’ll replace you with someone who can. In that respect, he was not dissimilar to a football manager. At the moment, he had the Chief’s full support, but that could change in the blink of an eye.

  ‘Do you want me to call DC Lake back? I suppose you could do with some help.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Sir. By the time she got here it’d all be over anyway.’

  ‘True. How is she, by the way?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘You’ve not been in contact with her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me? Anything else?’

  ‘It’s possible that Erin Jameson’s murder could have political ramifications and cause us problems as well, Sir.’

  ‘Oh! Why’s that?’

  ‘She’s not the only child to go missing from a care home in our area. I’ve heard a rumour that other similar children have disappeared from a number of care homes in the past eighteen months, which might explain the other three bodies in the field in Handforth.’

  ‘I can imagine that might raise some eyebrows within local government, but why should that affect us?’

  ‘I’ve also heard another rumour that the police were informed about these missing children some time ago, but chose to do nothing about it.’

  ‘Good Heavens! I hope they are just rumours.’

  ‘They’re not. My sources reliably inform me that they’re more fact than rumour.’

  ‘I’d better warn the Chief Constable, so that we can prepare a defence. Have you checked the veracity of these accusations?’

  ‘No, Sir. I thought I’d leave that to you. As you’ve explained in great detail, I don’t have a lot of time.’ He stood up. ‘And I suppose I’d better make the best use of the time that remains and get my arse moving.’

  ‘An excellent idea, Dark.’

  They didn’t shake hands.

  ***

  He collected Dixie from Bootle Street.

  ‘Everything okay?’ he asked her.

  ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

  ‘Just checking.’

  ‘Well don’t. Did everything go okay with your boss?’

  ‘As well as can be expected under the circumstances.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means we have two days to find the killer before a taskforce takes over the investigation.’

  ‘Two days! Tuesday and Wednesday?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Surely not today and tomorrow?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘I’ve spent eighteen months searching for these missing girls, and they want you to solve it in twenty-four hours?’

  ‘Two days.’

  ‘Of which one day has already been used up.’

  ‘Welcome to the real world.’

  ‘They’re not having my research.’

  ‘Don’t be childish.’

  ‘What will happen to my exclusive?’

  ‘You can write an expose on the incompetence of Greater Manchester Police.’

  ‘And don’t think I won’t. Fucking hell! A day and a bit. Where are we going now?’

  ‘To see a man about a tattoo.’

  ***

  The bell jangled as they entered the Tat2 Emporium.

  ‘How can we help?’ the tattooed woman behind the counter said. She had shoulder-length mahogany-coloured hair with an obscenely high fringe; black thick-rimmed glasses; a sleeveless low-cut tank top and a black panther tattooed on her upper left arm.

  He showed his warrant card. ‘Popeye?’

  ‘He’s with a client at the moment.’

  Dark lifted the hinged part of the counter and began walking through towards the back room.

  She tried to block his way. ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘Watch me.’ He shouldered his way through.

  Popeye was tattooing red, yellow and green flowers around a woman’s nipples who eyed him curiously, but didn’t attempt to cover herself up. She was lying on an electric adjustable tattoo table, had bleached-blonde shoulder-length hair, a wide brush-stroke of blue eye shadow above each eye, bright red lipstick and a potpourri of other large and small tattoos scattered over her neck, arms, torso and legs.

  ‘I’m going to put: “Technical Consultant to Greater Manchester Police” on my signboard outside,’ Popeye muttered. He was in his mid-thirties with long black hair that had thinned beyond the point of no return. To compensate, he sported a straggly moustache and a strange-shaped beard with a long tuft of plaited hair on his chin. ‘In fact, I could add it to my website, business cards and curriculum vitae. Mind you, I’d probably lose half my customers if I did, they’d think I was a police snitch.’

  Dark grabbed a stool, moved it next to the woman and sat down opposite Popeye.

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ the woman said.

  He looked at her. ‘Nice flowers.’

  ‘Thanks. My name’s Sharon. You want to come up and see me sometime.’

  ‘Thanks for the offer.’

  ‘I see you’ve got yourself a new partner, Mr Dark. Not as pretty as the last one, but still acceptable.’ He looked at Dixie. ‘Are you interested in a snake on the inside of your thigh?’

  ‘You can fuck off.’

  ‘I guess that’s a no then?’

  ‘You guess right.’

  ‘You need to get yourself a partner with an open mind, Mr Dark. One who embraces new experiences.’

  Dark unfolded a copy of the blue butterfly and placed it on the woman’s naked stomach. ‘What can you tell me about this?’

  ‘Are you going to pay me this time?’

  ‘No, but my offer not to alert Environmental Health to your disgusting hygiene practices still stands . . .’

  ‘What?’ Sharon said.

  Popeye smiled and patted her breast. ‘Take no notice of him, Sharon. He’s a copper. It’s his way of being nice.’

  ‘. . . I’ll also hold off on anonymously calling the inland revenue about your sideline of pimping.’

  Sharon tried to sit up. ‘You never . . .’

  Popeye pushed her back down. ‘I gave that up years ago, Sharon. You stick with Mungo, he’ll look after you.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’

  ‘I’d be grateful if you could book an appointment with my secretary in future, Mr Dark. If I was your psychotherapist, who I’m sure you visit regularly, you wouldn’t expect to walk in on him anytime you felt like it.’

  ‘Well?’

  Popeye looked at the butterfly. ‘It’s not one of mine.’

  ‘I knew that. You’re not that good.’

  Sharon snatched the paper off him and examined the picture. ‘Hey, I want one of those, Popeye.’

  ‘Now see what you’ve done, Mr Dark.’ He stared at Sharon. ‘He doesn’t mean I couldn’t do one like that if I wanted to, but have you got five thousand pounds and the time available for ten or more sittings?’

  ‘Not if I want to carry on looking beautiful.’

  ‘There you go then. That’s why I’m putting flowers from Stockport market around your
nipples for a hundred quid a pop.’

  He put his tattoo gun down on a side table and picked up the paper. ‘Top of the range.’

  ‘Any idea who did it?’

  ‘None at all. There’s no signature on it. Everybody who’s anybody puts a signature on their work. Especially someone as good as that.’

  ‘It’s on a dead body.’

  ‘Ah! Well, as I said, you’re talking five grand for something like this . . . Unless, of course, there’s a reason why the inker didn’t put his or her signature on their work.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I take it we’re talking about a murder victim here, Mr Dark?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then, as much as it pains me to say it, because the fraternity of master inkers have to stick together, but he or she could be your killer.’

  ‘Interesting suggestion.’

  ‘What’s also interesting is that the bible – Leviticus 19:28 if my memory serves, links tattooing with the dead:

  Ye shall not make any cuttings in your flesh for the dead, nor print any marks upon you.

  ‘You’ve lost me.’

  ‘I’ve never done it myself, but I know people who have. They say that inking a tattoo on a corpse is completely different from putting one on a living, breathing human being like Sharon here.’

  ‘You still remember I’m lying here waiting then?’

  Popeye patted her breast again. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not about to forget one of my favourite customers.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I can count them on one hand. You’re among them.’

  ‘Hey! Thanks, Popeye.’

  ‘The pleasure’s all yours.’

  ‘You were saying?’ Dark prompted.

  ‘Oh yeah! What I’m getting at is that your pathologist should be able to tell you whether the tattoo was inked before or after death.’

  ‘After death! Another interesting suggestion.’

  ‘Make the cheque payable to . . .’

  ‘You think police officers have money?’

  ‘I thought you’d have a roll of fifty pound banknotes in your pocket to keep your snitches happy.’

  ‘Have you been watching the news lately?’

  ‘Oh well, it was worth a try.’

  ‘Thanks for your help anyway, Popeye.’

  ‘Did I have a choice?’

  ‘And thanks for your patience, Sharon.’

  ‘My offer’s still good, Mr Dark. Come up later and I’ll show you all of Popeye’s etchings.’

  ‘I’m looking at them, aren’t I?’

  ‘I have a few more in some very interesting places.’

  Popeye laughed. ‘That’s true. You wouldn’t be disappointed, Mr Dark.’

  ‘Very kind, but I’m up to my eyeballs in dead bodies. I’ll take a rain check if it’s all right with you, Sharon?’

  ‘You know where to find me if you change your mind.’

  He let Dixie go first and followed her out into the freezing cold. It was nearly dark and the temperature was plummeting.

  ***

  He called Polly.

  ‘If you left me to do my job instead of . . .’

  ‘Do you want a taskforce crawling all over your crime scene?’

  ‘How long has he given you?’

  ‘Two days – today and tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s preposterous.’

  ‘That’s the way it is. So, give me some more jigsaw pieces to play with?’

  ‘Better still, come and take a look for yourself.’

  ‘Will it be time well-spent?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay, I’m on my way.’.

  He ended the call, turned the key in the ignition and set off. ‘We’re going to the crime scene.’

  ‘Will I be able to . . .’

  ‘No. You can stay in the car.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Have you seen a dead body before?’

  ‘My parents.’

  ‘I’m sorry about them, but that’s hardly the same thing. I don’t want you fainting, or puking up your substantial lunch everywhere. Also, there’d be the problem of explaining who you were and why you were there. No, you can stay in the car. I’ll let you know what they’ve found.’

  ‘I don’t suppose I have a choice, do I?’

  ‘No.’

  It took them thirty-seven minutes to reach the crime scene.

  ‘How long will you be?’

  ‘As long as it takes.’

  The press were still three deep.

  ‘When will you hold a press briefing, Inspector?’

  ‘Why have five tents been erected?’

  ‘Is there anything you can tell us?’

  He ignored them.

  ‘Well?’ he said when he found Polly Tyree.

  ‘Yes, I’m okay. Still exhausted, but thanks for your concern.’

  ‘No problem. Well?’

  ‘Follow me.’ She led him across a patch of grass to another tent.

  She offered him a paper mask. ‘Take a look.’

  He bent at the waste and stared at the beautifully tattooed orange and black striped butterfly on the girl’s left breast, pulled out his phone, and took a photograph of the tattoo and the girl’s face. Next, he scanned through the photographs he’d taken of the wall, found the pictures of the missing girls and expanded each one until he had a match. ‘That’s Christine Lloyd aged fourteen. She went missing from Tall Oaks Care Home in Hazel Grove on September 17 last year.’

  ‘Follow me.’

  ‘Before I do, why are the bodies so well-preserved?’

  Polly bent down, scraped off what appeared to be skin in the crease between thigh and torso above the femoral artery, and pointed to a round crust of dried blood. ‘I missed this on the other corpse. It’s been covered by a concealer cream.’

  ‘I’m sorry. What is it?’

  ‘I’ll let Professor Finn explain.’

  ‘Is he here now?’

  ‘No, but he’s part-way through his post mortem of the first corpse.’

  ‘A hint would reduce my stress level.’

  ‘It’s the reason the corpses are so well-preserved. Follow me.’ She led him over the aluminium treads to the next tent.

  The two white-suited forensic officers stood to one side to reveal another naked female body. She was pretty with long dark hair, pale skin, and a black and white butterfly with a tail like a swallow on her left breast. He took photographs of the butterfly and the girl’s face again, checked the pictures on his phone and found a match. ‘This is Jane Thomas – aged fourteen. She went missing from Newgate Lane Care Home in Stockport on November 11 last year.’

  ‘Follow me.’

  In the next tent was fourteen-year-old Jasmine Troop – blonde and pretty with a see-through butterfly on her left breast.

  ‘That’s your four bodies,’ Polly said.

  ‘I take it you didn’t find anymore?’

  ‘No. We’ve covered the whole field twice. These are the only bodies we’ve found.’

  ‘I’m still three missing then.’

  ‘Follow me.’

  ‘This is getting to be a habit,’ he muttered.

  She led him into another tent. It had a table with a kettle, coffee, tea, sugar, juice and so forth, and half-a dozen chairs.

  ‘Do you want coffee?’

  ‘So, this is what’s in the mysterious fifth tent? A press helicopter has been showing images on the television of five tents in the field. I knew there were only four bodies, so the Chief and I were speculating on why you’d erected a fifth tent.’

  ‘Now you know.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll have a coffee . . . and are those custard creams?’

  ‘You can have one. None of us is likely to get away from here before morning.’

  ‘You want to organise a takeaway for your minions.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be nice?’ She handed him a mug of coffee and they both sat down in the canvas chairs. ‘So, what’s it all about,
Dark?’

  He told her what he knew, but didn’t mention Dixie or her research.

  ‘And the butterflies?’

  ‘No idea. They’re not signed, and my expert doesn’t know who drew them. All he could tell me was that they were expensive top-of-the-range tattoos. And as far as I’m aware, they don’t even help me. None of the girls knew each other, and none of them could afford a tattoo as intricate as the ones we’ve seen, so it looks as though the killer either tattooed the butterflies on the girls while they were drugged but still alive, or on their corpses. Why? Well, your guess would be as good as mine.’

  ‘And how did you arrive at seven missing girls?’

  ‘Top-of-the-range detective work. The three you haven’t found are the earlier missing girls dating back to July 17 2014. The killer must have swapped burial sites.’ He stood, put the empty mug on the table and said, ‘Thanks for the guided tour and the coffee, Polly.’

  ‘That’s not like you to say thank you.’

  ‘You’ve drugged me, haven’t you?’

  He made his way back to the access path, ignored the press and climbed into his Rav-4.

  Dixie was snoring like a dirt bike.

  He switched the radio on and found Absolute 80s, reversed up and set off towards the Mortuary at Wythenshawe Hospital.

  ***

  Ellie hadn’t snored.

  Neither had his daughters Coco and Chloe.

  But even if they had, he would have expected lady-like snores resembling a church mouse tiptoeing over creaking floorboards.

  Dixie could easily have applied for a job as a foghorn on a tugboat – he would have given her a glowing reference.

  ‘Hello?’ she said, opening her eyes.

  He pointed to the dribble on her chin. ‘Good sleep?’

  She wiped the dribble off with the sleeve of her coat. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Wythenshawe Hospital.’