It’s a long day, I’ll need the energy, he thought in an attempt to justify his actions, knowing full well that she had packed two meals for the day in a lunch box, even if they were macrobiotic and devoid of meat.
The waitress at the café – he had been there before – asked him what case he was working on. Larry, always ready for a chat, told her. She expressed horror when he revealed some of the details and left him and his breakfast to each other.
Wendy was already out on the street. She had eight police officers to brief. ‘We know where the body was taken down onto the towpath, which means a vehicle would have had to park near the corner of Westbourne Terrace Road Bridge and Warwick Crescent,’ she said, as she stamped her feet attempting to stimulate her circulation.
The morning was cold, the first frost of the year, and her arthritis was giving her hell. She longed for a hot bath, but she knew that was not going to happen until much later in the day.
‘It could have been carried here,’ Jenny Arnett, the young constable who had discovered the blood on the towpath, said.
Smart woman, Wendy thought.
‘Constable Arnett is right. It could have been carried here, but there are no signs of blood other than what we have found so far. It would have needed to be well packaged.’
‘Bulky then,’ another young constable said, although he had a cocky manner about him that Wendy did not warm to.
‘Bulky, not easy to carry, and then there is the disposal of the packaging. We’ve found nothing so far.’
The weather was worsening, and a light drizzle fell on the assembled group. No one looked pleased to be there, especially Wendy, but she would do her duty. However, Jenny Arnett looked excited. Wendy decided to keep a look out for her, maybe bring her in with the Homicide team.
The team was divided into twos: the first two would continue down Westbourne Terrace Road as far as the junction of Delamere Street, a distance of eighty yards. The second team would check Delamere Terrace up as far as the junction of Bloomfield Villas, a distance of seventy yards. The third team would cross the bridge and move up Bloomfield Street, as far as the junction of Clifton Villas, a distance of one hundred and sixty yards; there were only houses on one side of the street. The fourth team would cross the bridge and turn right down Bloomfield Street heading as far as the junction of Warwick Avenue. Wendy and Jenny Arnett would focus on Warwick Crescent, which to Wendy seemed to offer the best possibility, as it was adjacent to where the body had been discovered. If the five teams returned a negative result, then the area of investigation would be expanded, possibly talking to the houseboat owners in the area, although Wendy did not see that as the priority. Apart from Jim Parson’s houseboat, the only boats in between there and under the Westbourne Terrace Road Bridge was the Waterside Café, a former houseboat, but at two in the morning it had been locked up and empty, as had another boat moored in front of Parsons’.
***
DI Hill revived after his breakfast, feeling guilty that he would have to lie to his wife that night. He found that there were three tattoo shops in the area. He knew the possibility of finding the tattoo shop responsible was slim, especially after the pathologist had said that the spider’s web had been crudely tattooed on the man’s shoulder.
Harry’s Tattoo Studio was eerie on entering, with the sound of the pens buzzing, the expression of the hapless person feeling the pain, regretting their decision. Some of the patrons displayed eagles on their backs; one young woman was having a butterfly engraved close to her breast. ‘Not much I can tell you,’ Harry said in between inflicting pain and wiping the area with a clean cloth.
‘You’ve seen the design before?’ Larry asked, showing the man a photo.
Harry, in his late fifties, covered in tattoos, even on his face, was an agreeable man, willing to talk. Larry liked the man, even if his appearance was unusual. ‘It’s common enough. I do it myself.’
‘This one was crudely done,’ Larry said.
‘Then it wasn’t me. I’ve won awards for my work.’
‘Who would be most likely to have done it?’
‘Crude?’
‘Yes. That’s what we believe.’
‘Two options.’
‘And they are?’ Larry asked after the young woman had thanked Harry for her butterfly, paid her money and left the shop.
‘You wouldn’t want to know where some of the women want tattoos,’ Harry said.
Larry could only surmise but decided not to ask the man to elaborate. ‘Two options, you said.’
‘Either the man has been in prison, the number of strands indicating how many years he’s been inside, or he was a member of a gang, each strand representing a murder, a crime, or a rite of passage.’
‘Rite of passage?’ Larry asked.
‘Not that I know a lot about gangs, although we get some in here from time to time, but a rite of passage would imply a murder or killing a member of a rival gang.’
‘It’s murder on both counts.’
‘Not to them.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Killing a rival gang member is not murder, only retribution. That would be a reason for celebration, not regret. You need to study up if you think the body was a gang member. And whatever you do, don’t confront them unless you have a backup. They hate the police. They’d not hesitate to kill you,’ Harry said. Larry knew how the gangs operated, their code of behaviour, but he decided not to mention it to the tattoo shop owner. And besides, another person was waiting for his leg to be tattooed. Larry had seen the design, wondered why someone would want a picture of a cartoon character.
Larry phoned Isaac on leaving the shop, the smell of burning flesh in his nose. ‘What do you reckon?’ Larry asked.
‘We can check prison records, but I’ve not much confidence there. How many prisons, how many tattoos, and do they keep records?’ Isaac said.
‘They probably do from medical examinations, but a spider’s web in prison: there are probably thousands.’
‘Gangs in London?’
‘No idea on that,’ Larry said. ‘I’ve come across them over the years. They’re usually harmless, but in a group, they’ll knife anyone who gets in their way. I had to deal with a gang war a few years back. Four deaths before it calmed down. Mind you, none of them would have been sorely missed; not many brain cells between the lot of them.’
‘Dumping the body in Little Venice required some intelligence or at least a reason.’
‘Are you discounting the gang member option?’ Larry asked.
‘Not entirely, just thinking out loud,’ Isaac said. He was still in the office dealing with reports. Bridget Halloran was assisting. ‘It required brain power to conceal the torso and then dump it. And why? Why not just dump it on a rubbish tip, bury it in a park? It’s as if someone wanted it to be found; as if they wanted to send a message.’
‘A message or just bragging?’
‘Wendy’s out knocking on doors. You obviously have an area of investigation.’
‘And you, DCI?’
‘Damn paperwork, and then I’ll go and meet up with the pathologist again. From what you’ve said, he may be able to offer some more insight into how the tattoo was applied, what type of ink, type of pen.’
***
‘Did you see anything between the hours of 1 a.m. and 3 a.m. yesterday?’ Wendy asked for the twentieth time. The answer each time in the negative.
‘I was fast asleep,’ said the woman at the last door, the twenty-first. She was still in her dressing gown. Wendy could feel the heat radiating from inside the flat. ‘You look cold,’ the woman said. ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’
Wendy entered the ground floor flat, glad of a respite from the biting cold. She was soaked from the constant drizzle.
‘Take your shoes off and get yourself warm. I’m Marge Gregory, by the way.’
A cat jumped up on Wendy’s lap. ‘I’ve got two at home,’ she said.
Jenny Arnett was down the other end of th
e street asking questions. Phone updates from the other teams had revealed nothing of interest. Wendy knew that if they drew blanks today, there would be another day on the street; the idea did not appeal to her.
‘Here you are. I’ve put in two spoons of sugar. You look like a person who likes their tea sweet.’
Wendy did not comment that she used sweetener, and sugar was definitely off the agenda. This one time won’t matter, she thought.
Twenty minutes later, Wendy was back out on the street. Jenny met her soon after. ‘Nothing,’ she said.
‘It’s not unexpected. Even if they’re awake, they’re distracted by a visit to the toilet, or checking emails.’
Before the two policewomen resumed their door knocking, the woman where Wendy had spent a pleasant break from policing duties opened her door. ‘There was a car outside last night,’ she said.
Jenny and Wendy went back into the ground floor flat. Jenny gladly accepted a cup of tea.
‘The cat wanted to go out. I opened the door, and there was a car on the other side of the road. I never gave any thought to it, as most nights there are cars up and down the road.’
‘Why didn’t you remember before?’ Wendy asked.
‘Forgetful sometimes. My daughter wants to put me in a nursing home. I nearly burnt this place down once after I forgot to switch off the oven.’
Jenny realised the woman was describing the early signs of dementia.
‘Mrs Gregory, tell us about the car,’ Jenny said.
‘It was blue.’
‘Anything else?’
‘It was the same as my daughter’s. Although hers is a prettier colour.’
‘Your daughter. What type of car does she drive?’ Jenny asked.
‘You’ll have to ask her. I don’t know anything about cars, never even learnt how to drive.’
‘Do you have a phone number for your daughter?’ Wendy asked.
‘It’s on a pad on the kitchen wall.’
Wendy went out to the kitchen, noted the daughter’s number and dialled. The phone was answered: ‘Lynn Gregory.’
Wendy explained the situation, obtained the details of the daughter’s car. Lynn Gregory said she would be over within ten minutes to take her mother out of the house. Given her close proximity to a murder, as well as being a potential witness, the daughter did not want her mother to be on her own. Wendy could only concur.
‘Blue Toyota Corolla,’ Wendy said on her return.
‘How many of those are there in London?’ Jenny said.
‘Thousands, but it’s a start.’
‘I saw a man,’ Mrs Gregory said.
‘And?’ Wendy asked, exasperated that if Jenny had not been outside when she left Mrs Gregory’s flat, and she had walked down the road to meet her, vital information would have been lost.
‘He didn’t see me.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘It was dark. I remember a short man wearing a leather jacket.’
Wendy asked for another cup of tea, aware that in time the woman would remember some other piece of information: trivial to her, vital to the police investigation.
Twenty-five minutes later came a knock at the door. Lynn Gregory identified herself and kissed her mother on the cheek. She pulled Wendy over to one side. ‘She’s getting old. Her memory plays tricks on her.’
‘We’ll verify what she told us in due course.’
‘Good. Just don’t place too much credence on it though.’
As all four left the house, Mrs Gregory fussing over leaving her home, she looked over at the road. ‘That’s the colour,’ she said, pointing to a car parked in front of her daughter’s.
‘Is that the car?’ Jenny asked.
‘Oh, no. The car was smaller, more like Lynn’s.’
Wendy realised that it may not have been a Toyota Corolla that the old woman had seen, but the colour and the size were significant. Very early morning there would not have been too many vehicles on the road, and once outside of the residential area, there would be surveillance cameras, especially in areas of traffic control.
The teams reassembled close to the Waterfront Café to debrief. Apart from Wendy and Jenny, no one had any further information. Wendy declared the search concluded for the day.
As she was leaving, the owner of the Waterfront Café came over. ‘I’m losing money,’ he said. It was evident to Wendy that he was not in a good mood, but how he was losing money was unclear. The weather was atrocious, and of those walking along the street above, none were tourists looking for a coffee and a meal.
‘It’s a crime scene. If you’ve an issue, you’ll have to take it up with our public relations department.’
‘I will need compensating.’
Wendy gave him the number. Fat chance, she thought.
Chapter 4
‘The tattoo interests us.’ Isaac stood in Graham Pickett’s office. The pathologist was sitting down behind his desk, the top of it covered in X-rays and reports.
‘Why?’
‘It may help to identify the body. Is it possible to determine how it was applied, the type of pen, the ink?’
‘Forensics is working on it,’ Pickett said. Isaac realised the man was almost friendly; the first time he had seen the man’s countenance with anything closely resembling a smile.
Pickett phoned Martin Wallbridge, the forensic scientist who had been entrusted with analysing the tattoo. Wallbridge came over to Pickett’s office and introduced himself to Isaac. To Isaac, he represented the nerdish scientist with pens in the top pocket of his white lab coat.
‘We’re one step ahead of you, and frankly, your people are always pushing for an early result,’ Wallbridge said.
‘You must be used to it now,’ Isaac said.
‘It’s still irritating,’ Pickett said.
‘Sorry about that, but what can you tell us?’
‘Crudely applied. The ink used was graphite mixed with water. It was done in prison,’ Wallbridge said.
‘That’s what we thought. Are you certain?’
‘Unless he was there on a day visit and decided to get a cheap tattoo,’ Pickett said, reverting to type.
Wallbridge, a gentler man, answered straight after Pickett. ‘In prison they have problems with the inks as well as the equipment necessary, so they improvise. Graphite, they get it from a pencil, and then they crush it and mix it with water. It works well enough. It’s not the best quality, but in prison they don’t have much choice.’
‘What about colours?’ Isaac asked.
‘A pencil only comes in black. For colour, they’d need a gel roller pen, but they’d need to be careful. No metallic content or acrylic, and it has to be water soluble.’
‘And the equipment?’
‘They make their own: a motor from a play station, a biro, a bent toothbrush or a spoon, some electrical tape, and a needle.’
‘Where would they get the needle?’
‘Guitar string, sewing needle. As I said before, it’s crude, but it works.’
‘It sounds unpleasant,’ Isaac said.
‘It is,’ Wallbridge replied.
‘Does that answer your question?’ Pickett asked. The man had a disinterested look as if he wanted his office back.
‘Almost. Just one more question. Is it possible to tell which prison?’
Wallbridge looked up into the air before answering. ‘Somewhere where the smuggling’s under control, or else it would have been in colour.’
***
Isaac, back in the office, had another job for Bridget, once she was free from working with Wendy. Bridget was still the best CCTV viewing officer at Challis Street Police Station, and now there was a car to find.
Isaac spoke to Wendy. ‘Any luck?’
‘We’re accessing the cameras now,’ Wendy replied.
‘Where are you looking?’
‘The main entry points into the area. It was early, so we should be able to isolate the vehicle, assuming our source is reliable.’
/>
‘Is it?’
‘Hard to say. The woman was vague, but she was adamant on the size and the colour. Anyway, we’ll know soon enough. How about you, sir?’
‘Some success. The man had spent time in prison.’
‘That’s a lot of people.’
‘If you can identify a vehicle, as well as a registered owner, it might help to identify the body.’
‘We’ll try our best.’
‘And once Bridget is finished with you, I need her to research prison databases.’
Isaac then phoned Larry. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m checking out gangs in the area,’ Larry replied.
‘Are there many?’
‘There’s enough, mainly Jamaicans.’
‘Forensics is sure the tattoo was done in prison.’
‘Most gang members would know what the other side of prison bars looks like.’
‘The spider’s web indicates a lengthy term in jail.’
‘It could still represent a rite of passage even if it was tattooed inside.’
Isaac could only agree with his DI’s analysis. ‘It may be a gang out of the area,’ he said.
‘I know a local gang leader who’ll talk to me.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve known him a long time.’
‘Dangerous?’
‘He owes me. I’ll be safe with him.’
‘Do you want me there?’
‘Not a chance. He knows me, not you. If you’re there, he’ll clam up. Mind you, you could speak to him in Jamaican.’
‘You mean English?’
‘Yes, English.’ Isaac knew what Larry meant. The gangs in London affected their own style of talking, and with Jamaicans that would mean the patois of their parents’ home country.
***
The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 4 - 6: Murder (The DCI Isaac Cook Thrillers Series Boxset) Page 3
