‘Possible, but we’re assuming it would have been plastic, more likely a heavy-duty rubbish bag, and they float. No way to hold them down, at least not without heavy weights.’
‘Assume the divers will not find anything,’ Isaac said. ‘Focus on the neighbours, see if they saw anything suspicious: vehicles parked nearby, any noise.’
With little more to be said, Wendy headed back to the murder site.
Larry decided to follow up on the tattoo found on the back of the torso. He believed it was significant, and if the man had been a local, then someone may remember doing it. The area around Notting Hill seemed the best possibility. It was still early when he arrived, only a ten-minute drive from Challis Street. He decided to treat himself to an English breakfast in a café, hoping that his wife would not find out.
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
