[Alicia Friend 01.0] His First His Second

by A D Davies

  As Ball chatted, Cleaver inspected the framed hygiene certificate awarded a little under a year ago. He perused the wall covered in designs for tattoos, photos of Doyle’s work, of other people’s work Doyle claimed as his own, of geeky Star Trek-style designs (the Borg symbol was one of the most popular amongst the patrons of the store below). Doyle’s own body art was mostly dragons and skulls and other fantasy shit, much of it covering names of exes and rock bands that no longer appealed. Ten years ago, he swore never to do anything like that again. He now boasted two snakes with huge fangs and red eyes, one down each arm, intertwining across his spine, though in his denim waistcoat you couldn’t see this right now. He’d nurtured his professional image carefully, moulded it into how he thought a tough-guy tattoo artist should look. He even grew a thick, unkempt biker-goatee.

  At the sink, Cleaver fingertip-searched the freshly-cleaned needles and paint tins.

  Recycling. I’m such a good boy.

  Then Cleaver tried the cupboard. Locked.

  “What’s in here?” he asked.

  “Chemicals,” Doyle said. “Law says I gotta keep ’em locked up.”

  “An upstanding citizen. We need more like you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you know a Tanya Windsor?” Ball asked.

  “Nope.”

  Cleaver went back to the artwork wall. He pointed at a tiger picture. “You did this design for her in maybe April of last year.”

  Doyle burst out laughing. “April? Last year? You have any clue how many bints come through here in a month? Jeez, guys. Besides, how’re you so sure it was me?”

  “You specialise, so we hear. Mythology. This particular tiger apparently counts. You and a couple of others advertise them, but yours is the closest match online.”

  “You remember every person you arrested in April last year? Bet I do ten times more tattoos than you do arrests.”

  Ball said, “Do you keep records?”

  “Nah. And even if I did you’d need a warrant to get hold of ’em. Confidential you see.”

  “Would it help if I told you someone’s life may depend on letting us see those records?”

  “It might. If I kept ’em.”

  Cleaver sighed and returned to inspecting the odds and ends. Doyle sat on his stool and offered Ball the reclining chair, like a dentist’s, where the tattooist plied his trade. The bearded copper declined.

  “So no records of any client,” Ball said.

  “Not that far back. Would either of you like a tattoo? Might distract from your bellies.”

  “You’re not exactly Twiggy yourself,” Cleaver said, self-consciously sucking in his gut.

  “Mine’s good and paid for through Tetley’s. What’s your excuse? I reckon you’ve seen your fair share of fry-ups.”

  Ball showed Doyle a glossy studio photo. “This is her. Does it jog any memories?”

  Oh yeah, Doyle remembered this one alright. He grinned, so they’d be sure he knew her. “Sorry. Can’t help.”

  Ball held the photo in front of him, closer. “Try harder.”

  “You know, the longer I stare at that picture, the more blurred it gets.”

  The snapshot went back in the manila file. “Sir, I don’t believe you’re cooperating with us. In fact, I think you’re hiding something. Probably what’s in that cupboard.”

  “Gents.” Doyle stood and opened his arms like the most innocent man alive. “I’ve nothing to hide. Not one thing. But my clients often want a confidential service. For what reason, I can’t possibly say. But me, personally, I’m peachy. I’m pure as the driven snow. Prick me, I bleed. Insult me, I hurt. If you don’t believe me, get a warrant, and I’ll open my very heart if necessary.”

  “I think I smell marijuana,” Cleaver said.

  “What comes in on my clients’ clothing is nothing to do with me.”

  “No,” Ball said. “But it’s enough for a warrant and then we’ll see what’s in that cupboard of yours.”

  Richard Hague arrived at Doyle’s Art Emporium for his eight o’clock appointment. He sat in his car with his window down, watching the two policemen leave, listening to them discuss the uncooperative prick as they passed his car, then debate whether it was too late to pay a visit to someone called Hillary Carmichael. The large, bearded one suggested it wasn’t but the less-fat one said it was. They discussed it for all of ten seconds, decided it wasn’t too late, and drove away.

  It had been easy to track the design once he’d located a directory on the internet. Two hours of surfing narrowed Richard’s hunting ground to five possibles, but this guy’s art was the closest match to what he saw in the morgue. The detectives’ presence told him he was on the right lines, and their conversation about lack of cooperation suggested Richard would be ahead of them before the night was out.

  Now he was full of something positive, and had been since DS Friend dropped him back home.

  Glee.

  That was the word. Not happiness or wonderment or relief. But glee. Someone else’s little girl was dead, not Katie. Someone else would experience what he went through on the way to the morgue. He should feel bad, but most people felt guilt like that out of obligation. If he didn’t feel that way—gleeful—then something would be seriously wrong.

  But now wasn’t the time for glee. Now was a time for business.

  Once the police were gone, Richard ensured he made it quickly inside the comic book shop’s side-door. He wore a cagoule and didn’t want be seen on the street with it, not on a dry evening.

  Inside the studio, the man he presumed was Doyle perched on a stool, prepping a rack of needles and inks. The guy said, “Hi. Place looks like a dump, but it’s clean and I’m damn good at this. Hundred quid for the design you wanted. Up front if you don’t mind.”

  He was painted on every bit of exposed skin, keeping it from the outside world, as if it had wronged Doyle in the past and was now paying for it. Lowlife. And his customer service skills left much to be desired.

  “Well?” he said. “You gonna take that thing off and let me see some skin or what?”

  “You want my money first?”

  “Y’ got it.”

  “What if I don’t like your work?”

  “Dude, everyone likes my work. That’s why I stay in business. Look at this shit.” He swept his arm toward a wall of pictures. “This is what I do. Now I’ve stayed open an hour longer than normal cos you phoned so late, and as a consequence I hadda put up with a visit from the pigs. I did that for you cos you sounded like you really wanted this tattoo. Must be a special lady. So I figure, hey, why not. But you’re still a first-timer, mate, and first-timers often get one touch of the needle and they’re up and out the door. When they bolt, I don’t see one penny.”

  Richard assessed the man in silence. What Richard saw behind the tattooist’s eyes, aside from the prospect of ripping off a genuine customer, was bravado. It would be no problem.

  “I’ll have to take this off to get my wallet,” Richard said, removing the cag. Beneath he was wearing a black wool mix sweater and jeans. He also wore a tool belt. “Just a moment,” he said, and moved behind Doyle to hang his waterproof on a chair.

  Doyle followed Richard’s movements, his buttocks lifting only slightly, too lazy to shift his whole body.

  From the tool belt, Richard removed an ice pick and jammed it into Doyle’s right-side deltoid muscle, cutting through the flesh two inches back from the collarbone. At first, Doyle tried to scream, but the pain would have been too much to vocalise.

  This area is a pressure point. If you sneak up behind someone and knobble your knuckle hard into that area, your victim will fall to his knees no matter how big and strong he is, so an ice pick slicing into it is too much for most.

  It was too much for Doyle. He fainted.

  Because it’s mostly muscle, there is a minimum of blood-letting, so Richard could patch it up after donning surgical gloves and locating a towel and some packing tape. It would still be agon
y once Doyle awoke.

  After locking the door and closing the blind, Richard stripped the man to his boxer shorts by slicing his clothes with a straight razor, laid him on his chair, secured his hands to the chair arms with plastic cable ties, and bound his feet together with packing tape.

  Then Richard shoved a balled up rag in Doyle’s mouth and administered smelling salts.

  Muffled, Doyle screamed himself awake. His head lolled to one side, toward the wound, his wrists pulling at the plastic ties, his left hand naturally stronger than the damaged right side. Soon, Doyle worked out that pulling with his right hand extenuated the pain, so he ceased, transferring his efforts to his left. The secure-a-tie bit into his wrist and blood seeped around it.

  Richard watched all this from Doyle’s own stool, wondering how much longer it would be until this man would be able to help him.

  A kettle beckoned. A cup of tea would hit the spot right about now. But would that be too depraved?

  Richard had wondered throughout his life what really counted as depravity, how far you had to go to become a total monster. He didn’t categorise himself into groups like Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper; he wasn’t insane.

  Doyle fell motionless. His muffled cries were replaced by heavy breathing. As he stopped panicking, he eased the gag out of his mouth using his tongue. His voice had taken on a higher pitch.

  “What do you want?” he said. “The shit’s under the sink. Key’s taped under the stool. There. Where you’re sat.”

  Richard said nothing. Let the man talk.

  “I’m sorry if I’m on someone’s patch, but I been doing this for years. No one’s bothered me before. I stick to my regulars. If it’s a cut you want, fine, but it ain’t much, I can tell you.”

  “What do you think I want?” Richard asked.

  “The weed. Don’t you?”

  Richard smiled sadly. “Sorry. Not quite.” He showed a set of wire cutters, each blade an inch long. He clicked them together like scissors.

  “Wait. Wait! What you gonna do? Ack—” His pulse must have quickened, meaning more blood flow, meaning the wound hurt even more.

  Richard lifted Doyle’s bound legs and positioned the cutters behind his left knee.

  “Please. What are you doing? What do you want?”

  “I’m going to hamstring you,” Richard said. “Watch.”

  He gouged the points in the skin either side of Doyle’s hamstring, that ropy bit that runs behind the knee. Although Doyle’s first reaction was to struggle, he soon froze. The blades pressed, fine points of blood spotting the tool, Richard ready to snip away Doyle’s ability to walk.

  “I’ll do anything,” Doyle said. “Anything at all.”

  Richard pretended to think. “Okay.” Allowing the legs to fall, he stood over Doyle. “Remember the last time you stood up? Tell me about it.”

  “What kind of question is that? I went to the cupboard to get the inks.”

  “See? This is upright.” He waved the clippers in Doyle’s face. “If for one second I think you are screwing with me, walking back and forth from the cupboard will be your last memory of moving like a normal human being. Do you want that?”

  “No, man, no. I’ll do it. Whatever you want.”

  “Where are your teabags?”

  “My what? What sort of crazy wanker are you? You want tea?”

  Richard slammed a fist into Doyle’s groin. The bound man tried to double over, but could not. With the effort his shoulder wound tore and he screamed again, forcing Richard to reapply the gag. His legs drew up to comfort the dull burning in his balls.

  While Doyle calmed down, Richard made a cuppa.

  Back to square one, and Richard took away the gag. Doyle’s feet returned to their position though his thighs were closer together. Richard sipped his tea, snip-snipped the pincers together and said, “Okay. Now let’s talk about what those policemen wanted.”

  Doyle stared at the pincers. “They wanted a girl.”

  “With a tattoo. The tiger. Royal Bengal, I believe.”

  “Yeah. That’s right. From her shoulder down her upper arm. Some symbolic shit, I dunno.”

  “The tiger is subject to many myths. According to the link on your website, this particular design is usually accompanied by a counterpart, a mate. To me, that implies she was not alone. Am I correct?”

  Doyle nodded. “Paki. Posh bird had a Paki boyfriend.”

  Richard abhorred racism. He knew Doyle was not going to live past the next half-hour, but things like this drew the matter out. “Tell me everything.”

  And Doyle spoke. He blathered. He used the word “Paki” too often, but eventually directed Richard to his records, under the sink near his chemicals and massive marijuana stash. The handwritten ledgers and receipts stretched all the way back six years, though it was clear he was using the tattoo business to cover his drug dealing. Richard found the name he was looking for and noted it. Also, the credit card number the guy had paid with.

  “Okay,” Richard said. “Now, you haven’t missed anything, have you? No memory lapses, no lying by omission?”

  “No.” He shook his head as far as it would go without pain jolting through him.

  Richard stuffed the rag back in Doyle’s mouth and gouged the pincers back in the crook of his knee. He pushed harder this time, blades caressing the hamstring, scraping; Doyle’s legs frozen in place, his eyes bulging, pleading with Richard, no, no, don’t do it.

  Richard set down the man’s legs and placed the tool back in his belt. This torture business was giving him no real pleasure, and it was no longer necessary to achieving his target.

  He washed up the cup and put his cagoule back on. Then he removed Doyle’s rag, ignored the thanking and the you-won’t-regret-this-ing, and reached into the back of his belt. He swished out the Navy SEAL blade, and sliced through Doyle’s windpipe and flesh with little resistance. The helpful blood groove in the blade filtered off the majority of mess, although some of it squirted through the air, as usual.

  Richard took one of the bags of marijuana and stuffed it in Doyle’s throat, gaping like some comedy second mouth.

  He pocketed the other three bags, all about the size of a packet of crisps, and headed for the door. He turned one last time to survey the scene. He left the ledger in the cupboard for the police to find. No sense in hanging a lantern on it through its absence.

  Overall, it worked out better than Richard hoped. Mr. Doyle had now been caught up in a drugs war.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Whitelocks is the oldest pub in Leeds. It is located up a small alleyway you might miss unless you were looking for it, a narrow establishment with a high bar and earthy traditional ales in thick-handled glasses. Bustling when Alicia arrived, it was loud with men’s voices, not one under fifty, few without a cigarette, albeit unlit. The craze for e-cigs had not yet penetrated the masculine veneer of this particular establishment.

  Alicia and Murphy chose not to face the police bar, not after the way the press conference played out. They were on their way here when Cleaver and Ball filled them in on the emporium, so they postponed the drinks and worked quickly on a warrant—a slam-dunk now a society girl was dead. With the paper in her pocket, Alicia was now on her second scotch and Murphy sipped what Alicia bought him when he said he didn’t care what he got, as long as it was wet and alcoholic: Murphy’s. Alicia thought it would lighten her mood.

  Murphy drinking Murphy’s.

  Ball and Cleaver bustled in, loosening their ties simultaneously. Cleaver sat while Ball ordered two pints of Theakston’s Best.

  Cleaver didn’t wait for Ball to join them. “Hillary Carmichael. Twenty-three. Married to Henry Carmichael for a year. They live at—”

  “Come on, Sergeant,” Alicia said. “Get to the juicy stuff. The tattoo. The mystery man.” It would have been more useful for Alicia to conduct the chat with Hillary herself. She hated third-hand information. But the warrant took priority.

  Cleaver sighed an
d flicked a couple of pages. “Hillary had seen the tattoo. She omitted it from her initial statement because it might have gotten Tanya in trouble with her uncle.”

  “Makes sense,” Murphy said, sipping his Murphy’s.

  “She claims to have confided this in DCI Wellington, once the disappearance was considered suspicious.”

  “Any mention of a lover?”

  “Yes.”

  This was it. This was what they needed. Sudden momentum. By way of a toast, Alicia necked the last of her scotch.

  Ball placed the drinks on the table, spilling a little, and sat heavily on the leather couch.

  Cleaver took a long drag on his pint, put a cigarette in his mouth, and continued. “Hillary confronted Tanya on the day of the barbecue and Tanya confirmed she was seeing someone. Also hinted her family would never accept the bloke.”

  “Who?” Murphy asked. “Any idea why?”

  “Only that Tanya liked to slum it. She was applying to university, to go into halls of residence rather than buying a flat. Somethin’ else her uncle didn’t approve of.”

  Ball picked up the, um … ball. “When Tanya holidayed she didn’t go for the five-star deals—preferred to strap on a backpack and head off somewhere a bit different. Hillary couldn’t understand her. Then the tattoo business.” Ball caught himself in mouthful of beer.

  Cleaver took over again. “There was a story behind it. An old Indian myth. Something to do with a Royal tiger, a Bengal, falling in love with a white tiger. Not a good thing for tigers.”

  “So we’re looking for an Asian man with a white tiger tattooed on his arm,” Alicia said.

  Cleaver said, “She didn’t mention the man having one.”

  Alicia’s mind, her mini-computer, ticked over, generated a whole host of theories. The simplest were always worth exploring first.