by Tim Ellis
‘Yes. There’s the post mortem at three o’clock. We should find out whether we have any matches on CrimInt.’ He searched his coat pockets, found the scrap of paper Wong had given him and rang the number for Popeye’s Tat2.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Lisa Wong gave me your number.’
‘That was kind of her. And you thought you’d ring me on Christmas Day to wish me a good one.’
‘Detective Inspector Dark from the Serious Crime Division at GMP.’
‘You want me to be impressed?’
‘I’m investigating the body parts.’
‘Oh yeah! I’ve seen you on the TV. You’re the guy with the grey hair.’
‘Silver.’
‘Is that right? So, what do you want from me?’
‘One of our victims had tattoos.’
‘Ah! I charge three hundred pounds a day for consultancy work. Christmas Day . . . triple time. Call it a round thousand.’
‘Or . . . I could phone the Environmental Health emergency hotline and tell them I’ve got a couple of cases of a flesh-eating virus following tattoos at your place.’
‘Yep, that’ll do it.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Castle Street in Edgeley.’
‘Give me a postcode.’
‘SK3 5FG.’
‘We’ll be there about two.’
‘Can’t wait.’
He ended the call.
‘Isn’t that an abuse of power in public office?’ Lake said.
‘Yes.’
***
1411 hours
With the exception of a man walking a Bulldog and two boys creating tramlines through the snow with their new skateboards, Castle Street in Edgeley was as dead as Stockport Cemetery. All the old brick Victorian shops were locked up tight with graffiti-daubed metal shutters. Security alarms blinked, and swivelling CCTV cameras on poles gave the impression that somebody was actually watching. At least forty percent of the shops had “For Sale” signs on the walls above the shutters – the recession and the internet had doused the flames of regeneration.
Popeye’s Tat2 Emporium was an oasis in the wasteland. The shutters had been rolled up and the lights were on.
The bell above the door jangled as they went inside.
They weren’t the first customers.
A young woman covered in tattoos with straggly shoulder-length dark brown hair wearing a black sleeveless top and a pair of black stretch tights that Dark could see her light blue knickers through was pleading with the man behind the counter.
‘Just a small one.’
‘We’re closed.’
‘You’re not, you’re open.’
‘It’s Christmas Day.’
‘I’ll have a festive one then.’
‘We’re closed.’
‘I gotta have one, Popeye.’
‘I’m open again on Friday.’
‘That’s a day and a half. I’ll die if I have to wait that long, man.’
‘Come back on Friday. I’ll do one for half price.’
‘Half price?’
‘Yes.’
‘You won’t forget?’
‘No.’
When she turned round, Dark noticed the heavy bags under her eyes, the tattoos on her ears, on her gums and inside her lips, and the thick ring hanging through her nose. She turned back to Popeye . . .
‘I’m consulting for the police,’ he explained.
‘You’re not doing tattoos?’
‘No tattoos.’
She dragged herself out of the door.
Popeye came round the counter and put the door catch on. ‘Before we’re interrupted again.’ He was in his mid-thirties with long black hair that had thinned beyond the point of no return. To compensate, he sported a moustache and a strange-shaped beard with a long tuft of hair on his chin.
‘Junkie?’ Lake asked.
‘Tattoo junkie. They’re masochists. For some people, it becomes an obsession. I could do one for you, if you want? Maybe a snake crawling up the inside of your thigh.’
‘That would be difficult with a broken snake.’
‘Whatever happened to community policing? Well, what can I do for you fine upstanding officers on this festive occasion?’
Dark passed him the photographs.
Popeye shuffled through them. ‘Maria von Quetzal.’ He examined them more closely and became excited. ‘Looks like some of her early work – before she became famous.’
‘Where can I find her?’
‘A cemetery probably – in Miami.’
‘That’s not really the answer I was looking for. What can you tell me about those tattoos?’
He shrugged. ‘Not much really. Maria was Mexican, claimed to be descended from Aztec royalty. You know – Montezuma . . .’
‘Yes, I’ve heard of Montezuma and the Conquistadors.’
‘Anyway, she made Aztec art her speciality . . .’
‘So where would the victim have got those tattoos?’
‘I would imagine Mexico. Once she became a local celebrity, she moved to America and became a megastar. The trouble with megastars is that they burn up fairly quickly. Died eighteen months ago of sex, drugs and punk.’
His face creased up. ‘I was hoping for something that might tell me who this guy is.’
‘The internet is a wonderful invention.’
Dark cocked his head at the “For Sale” signs. ‘For some, not for others.’
‘The High Street is dead. Those that can’t see the writing on the wall keep trying to give it mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and electric shock therapy, but none of that will bring it back to life again. We live in a different world now. People better adapt or perish.’
‘I didn’t know you were a philosopher,’ Lake said.
‘All tattoo artists are philosophers.’
Dark jogged Popeye’s memory. ‘You were saying?’
‘Tattoos are like works of art. You can go on the internet and find a catalogue of Salvador Dali’s paintings . . .’
‘As much as I like Salvador . . .’
‘There’s also a website that provides a catalogue of Maria von Quetzal’s artwork.’ He pointed at the tattoos in the photographs. ‘These are early works as I said, but you can see she was already brilliant. When people ask about the top ten tattooists in the world, she’s always one of them.’
‘Where are you on the list?’ Lake asked.
He smiled. ‘I’m a few places behind von Quetzal.’
‘How many places is a few?’
‘She’s like a dog with a bone, isn’t she?’ he said to Dark.
‘Yes.’
‘Well?’
‘If you let me put my snake on your thigh, I’ll tell you.’
‘Stop pestering him, Lake. Will this website give me the name of who she put the tattoos on?’
‘That’s the idea. I’d say that the names of the recipients are on about ninety percent of her designs.’
‘What’s the website?’
‘That would be like giving a newborn baby a Rubik’s Cube. No, I’ll keep the photos and ring you when I have something.’
‘I can’t let you keep the pictures.’
‘Alright if I scan them then?’
‘I don’t see why not, but you’re not to use them for anything else.’
‘Well . . . there’s another possibility.’
‘Go on?’
‘Neither of these designs might be on the website.’
‘Why?’
‘She didn’t realise that one day she’d be famous, so a lot of her early work wasn’t photographed, but she wrote prolific notes.’
‘So?’
‘So, the guy that owns the site – Brick Calloway – who happens to be her ex by the way, has all her journals and can match the photographs to her notes, but I’ll need to upload said photographs for him to use.’
He didn’t see a problem in what Popeye was proposing. ‘Okay, but anything else – you ring me.’ He
put a business card on the counter.
‘No problem.’
‘I’ll expect a name within twenty-four hours.’
‘You’ve not forgotten it’s Christmas Day, have you?’
‘No, I’ve not forgotten.’
Oakley was leaning on a van with blacked-out windows waiting for them when they left Popeye’s Tat2 Emporium.
‘Hello, Inspector.’
He ignored her.
‘Has one of the victims got a tattoo?’
‘Go back and tell Popeye not to talk to the press under any circumstances,’ he said to Lake.
She did as he ordered and then came back.
They climbed in the car and set off towards Wythenshawe.
***
1457 hours
He drove into the West entrance of Wythenshawe Hospital – or the University of South Manchester Hospital as it was now called – from Floats Road and parked in the car park.
Pathology was located on the first floor of the Clinical Sciences building together with histology, biochemistry, cytology, haematology, microbiology and, of course, the mortuary.
‘Have you been here before?’ Lake asked.
‘Many times.’
They walked up the stairs, along the corridor and into the glass-fronted viewing booth overlooking the post mortem room in the Mortuary.
Dark pressed the button on the intercom. ‘When you’re ready, Prof.’
‘Festive greetings, Dark.’ Professor Daniel Finn said. He was one of the best forensic pathologists in the country, had been awarded an MBE for his work in the Queen’s Birthday Honours List of 2002, was an Honorary Consultant to various hospitals around the country, had travelled all over the world doling out expert opinion, and chaired the government’s Forensic Pathology Special Advisory Committee.
There were three helpers dressed in scrubs and plastic aprons working with him.
‘As you can see . . .’ Finn said, sweeping his arm above one of the two stainless steel post mortem tables, ‘. . . we’ve made a Herculean effort on your behalf to piece together the bodies.’
‘I’m grateful.’
‘I suppose you want me to cut to the chase?’
‘If you’d be so kind. It’s been a long day.’
‘And not over yet I should imagine?’
‘No.’
‘Here we go then . . .’ At seventy-two Finn was in the winter of his career. He had wispy grey hair, sagging jowls and rheumy eyes. If he’d been a surgeon, the hand tremors would have forced him to retire long ago. ‘Sorry to say no DNA for either, and no fingerprint match for the female.’
He’d been hoping, but he was hardly surprised. Only five percent of fingerprints stored on the database belong to females.
‘Male blood group is A-rhesus positive, the female – O-rhesus negative. I’ve estimated height and weight based on the slim pickings you’ve provided me with, but without the heads . . .’ He spread his arms. ‘The male was in his mid-fifties, the female in her late forties. You’re following up on the tattoos?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s a number of indicators that suggest the male was a sailor for many years – damage to the vertebrae and knees, which are both common in sailors; we also found inactive gonorrhoea spores from a southeast Asian strain; and then there’s the tattoos . . . Yes, it’s my considered opinion he was a sailor.’
‘We have an idea that the tattoos were obtained in Mexico.’
‘There you go then. Cause of death in both cases was strangulation. Although I wouldn’t be surprised if you were to tell me that there had been some blunt-force trauma to the skulls as well. The cuts were made with a standard hacksaw blade – no help there, I’m afraid. The female had given birth, but it was so long ago as to be nearly undetectable. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone were to tell me she was a teenager when she had the child.’
‘Maybe it was stillborn,’ Lake suggested.
Dark shrugged. ‘Without knowing the identity of the woman, we’re still none the wiser. Anything else, Prof?’
‘I found evidence of a childhood fracture of the male’s right radius and ulna, and serious scarring of the liver – he was a heavy drinker. However, you might find it interesting that the body parts have been kept in a freezer for . . . I’m speculating here, but I would say at least three months. As a consequence, I can’t provide you with a time of death, but I’d work within that time-frame if I were you.’
‘I’d say you were there or thereabouts, Prof. Other clues we’ve stumbled over indicate that this has been planned for some time.’
‘So, I’ll obviously send you my detailed report, but for now you have the main highlights.’
‘Thanks, Professor.’
‘You haven’t introduced me to your attractive young lady, Inspector.’
‘New partner, unfortunately. Professor Daniel Finn – Detective Constable Annie Lake.’
‘Pleased to meet you, DC Lake.’
‘The feeling’s mutual, Professor. You can call me Annie.’
‘I’m honoured. And take no notice of the Inspector. In my expert opinion, he suffers from a terminal case of bah humbug.’
As they walked to the exit Lake said, ‘You called me your partner.’
‘A slip of the tongue.’
***
1537 hours
The press were huddled outside under a street light waiting for them. It was still snowing, and the darkness had brought with it a drop in temperature.
Cameras clicked, lights flashed and questions were more numerous than snowflakes.
He stood and waited until there was a semblance of quiet.
‘Thank you.’ He cleared his throat unnecessarily. ‘The body parts of two victims – a male in his mid-fifties and a female in her late forties – were left overnight at four homes in the Greater Manchester area.’
‘Shirley Fraser from the Reddish Review, Inspector. Is it true that the body parts were wrapped up like Christmas presents?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sarah Edwards from the Knutsford Hippogriff. Was the person who delivered the Christmas presents dressed as Santa?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you any idea who the two corpses were?’
‘No.’
‘Do you have any leads, Inspector? Such as a tattoo . . . ? Or maybe two?’
He spotted a flash of red and tinsel, and knew exactly who it was. ‘Yes, Miss Oakley. As you very well know, two tattoos have been found on the male victim, and we are presently trying to identify the artist concerned.’
‘Nicki Fevrier from Lyme Park Television. Do you have any suspects yet?’
‘No.’
‘Tony Morrow from the Macclesfield Vindicator. What about motive? Why spend the night before Christmas delivering body parts wrapped as Christmas presents to four houses?’
‘That’s a very good question, Mr Morrow. If we knew the answer, we’d be a long way towards solving the case. Now, if there’s nothing else . . .’
‘Excuse me.’
He recognised the now familiar voice. ‘Yes, Miss Oakley?’
‘It’s my understanding that each body part was addressed to a family member.’
Someone had obviously talked. He remained silent.
‘Have you got nothing to say, Inspector?’
‘About what, Miss Oakley?’
‘Well, I know that fitting jigsaw pieces together is a difficult concept for the police to understand, but if Santa has put the names on the tags then he knew each of the families, didn’t he?’
‘That’s our understanding.’
‘And you’ve still no idea what it’s all about?’
‘No.’
‘Barry Hutton from Radio Peover. How did he get into all the houses without somebody hearing him?’
‘We’re still trying to determine that, Mr Hutton.’
‘Are you sure it wasn’t with keys, Inspector?’
‘You seem to know more than me, Miss Oakley. Maybe I should arre
st you for withholding information.’
‘Maybe you should, Inspector. The newspapers’ lawyers would love a “false arrest” case to feast on over Christmas.’
‘That’s all there is, I’m afraid.’ He turned to Lake. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
As they made their way back to the car Lake said, ‘Tamsin Oakley seems to know more than us.’
‘Doesn’t she?’
After climbing into his car, he sat there staring into the darkness.
‘Are we going?’ Lake asked.
‘No, not yet.’
They watched Oakley return to her van and climb into the back through the side door.
‘Follow me,’ he said, and led the way across the car park to a Chevrolet G20 dark green van with smoked-glass windows and a sliding side door.
He pushed the side door open.
The back of the van was chock full of electronic equipment. A young man with a Mohican haircut and numerous piercings was busy tapping on the keyboard of a laptop computer. The driver and Tamsin Oakley were listening to his telephone conversation with the Chief.
Mohican was about to do something with the laptop.
Dark said, ‘I wouldn’t if I were you. Leave it running and put the laptop down.’
He did as he was ordered.
They could hear the Chief saying, “If she goes, you go . . .” and Dark’s response.
‘Get out,’ he said to them.
‘This is private property,’ Oakley said. ‘You can’t just . . .’
‘Save it, Oakley. If I’m not mistaken, hacking into people’s telephone conversations is currently illegal.’
He ushered them all out of the van – including the driver – to stand in the freezing snow.
‘Do you know anything about computers?’ he said to Lake.
‘A bit.’
‘A bit!’ Mohican said, his eyes nearly falling out. ‘It’s taken me years to get that shit together. We’re talking thousands of pounds, and you know a “bit”. I’ll tell you what you need to know . . .’
‘You fucking traitor, Hendrik,’ Oakley spat at him.
‘He’s caught us with our hands in the cookie jar, Tam. I have no choice but to think of my equipment now.’
