by Ben Cheetham
Jack and Steve moved outside, leaving Doreen fussing around with coats, scarves and woolly hats. “That was the DCI,” said Steve.
“I gathered that. So what have you got to tell me?”
“I’m to take Neil and his mum to HQ. You’re to wait here for Forensics, then get back to knocking on doors.”
Jack smiled wryly. He hadn’t expected any acknowledgement of his work. Neither was he surprised to be palmed off onto jobs that almost certainly weren’t going to turn up anything else of interest.
“I know, mate,” said Steve, reading his expression. “It’s bollocks, but what can you do? The bloke can’t stand the sight of you.”
“I don’t much like his face either.” Jack frowned at the ground. He gave a shake of his head. “You know what, screw him. He’s going to be seeing me whether he likes it or not. You’re right, Steve. It’s time to sort this out.”
Nodding approvingly, Steve rubbed his hands in anticipation. “How much is it for a front-row seat?”
Ignoring the facetious remark, Jack approached the sergeant and instructed him to stay put and coordinate proceedings. “Oh and if you happen to speak to the DCI, don’t tell him I’m on my way to HQ.” As an aside to Steve, he added, “I want it to be a surprise.”
Chapter 9
The interview room wasn’t the most welcoming of places: blank windowless walls, a red panic-button, four plastic-backed chairs – two on either side of a table with recording equipment on it. The air had a fusty, closed-in smell.
Neil didn’t seem to mind. He was too interested in tucking into the six slices of cake on the table. Doreen was sipping a cup of tea beside him. She didn’t seem to mind either. “I love a good police show,” she was telling Jack and Steve. “Prime Suspect, Cracker, Taggart. I watch them all. Do you?”
Both detectives shook their heads. The last thing they wanted when they got home was to be reminded of work. Not that you could ever really stop thinking about it. The wail of grief that tore from a mother when she found out her son had been stabbed to death. The despair in the eyes of a rape victim. The remorseless face of a hardened criminal. Those weren’t things you compartmentalised easily.
Jack turned at the sound of purposeful approaching footsteps. His gaze met with Paul’s. Recent history had not been kind to DCI Paul Gunn. There was a lot more grey in his swept-back dark hair than there had been a few months ago. His face, once handsome in a world-weary way, now simply looked weary. Shuttling between his job in Manchester and his soon-to-be ex-wife and two kids in Sussex was clearly taking its toll.
Paul pulled up abruptly, frowning. “DI Anderson, didn’t you get my orders?”
“I did.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
Jack stepped out of the interview room, closing the door behind him. “We need to talk.”
“What about?”
“You know what about.”
Paul eyed Jack with a mixture of annoyance and uncertainty. “I hardly think this is the time for getting into personal issues. There’s a baby missing.”
“That’s precisely why this game-playing has got to stop.” Jack’s sharp tone drew a curious glance from a passing constable. “We can do this here or in your office. It’s up to you.”
The detectives stared at each other for a moment. Paul turned to stride back the way he’d come. Jack followed him to a small, cluttered office. A desk was swamped by a tsunami of paperwork. Documents relating to various crimes overlapped each other on the walls. Paul had never been one for keeping his office tidy, but there had always been some discernible order to the chaos. Now all Jack saw was confusion – the outward expression of a disordered mind.
Paul shut the door and fixed his frazzled grey eyes on Jack. “Well?” he said impatiently.
“You sent me to North Manchester General to do a job anyone with a camera could have done. You didn’t update me on what was our then prime suspect’s description. Those things cost us two, maybe three hours.”
“That description was sent out to everyone. If you didn’t get it, the problem’s on your end not mine.”
Jack’s lips thinned into a humourless smile. “I’ve had enough of your bullshit to last me a lifetime, Paul.” Although his voice was tightly controlled, a tremor crept into it as he continued, “Natasha’s divorcing you because you screwed my wife, not because of anything I said to her. All that shit that went on, it shouldn’t have anything to do with what happens here.”
Paul blinked, but kept his gaze fixed on Jack. “You’re right, it shouldn’t. But it does. It’s why I always put you and that idiot Platts together and it’s why I keep you as far away from the rest of the team as possible. You used to be a good copper, Jack, but not anymore. Oh you’ve still got the nose for it. I don’t doubt that for a second. But you changed after Rebecca died.”
Jack winced visibly. Died. Rebecca hadn’t simply died. She’d thrown herself off a cliff. Maybe Paul wasn’t the reason for that – Rebecca had struggled with mental health issues long before their affair – but at the very least he’d unwittingly helped facilitate her self-destruction. “Committed suicide,” corrected Jack. “Why can’t you just say it like it is?”
Paul shook his head. “You’ll never get it right in here, will you?” He jabbed a finger at his temple. “Whether Rebecca jumped or fell, it makes no difference. She’s dead. And we’re still here, dealing with the fallout. You know what I think? If Rebecca could see us right now she’d be laughing at how pathetic we are.”
“You’re the pathetic one, Paul. Playing your petty little games.”
Paul glanced pointedly at Jack’s t-shirt and jeans. “I’m not the only one playing games.”
“But I’m not putting lives at risk.”
“Aren’t you? When you talk to me like you did in the corridor, people lose respect for me. Do you realise how damaging that is?” Paul chopped his hand into his palm as if breaking something in two. “Before I know it other team members will be disregarding my orders, thinking they know better. I can’t allow that to happen, no matter how bad I feel about what I did.”
Jack’s eyes dropped away from Paul’s, furrows forming between them. As much as he hated to admit it, Paul was right. They were both as guilty as each other on that score. With a prickling of shame, his thoughts returned to the newborn letting out its first cries. “OK,” he said, moving towards the door.
“Where are you going?”
“Back to Clifton.”
Disappointment flashed over Paul’s face – as if he’d hoped Jack would reply, Home and I’m not coming back – but it was quickly replaced by something else. It wasn’t a look of apology or remorse, not even close, but neither was it a look of recrimination. “Did I say you were dismissed, DI Anderson?”
Jack stopped and waited for Paul to continue.
“The victim wasn’t carrying ID or wearing a wedding ring. Her fingerprints aren’t on the database. The doctors say there’s a high probability she won’t regain consciousness. Right now the only chance we have of identifying her quickly is releasing her image to the media. But of course that also lets her attackers know she’s still alive, which could put both her and her baby in danger. What do you think we should do?”
The two men met each other’s gaze again, their eyes cold but no longer openly hostile. “That’s not our only chance,” said Jack. “There are the motorway cameras. If they turn up nothing, releasing her image is a risk worth taking. If her attackers return to finish the job, we’ll be ready for them. As for her baby,” he thought about the way Eagle had carefully wrapped up the newborn before expressing the colostrum that was so vital to its immune system, “I don’t think they’ll hurt it unless they have to. Watch the video and I’m sure you’ll agree with me. Was there anything else?”
“Yes, I don’t need you in Clifton. I need you and DI Platts to concentrate on identifying the tattoos. Am I making myself clear? I don’t want any more misunderstandings about who’s giving the orders a
nd who’s taking them.”
Another brief space of silence passed between them, then Jack said, “Yes, sir.” Sir. It was only a small word, but there was a world of meaning in it.
Some of the tension faded from Paul’s face as if an unspoken truce had been declared. He gave a jerk of his chin as if to say, Then get to it.
Jack wordlessly left the office.
Chapter 10
After fruitlessly searching the PNC databases for anyone with a tattoo matching the victim’s or perp’s, Jack and Steve headed out to do the rounds of local tattoo parlours. As soon as they were away from the prying ears of HQ, Steve said, “So come on then, let’s hear it. Did you two kiss-and-make-up?”
“It’s sorted,” said Jack, although he knew things would never truly be sorted out between Paul and him. His oldest friend had had an affair with his wife – an affair that had quite possibly driven her to suicide. How did you ever get that right in your head? His tone made it clear there was nothing else to be said on the subject.
There were over a hundred tattoo parlours in the Greater Manchester area. It was going to take the rest of the day and probably the next day or two as well to get round them all. They’d decided to start in the city centre and work their way outwards. “What’s the bet we don’t find out anything until the last place on the list?” said Steve.
“If we find out anything at all,” muttered Jack.
“God, you’re a morose bugger sometimes. Would you rather be going door-to-door in Clifton?”
“No.”
“Then try cracking a smile, why don’t you?”
Jack formed his lips into an obviously fake smile.
Steve chuckled. “I think I prefer your miserable face.”
The first tattoo parlour was in a trendy location with floor to ceiling windows, a neon sign and photos of the tattooist’s handiwork in the window. The interior was all chrome, distressed wood and leather. Hip-hop was blasting out of hidden speakers. A guy with a hipster beard and two full sleeves of tattoos was working on a girl with a buzzing needle.
“Things have certainly changed since I was a kid,” commented Steve. “Back then these places were hidden down backstreets and the only people you’d find in them were crims and slags.”
“Every other teenager’s got a tattoo these days.”
“Yeah well if my daughter showed up with a tramp-stamp I’d hit the fucking roof.”
“Do as I say, not as I do, eh.” Jack glanced meaningfully at Steve’s left bicep where under his sleeve there lurked a skull wearing the maroon beret of The Paras.
“That’s different. I earned that tattoo. The only thing these kids have earned is a clip round the ear for being so stupid.”
They showed the tattooist photos of the butterfly wing and ‘LOVE::. ALICE:’ tattoos. “That wing is a nice piece of work,” he commented, “but I don’t do facial tattoos. Kids come in here on a whim wanting something on their face. Five years later they’re on antidepressants because no one will give them a job. The other tattoo’s a piece of shit. This is the best tattoo parlour in Manchester.”
“Do you know anyone who does facial tattoos?” asked Jack.
The tattooist wrote down the names of half a dozen parlours. “Some of these places have a very particular clientele, if you know what I mean. Confidentiality is a big deal to them. They probably wouldn’t tell you even if they had done that tattoo.”
They thanked the tattooist and left. “Change of plan?” said Steve.
Jack nodded. They checked out the nearest of the six parlours. It was on a congested city centre road above a shop with blacked-out windows that sold ‘XXX DVDs and Magazines, Fetish Wear, Rubber and Latex Products, Special Interest Products’. The tattoo parlour’s sign hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in a long time.
“This is more like it,” said Steve.
They climbed some gloomy stairs to a room painted all in black, its walls papered with images of tattoos. A slim, pale woman with a faceful of piercings, a necklace of tattoos and a head of raven black hair shaved down the sides exposing more tattoos said, “What can I do for you?”
“Well we’re not here to get tattoos,” said Steve.
The woman treated his suit, shirt and tie to a scathing up-and-down glance. “Really? I’d never have guessed.”
Smiling at the sardonic response, Steve took out his ID. “Can I ask your name?”
“Viv.”
Jack showed her the two tattoos. “Do you recognise either of these, Viv?”
She put on a pair of glasses and looked at the photos. She spent a full minute on the butterfly wing, tracing her finger over its ragged outline and delicately patterned surface. “Beautiful,” she said. “Look at the detailing, the depth of the image. Someone with real talent did this.” She handed the photos back. “Sorry, I don’t know the artist.”
“Are you sure?”
“A hundred percent.”
“You wouldn’t be lying to us, would you Viv?” said Steve. “This is a very serious matter. You could land yourself in a lot of trouble.”
She fixed him with a steady stare. “Do I look like I’m lying? You’ve heard of Van Gogh, right?”
“Did he do those tattoos?”
Viv mouthed a sarcastic laugh. “My point is you’d recognise one of his paintings anywhere. It’s the same with tattoos. When it comes to someone as good as whoever did that wing, I’d know their work at a glance.”
“What about the other tattoo?” asked Jack.
Viv shrugged. “Anyone could have done it.”
“Do any of your customers have a wife, partner or daughter named Alice?”
“Not that I can think of off the top of my head. I’ve been doing this twelve years. I’ve had thousands of clients. You hear a lot of names. A lot of stories. After a while, it all starts to blur together. It must be the same for you guys.”
“Oh yeah, Viv, you definitely hear a lot of stories,” agreed Steve. “A lot of bullshit.”
She frowned. “Are you saying I’m lying? Because I don’t have to take that kind of crap in my place.”
“No one’s suggesting anything like that,” Jack assured her. “But as Steve said, this is an extremely serious matter. So if you can think of anything that might be of help we’d be hugely appreciative.”
“Sorry if I offended you,” said Steve.
Viv cocked an eyebrow as if she doubted his sincerity. Her gaze returned to the words ‘LOVE::. ALICE:’. “I think maybe you’re barking up the wrong tree. I don’t think whoever has that tattoo is in love with someone called Alice.”
“Then what does it mean?”
Viv took out a pen and wrote something below the words. Jack and Steve exchanged an uneasy glance. Below LOVE she’d written ‘kilL tO liVE’. Below ALICE was ‘kill AL polICE’.
“It’s an acronym,” explained Viv. “The dots represent–”
“I can guess what they represent,” Jack broke in grimly. Each dot represented a kill. Seven civilians. Two police. This was bad. Civilians were one thing, but police... Only the worst of the worst knowingly killed police. “How do you know about this?”
Viv gave another shrug. “You hear about this kind of thing.” She thumbed to a reclining leather chair. “I’ve had plenty of ex-cons in that.” She added quickly, “I’ve never seen anyone with a tattoo like that though. And I wouldn’t do any work on them if I did. I can’t be doing with psychos like that. If you ask me they’re all just limp-dicks with mummy issues.”
“Can you give us the names of any of these ex-cons?”
Viv’s frown returned. “Didn’t you hear what I said before? I’m shit with names. And anyway, I don’t even know if I’m right about that tattoo. It just kind of came to me as I was looking at it. Y’know, like when the answer to a question suddenly comes to you, but you don’t know where from. Doesn’t that ever happen to you?”
“All the time,” said Steve. “It’s called getting old.”
“Cheeky sod,” Vi
v shot back. “I’m not old.”
“No, but I am.”
Viv smiled, this time without any hint of sarcasm. “You don’t look all that old to me. Lose that slug above your lip and the beer belly and you wouldn’t be half bad.”
Before Steve could counter with another comeback, Jack said, “Thanks for your time.” He gave Viv his card. “If anything else comes to mind, give us a call.”
“That’s the second time you’ve done that today,” Steve grumbled as they returned to the car.
“Done what?”
