‘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 the 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
