‘He didn’t see me.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘It was dark. I remember a short man wearing a leather jacket.’
Wendy asked for another cup of tea, aware that in time the woman would remember some other piece of information: trivial to her, vital to the police investigation.
Twenty-five minutes later came a knock at the door. Lynn Gregory identified herself and kissed her mother on the cheek. She pulled Wendy over to one side. ‘She’s getting old. Her memory plays tricks on her.’
‘We’ll verify what she told us in due course.’
‘Good. Just don’t place too much credence on it though.’
As all four left the house, Mrs Gregory fussing over leaving her home, she looked over at the road. ‘That’s the colour,’ she said, pointing to a car parked in front of her daughter’s.
‘Is that the car?’ Jenny asked.
‘Oh, no. The car was smaller, more like Lynn’s.’
Wendy realised that it may not have been a Toyota Corolla that the old woman had seen, but the colour and the size were significant. Very early morning there would not have been too many vehicles on the road, and once outside of the residential area, there would be surveillance cameras, especially in areas of traffic control.
The teams reassembled close to the Waterfront Café to debrief. Apart from Wendy and Jenny, no one had any further information. Wendy declared the search concluded for the day.
As she was leaving, the owner of the Waterfront Café came over. ‘I’m losing money,’ he said. It was evident to Wendy that he was not in a good mood, but how he was losing money was unclear. The weather was atrocious, and of those walking along the street above, none were tourists looking for a coffee and a meal.
‘It’s a crime scene. If you’ve an issue, you’ll have to take it up with our public relations department.’
‘I will need compensating.’
Wendy gave him the number. Fat chance, she thought.
Chapter 4
‘The tattoo interests us.’ Isaac stood in Graham Pickett’s office. The pathologist was sitting down behind his desk, the top of it covered in X-rays and reports.
‘Why?’
‘It may help to identify the body. Is it possible to determine how it was applied, the type of pen, the ink?’
‘Forensics is working on it,’ Pickett said. Isaac realised the man was almost friendly; the first time he had seen the man’s countenance with anything closely resembling a smile.
Pickett phoned Martin Wallbridge, the forensic scientist who had been entrusted with analysing the tattoo. Wallbridge came over to Pickett’s office and introduced himself to Isaac. To Isaac, he represented the nerdish scientist with pens in the top pocket of his white lab coat.
‘We’re one step ahead of you, and frankly, your people are always pushing for an early result,’ Wallbridge said.
‘You must be used to it now,’ Isaac said.
‘It’s still irritating,’ Pickett said.
‘Sorry about that, but what can you tell us?’
‘Crudely applied. The ink used was graphite mixed with water. It was done in prison,’ Wallbridge said.
‘That’s what we thought. Are you certain?’
‘Unless he was there on a day visit and decided to get a cheap tattoo,’ Pickett said, reverting to type.
Wallbridge, a gentler man, answered straight after Pickett. ‘In prison they have problems with the inks as well as the equipment necessary, so they improvise. Graphite, they get it from a pencil, and then they crush it and mix it with water. It works well enough. It’s not the best quality, but in prison they don’t have much choice.’
‘What about colours?’ Isaac asked.
‘A pencil only comes in black. For colour, they’d need a gel roller pen, but they’d need to be careful. No metallic content or acrylic, and it has to be water soluble.’
‘And the equipment?’
‘They make their own: a motor from a play station, a biro, a bent toothbrush or a spoon, some electrical tape, and a needle.’
‘Where would they get the needle?’
‘Guitar string, sewing needle. As I said before, it’s crude, but it works.’
‘It sounds unpleasant,’ Isaac said.
‘It is,’ Wallbridge replied.
‘Does that answer your question?’ Pickett asked. The man had a disinterested look as if he wanted his office back.
‘Almost. Just one more question. Is it possible to tell which prison?’
Wallbridge looked up into the air before answering. ‘Somewhere where the smuggling’s under control, or else it would have been in colour.’
***
Isaac, back in the office, had another job for Bridget, once she was free from working with Wendy. Bridget was still the best CCTV viewing officer at Challis Street Police Station, and now there was a car to find.
Isaac spoke to Wendy. ‘Any luck?’
‘We’re accessing the cameras now,’ Wendy replied.
‘Where are you looking?’
‘The main entry points into the area. It was early, so we should be able to isolate the vehicle, assuming our source is reliable.’
‘Is it?’
‘Hard to say. The woman was vague, but she was adamant on the size and the colour. Anyway, we’ll know soon enough. How about you, sir?’
‘Some success. The man had spent time in prison.’
‘That’s a lot of people.’
‘If you can identify a vehicle, as well as a registered owner, it might help to identify the body.’
‘We’ll try our best.’
‘And once Bridget is finished with you, I need her to research prison databases.’
Isaac then phoned Larry. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m checking out gangs in the area,’ Larry replied.
‘Are there many?’
‘There’s enough, mainly Jamaicans.’
‘Forensics is sure the tattoo was done in prison.’
‘Most gang members would know what the other side of prison bars looks like.’
‘The spider’s web indicates a lengthy term in jail.’
‘It could still represent a
