Читать книгу Bad Sister: ‘Tense, convincing… kept me guessing’ Caz Frear, bestselling author of Sweet Little Lies - Sam Carrington, Sam Carrington - Страница 28

Thursday 8 June

Lindsay Wade spread four photos across her desk. Each enlarged image showed a different tattoo.

‘What do you make of these?’ She directed her question at Mack, who, coffee in hand, was staring at the monitor on his desk. He put his mug down and scooted over, the wheels of the chair squealing in protest. He picked up one of the photos.

‘The murderer likes birds?’

‘Helpful. What kind of bird does it look like to you?’

Mack tilted his head, squinting, then shrugged his shoulders.

‘No idea. I’m guessing it’s not one specific species, more like a mixture – seems muddled. Perhaps our killer is a crap tattooist?’

‘Quite possibly, as the other three are similar – they’re pretty muddled too.’ Lindsay handed Mack another picture.

‘I thought there were only three new tattoos. Where’s the fourth come from?’

‘We left a bit too early. When Harry was sewing Hargreaves back up, he found this one on the lower half of the torso. It revealed itself when he lifted the flap of skin that had been sliced and left hanging.’

‘Nothing else hiding in the flaps?’ Mack sniggered. Lindsay silently raised one eyebrow. He dropped his head and stared at the photo, his features suddenly serious. He gathered up the others. ‘Okay, so we’ve got four tattoos that have been created post-mortem, we’re assuming by the killer—’

‘Highly likely I’d say.’

‘He obviously had a clear reason for creating these, took some time over them, even though they’re pretty rough. So, we’ve got a bird – of unknown species. A code of some sort?’ Mack continued to sift through the photos. ‘Then, a word – I think, although I can’t make it out, and finally … lines and crosses, a pattern?’

‘That’s about as far as I got too.’ Lindsay took the photos from Mack and placed them back on her desk. ‘Do you think they could be prison-related? Or some gang code?’

‘It’s possible, I guess. Tattoos are more prevalent in the prison community in Russia and USA, though, I’d say.’

‘Okay then. We still need to look into the possibility, but …’ Lindsay bit on the inside of her cheek, thinking. ‘You suggested in the morgue they could be a message. One that only the person it’s intended for could interpret?’

‘Yes. I was thinking Connie Summers?’

‘Well, given that her name is on the dead man’s hand, I suggest we should ask her. It could be that it’s because she’s the one who’ll be able to tell us what they mean?’

‘Only one way to find out. I’ll give her a call, get her to come on in.’ Mack propelled the chair back to his desk.

‘Actually, Mack – make a copy of these pictures and go see her, will you?’

He replaced the phone, frowning. ‘But she doesn’t want us to turn up at her office, remember?’

‘Yeah. I remember.’

‘You playing some kind of mind game here?’ Mack sat back in his chair, crossing his arms.

‘No. Not at all. But I don’t want her in here quite yet. I want her independent from us until she’s given her thoughts on these tattoos. I don’t want anyone else to … contaminate her thoughts.’

‘I think you want to make her uncomfortable.’ He smiled. ‘Which is your way, I know. But won’t that jeopardise you making sure she doesn’t believe she’s a person of interest?’

‘My way? Don’t know what you mean. And no, I don’t think it will make her uncomfortable – she’ll be in her own, safe environment. I think it’ll wind her up a bit, but I also think she needs to know who’s in charge. Don’t you?’

‘Sure. I’m on it, Boss.’ Mack put two fingers to his forehead in a salute and took the photos from her.

‘Good. Make sure you only do one copy of each and bring these back to me before you go, yeah?’

‘Ah, I was hoping I could make a dozen copies and distribute them to my mates at the local tattoo parlours.’

‘That’s a good idea, actually. But just the one copy for Summers at the moment. We’ll look into showing others when we have a bit more info.’

‘Okay.’

‘And when you get to hers, keep it business, eh, Mack?’ Lindsay winked.

‘Ha. Ha. You’re so funny.’

‘Seriously, though, don’t act like you did before – we want her to assist us, not clam up because you’re rubbing her up the wrong way.’

‘Yeah, yeah. I’ll be on my best behaviour. Promise.’ He winked back.

Lindsay casually looked through the photos of the tattoos, her mind flitting from one thing to the next, the low hum of the computers and buzz of her colleagues’ discussions dissolving into the background. Her thoughts had no structure – they were erratic, not settling on one concrete idea or theory. She needed other people’s input. Raising herself from her desk, she took the pictures to the back of the room and began sticking them to the large whiteboard. Sensing the room quietening, she turned. The team had stopped what they were doing and eager, keen eyes were now trained on the photos.

‘Right, well it looks as though I already have your attention.’ Lindsay moved to the side of the board. ‘Gather round.’

The squeaking of chairs and the shuffling of shoes followed her invitation. The group of officers stood shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the whiteboard. Lindsay waited for them all to settle and then turned to the board.

‘Four pictures: each depicting a tattoo left on Hargreaves’ body post-mortem,’ she said simply. ‘Thoughts?’

There was mumbling; some hushed interchange between officers.

‘Now, now, don’t be shy. Spit it out, people.’ Lindsay picked up a dry-wipe pen and drew a line downwards at the side of the photos. ‘Brainstorm time.’ She smiled. ‘Let’s have some ideas on photo one. Go.’

As brainstorms went, it had been a productive one; not too many ridiculous ideas, and some solid possibilities as to what they were and what they could mean. None of the ideas correlated with the victim himself, or Connie Summers. Currently, they were random tattoos.

‘Guv.’ DC Clarke raised his hand from behind his desk as he replaced the receiver. ‘Got a hit on one of the names on that list of Hargreaves’ prison associates.’

‘Go on.’

‘Oscar Manning. Was released six months ago from HMP Baymead. Had links with Hargreaves on the inside. He’s the only one on the list that’s not still banged up, so could be one of the outside sources. Someone who’d be able to help orchestrate an escape attempt from the funeral.’

‘Good work. We got an address for him?’

‘No, not yet.’

‘He could still be on licence.’ Lindsay rubbed at her temples. ‘Get hold of the local probation, see what they can tell us. We need to get him in for questioning, pronto.’

Lindsay swept past the rows of desks, working her way back to the whiteboard. The amount of time she’d spent staring at the photos of the tattoos meant she’d probably never get them out of her head. It would be far worse if she couldn’t figure out their relevance – they’d forever taunt her. Hopefully, Mack would get something to go on, something that might link the tattoos – either to each other, or to the victim, or Connie herself.