Flesh Evidence: a heart-stopping crime thriller

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  The shoe hovered above the foot pedal before being lowered slowly, applying pressure to send the power to the tattoo machine. The lining needles pulsated from the tip just beyond the grip. The high-pitched buzz seemed to fill the room. The tip was dipped into the red ink and the needles followed the tracing.

  “I’ll add a little freestyle in a minute, to make sure it’s mine. You don’t mind do you, Tony?” The tattooist’s lifted gaze was turned to try to focus on Tony’s limp face. “I thought not.”

  With a tissue, the gloved hand wiped away the ink as the tattoo progressed until the final letter ‘S’ was completed.

  “There Tony, it’s done.” The foot was lifted from the pedal and the buzzing ceased. The tattoo ‘gun’ was returned to the table. “Tomorrow it will be mine and then we’ll give it away bit by bit. Let’s see just how clever these people really are, shall we?”

  The screen of the computer went dark. The watcher moved a finger across the laptop mouse pad pressing to re-wind. It was stopped to catch the final part of the film. “…How clever these people really are, shall we?” The watcher took a deep breath before the finger pressed the pad to eject the disc.

  “I don’t think they’re very clever but we’ll see, we’ll see. Pity Tony’s no longer here to watch his starring role.” A second disc was fed into the computer, the date letters showed the time and date twenty-four hours on from the previous disc.

  It focussed on the same tattooed, bound arm. This time the music had changed, Laying down the law, energetically sung by Paul Rogers, blasted reassuringly from some hidden speakers. A scalpel slipped into the flesh around the edge of the tattoo, slowly sawing under the dermis as gloved fingers gradually peeled back the flesh as the blade moved back and forth. The knife’s keen edge met no resistance. There was no blood. The watcher remembered the almost sweet smell blossom from the severed skin and smiled at the memory.

  “A perfect diet, Tony. A perfect diet.”

  Once past the tattoo the blade sliced the dermis for the last time, the tattoo was free. Skilfully, the blade then ran a small cut between each letter. The watcher leaned forward anticipating the next move to be made. The sliver of flesh was brought into the mouth and torn with the front teeth, each careful tear separating the letters one by one. The grinning head turned to look directly at the camera that focussed purely on the mouth before taking a bow, the last piece of skin containing the last letter hung flaccidly from the grinning lips.

  “You did that so well. There’s a bit of the cinema in you. Not Oscar material but so enjoyable, apart that is, from your choice of music.” There was a pause whilst what seemed like the same voice answered with a squealing giggle.

  “Why, thank you. I should do it more often. Maybe I shall, maybe I shall…maybe my friend, I already have.”

  The screen went black. The disc was ejected and filed.

  ***

  The incident room was full. Cyril glanced around at the walls, paying particular attention to the gallery of photographs of Tony Thompson. In his heart of hearts he sensed that the skin sample, the honey jar and the missing youth were going to be connected. Although the room wasn’t silent, there was very little interaction. Even that ceased when Owen entered the room. Cyril’s eyes met his and the sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach intensified.

  Owen leaned against the wall scanning through the iPad.

  “Morning everyone. DNA says that we have a skin sample match for that of Tony Thompson. The tattoo was inked post-mortem but it is a tattoo and not just an indelible marker as some thought. The skin has been flayed, again post-mortem and then each letter has been torn by what appears to be teeth, although the sample held no real identifying dental marks owing to submergence in honey. It’s gone to Forensic Odontology, but they’re not optimistic. The antibacterial qualities of the honey have preserved and therefore contaminated the sample and a true approximation of date of flaying or death is unclear at present. Again we have to wait.”

  Owen looked up and flicked his finger across the touch screen.

  “The honey sampled is unlikely to be English. There were traces of chloramphenicol and heavy metals contaminants, which might suggest that it was sourced from China or India. Interestingly, imported honey from China was stopped in 2002 and from India in 2010.”

  “And the significance of chloramphenicol, Owen?” Bennett enquired.

  “China had a severe infection of Foulbrood Disease that decimated the bee population. Tens of millions of bees were killed and so they used an animal antibiotic to resolve the problem. However, this drug was transferred to the honey and it is an antibiotic that can cause DNA damage in children that may trigger a rare blood disorder.” Owen looked carefully before pronouncing. “Aplastic anaemia. Another banned antibiotic was found and that’s Streptomycin. There was also a trace of lead, this is because the Chinese honey harvest comprises produce from thousands of peasant beekeepers who transport their honey in lead-soldered drums.”

  “So the honey was illegally imported?”

  Owen just lifted his shoulders.

  “The drug found in the vomit was also banned around 2010. What professionals are associated with banned drugs and chemicals?” There was a silence. “Sarah, your task.” He smiled at her. “Anyone have any thoughts on the letters pencilled on the reverse of the lab…”

  Cyril’s mobile rang. He answered it whilst looking at Owen. “Any marks on the back of the labels and the contents?” He noted down the information.

  “Two more jars have been handed in. One was received like the first at the Show, but another was in someone’s shopping trolley when she loaded her car. She became a little alarmed when the skin was spread on her toast, so much so she dialled 999!” She assured the officer that she didn’t buy it and it wasn’t marked on her receipt. She must have thought it manna from heaven.” Cyril shook his head. “Strangely, the supermarket didn’t sell it either. Probably dropped into the trolley by our man.”

  Cyril pointed to two officers, one of whom was DC Stuart Park. “Stuart, get the address of the customer and interview her. See what she remembers. Then visit the supermarket. I want all CCTV footage for the last forty-eight hours both interior and car park if they have it. The jars are on their way to Forensics. Tattooed on the skin pieces contained in the jars we have a ‘C’ and an ‘I’, so we now have ‘V’, ‘C’ and ‘I’ from skin samples and on the back of the labels we have ‘V’, ‘C’,’C’ and the other ‘A’, ‘E’, ‘C’. All we need now is the entire staff of Bletchley Park or some puzzle whiz to solve this conundrum! Anyone have any bright ideas?”

  Cyril looked around and noted the shaking of heads and raised eyebrows before moving towards the whiteboard. He drew three squares adding the letters and although it wasn’t specified, he marked them in the same position as he had found them on the first label.

  “Sir, would it be worth putting out a public announcement on local radio, T.V. and social media for people who have bought honey or received honey in the last seven days to check to see if there is a foreign body, sorry! Any strange contaminant and if so to get in touch?”

  Cyril nodded and smiled. Thanks, yes. Owen, see to that, please.”

  Owen simply stared at Cyril. His politeness never ceased to amaze him.

  “Contact all small, local shops and supermarkets to check their shelves for rogue jars. If it can be slipped into a shopping trolley or basket, it can be slipped onto a shelf. Keep everyone updated and check the computer system regularly. See too if there’s any connection between those who have received a jar to date. Thanks.”

  Cyril moved towards Owen.

  “Owen, just make the messages bland, no mention of labelling etc. Show me before it goes out, we want nothing that might encourage those seeking attention. I also need a word regarding the files I went through over the weekend.” Cyril smiled. “I read through the interviews with Tony’s friends who were at the Fair with him. I want your thoughts.” He collected his pen and pad and lef
t.

  ***

  Owen’s desk looked like an archaeological dig it had so many layers of paper. He sat back in his chair chewing the end of a pencil when Liz Graydon stopped to chat. Liz had joined the force from Leeds and had quickly settled in. The same rank as Owen, they gelled from the word go and got along well.

  “Strange case you’re on. Room for one more?” Liz put on her hopeful expression.

  “Supposedly we are support and nothing else although the boss seems to be squeezing his feet firmly under the table. Strange one though! Missing youth turns up in pieces in jars of honey, each torn piece carrying a tattooed letter. They seem like random letters, other letters too are written on the back of the jars’ labels; we have three jars to date.”

  Owen passed a sheet showing the letters as they appeared on the labels.

  “Have you got photographs of the letters on the skin? If torn they should make individual fits. Maybe a pattern match too. Could they be giving you a word? Is someone communicating with you?” Liz held out the sheet. “Strange the way the written letters have been located to a specific part of the labels – that’s saying something to me, it’s about location?”

  Liz dropped the sheet back onto the desk.

  “Whilst you’re here having fun investigating bees and honey, I’m going to deal with a persistent wife abuser who’s forgotten the rules regarding birds and bees in marriage. It was ever thus!” She smiled and left.

  Owen picked up the sheet, returned the pencil between his lips and watched her leave before reaching for the phone.

  ***

  Cyril was busy making notes on a pad when Owen knocked and entered.

  “You wanted to talk over the files?”

  “Grab a chair. We can discount the paedophile connection at least for those in the north-west. Liaison officers or whatever they’re called these days, have interviewed them and none can be tied to the disappearance of the other two and none was in this area at the time of Tony’s abduction. They’re opening the other two as cold cases, what with better DNA sampling, you never know. Anyway, I scrutinised the interviews with the boys who were with Tony Thompson on the night that he disappeared. Now on both accounts, they say Tony was feeling ill after the first ride but wasn’t actually sick and yet strangely, he was the only one who bought food. Why anyone feeling remotely queasy would contemplate eating grease and…never mind, surprises me. Interestingly he was given a bottle of fizzy drink for free and it was after eating and drinking this that he vomited.”

  “Sometimes Sir, if I’ve had a bit too much to drink and then have a kebab, I throw up straight away, strange really. Happened to me a few times. Could be the reason he puked.”

  “You’re a mine of information, Owen. What a life you lead! Remember when we flew back from Nice and you turned the colour of an avocado. If you’d seen a stall selling hot dogs would you have bought one?”

  Owen remembered the occasion all too clearly. “Certainly not, I think the smell would have been enough.”

  “My point. After alcohol you feel hungry, with motion sickness, you feel the opposite. So why eat?”

  “Maybe he wasn’t feeling sick at all, maybe he was just messing, pretending in order to worry those friends sitting opposite or next to him,” Owen commented.

  “Colin Fretland said that within minutes of finishing the fizzy drink he vomited violently and said that he felt awful. Both he and Mark Webster thought it amusing to tell him he’d contracted something awful from the food that they serve at places like that. At least they had common sense. They didn’t see him again. He left heading this way.” Cyril turned the street map round and pointed with his finger. “That cross is where the vomit was found. As you’ll know the foot traffic around the site over the period was extremely heavy, litter was a problem too. Doesn’t matter how many bins are placed it’s always easier to drop it. You can imagine the work that each piece removed from the scene is taking to process. Footwear Forensics is investigating the marks as we know where Tony knelt and impressions that were near. Forensics also traced the place where Tony initially vomited and therefore where the litterbin stood. The boys said he threw his bottle and wrapper into it and then was sick into the bin immediately afterwards. The bin was cleared away by the organisers and although it has rained since then, they have recovered traces of his DNA and Toxicology found traces of the drug Ipecac from spatter.”

  “The improved DNA-17 tests seem to be able to find a needle in a haystack.” Owen grew quite animated. “Really impressive especially with cold cases.”

  “Take Liz and interview these.” Cyril slid a piece of paper over the desk. “They all had food outlets at the Fair. Find out who gave away drinks with the food and find out where they were located. Here’s a plan of the site. You’re looking for ones in this area.” Cyril handed over photographs taken from the site of the litterbin. “The Crime Scene Manager assures me that the photographer’s position and camera direction for those images are marked on this aerial view of the scene. It gives a clear perspective of where all of the elements of the Fair were sited; the grass discolouration shows areas covered by equipment. You can see the various rides superimposed and the food outlets, but which ones stood where, for some reason, is the uncertainty.”

  “I thought we were purely support, Sir and that Liz…” Owen didn’t finish. Cyril’s raised eyebrow above his glasses was enough. Owen knew better. “Sir!”

  Owen spread the photographs on an empty table to orientate himself with the scene and then called Liz. “It’s Owen. Listen, ‘Flash’ has invited you to the party. Can you meet me outside in the car park within the hour?” He didn’t receive an answer he just heard her laugh in delight.

  ***

  Liz drove. She turned the unmarked car onto Otley Road moving slowly through town before turning onto the A59. Bilton Lane came up on the right. It was a long road bordered by a variety of fairly modern houses.

  “What are we looking for?” Liz lowered her speed to less than thirty.

  “Woodfield Road… turn here. There, the bungalow with the van.”

  Owen checked the address with that written on the sheet on his knee. “We’re looking for a Mr Jenkins, a Bruce Jenkins. Ready?”

  Owen showed his I.D. and a lady opened the door a little wider. “He’s in bed.”

  Liz looked at her watch. “It is urgent and hopefully we’ll not need to return.”

  “Come in, I’ll get him. Go through there and make yourselves comfy.”

  They could hear the conversation across the hallway.

  “I’ll need a minute, make them a brew.”

  Bruce Jenkins came into the lounge wrapped in a tartan dressing gown. Somehow Owen had expected him to be younger, he glanced down at his notes. He was fifty-three but considering his girth, his bald head and skin tone, he looked ten years older. Owen stood and proffered a hand.

  “DS Owen and this is DS Graydon.” He looked more bemused.

  “Sorry!” He pointed to his clothing. “You see my work takes place late in the day and at my age I need to catch up.”

  Owen glanced down at Jenkins’ bare feet, the toenails were brown through fungal infection and the nails needed cutting. He then looked at his tattooed hands, before his eyes settled on his badly bitten fingernails.

  “Is something wrong?” Bruce Jenkins’ voice seemed to break Owen’s stare.

  Owen passed the plan of the Fair. “Where was your stand positioned at the Stray Fair, Mr Jenkins?”

  He took the plan, leaned forward, scooped a pair of reading glasses from the coffee table and peered at the plan. He began turning his head to the side as if trying to work out which way it should be.

  “There!” his stubby finger pointed to the plot furthest from where the litterbin Tony had used was positioned.

  “Do you know the other food traders, Mr Jenkins?”

  He nodded. “Regulars round town. The competition,” he said with a smile and a rare degree of humorous animation before looking at
both Owen and Liz.

  “How stiff is the opposition, Mr Jenkins?”

  “It’s not really, we tend to price together otherwise we’ll make nothing. Some just add a few more onions but we’re much the same.”

  “Free drink to entice the punters, hot dog and free fizzy drink?” Liz asked.

  The look he returned said everything. “Does this lass know Harrogate’s in Yorkshire?” A broad smile spread across his lips for the second time since their arrival. “Give… free… those words are not in my vocabulary, love.”

  “Employees?”

  “I have one assistant. The wife used to help but with her bad back she can’t.”

  “Who’s that?

  “Pam, Pamela Shepherd. Lives at Hampsthwaite.”

  “What about the other traders?”

  “Tend to use casual staff, students and the like, cheaper, cash in hand. They pay nowt too.”

  “Thanks, we’ll not keep you any longer. It’s a long shot but do you recall that a youth went missing during the fair? Here’s a picture. Do you remember seeing him or serving him?”

  Jenkins looked at them both. “I’ve seen his picture on the telly and in the paper. Do you know how many people we saw during the time there? Bloody thousands and you expect me to remember one. Sorry, most days can’t remember what I had for my tea last night let alone a face in a crowd!”

  “If you do remember anything, no matter how trivial, you might believe it to be, we’d appreciate a call. Keep this, it has DS Owen’s contact details.” Liz smiled and placed the small card into his hand.

  Owen and Liz left.

  “Onward and upward. Now to see a Gary Barton and then to finish the day, we have a Mrs Sonya James. Lovely!”

  ***

  Cyril placed the photographs of the skin tattoos on the white boards and was trying to match the shadow pattern and the tears. Someone was whistling lightly in the background. He moved the images until he felt sure two lined up before looking at the accompanying document. Forensics had confirmed the match. So he had ‘VI’ and a rogue ‘C’. Now all he had to do was to see if there was a word whilst not knowing the number of letters. But then again, they might represent Roman numerals. He took out his electronic cigarette and stared at the board. A plume of white vapour appeared from his right nostril.