Phil entered the interview room. The young man at the other side of the table looked up. He was affecting boredom, ennui, but Phil knew that something hissed and fizzed behind his eyes. The machine seemed to be running smoothly. But somewhere the circuits were shorting out. He was wearing a short sleeved T-shirt and jeans.
‘No jacket?’ said Phil. ‘Cold outside.’
‘Didn’t have time to get it when I was pulled in here.’ His voice laced with sarcasm.
Phil sat down opposite him. Put the manila folder he had been carrying on the table. Introduced himself. ‘And you are?’
‘Martin Trotter.’ The man spoke his name slowly and clearly, a hint of sarcasm remaining.
Phil checked a piece of paper in front of him. ‘You live in Ladywood, by the reservoir…’ He read down. ‘You work in marketing. Oh. You’re unemployed.’
Trotter bristled. ‘Between jobs at the moment.’
‘Know why you’re here?’
‘’Cos your lot pulled me in. I’ve done nothing. I was attacked.’ He rubbed the back of his neck where the Taser had hit him. ‘Defended myself.’
‘D’you want a solicitor?’
‘Not now,’ Trotter said. ‘Later. When I sue your fucking arses off.’ He laughed, sat back, arms folded.
Phil, relieved, ignored the comment. ‘Arm,’ he said.
Trotter frowned. ‘What?’
‘I want to see your arm.’
Trotter stretched out his right arm. Phil took a photo from the manila folder, checked the image of the tattoo against the one on Trotter’s forearm. A good match. He put the photo away, sat back.
Trotter retracted his arm, looked puzzled. ‘Happy now?’ he said.
‘Ecstatic. Right.’ He looked up, straight at Trotter. Face professionally blank. ‘What were you doing in the cinema?’
Trotter gave a snort, tightened his arms round his chest. ‘What d’you think?’
Phil didn’t reply.
Trotter leaned forward. ‘Fucking.’ He said it with relish, like a little boy challenging his parents with a naughty word. He sat back, pleased with himself, clearly thinking he had the upper hand. Phil kept eye contact with him as he asked the next question.
‘Where’d you get the tattoo, Martin?’ His voice light yet authoritative.
Trotter’s attitude changed. His cockiness slipped as a shade passed over his features. ‘Why d’you want to know?’ His voice suddenly cagey, hollow. ‘D’you want one or something?’ Aiming for bravado. Missing.
Phil resisted the urge to smile. Contented himself with doing it inwardly. He had made a hit. ‘Don’t see many like that,’ he said.
‘You should move in more exciting circles, then.’ Something passed across Trotter’s face. He immediately regretted his words but didn’t want his regret to show.
Phil knew he was on to something now. Coppers in interviews are like lions bringing down wildebeest, his ex-DCI Gary Franks had once said. Any weakness, you just pounce on it. Go in for the kill.
‘Really? What kind of circles are those, Martin?’
Trotter said nothing.
‘Come on, Martin. If your life’s more exciting than mine, tell me about it.’
Trotter flinched, but he still said nothing. Phil decided to change his line of questioning. ‘What’s so special about that design?’ he asked. ‘Just looks like a twisted cage.’
Trotter gave another snort. ‘Shows what you know,’ he said, trying to regain the upper hand once more.
‘Really?’ said Phil, eyes wide in mock-ignorance. ‘What is it then?’
Trotter looked smug. He lifted up his arm, admired the design. ‘A DNA double helix. The symbol of life itself.’ He shook his head, gave another snort of laughter. ‘Twisted cage…’
‘I want to see it again,’ said Phil.
Trotter’s skin was cold to the touch. Phil angled the desk lamp over the tattoo. Examined it closely. He looked up.
‘This isn’t real.’
Trotter looked slightly embarrassed. ‘Never said it was.’
‘Just temporary. Printed, not inked.’
‘So?’
‘Can’t afford a proper one?’
Trotter stared at him. ‘Fuck you.’
Phil leaned across the table. ‘How do you know Glenn McGowan?’
Trotter stared at him, his brows knitted, his features puzzled. ‘Who?’
Phil continued. ‘Glenn McGowan. You might know him better as Amanda.’ He took some photos from the folder, displayed them in front of Trotter.
Trotter inclined his head forward, studied them. It didn’t take long. His head snapped back, eyes on Phil once more. ‘Her. Yeah, I know her.’
‘He, or she, was murdered.’
‘Murdered?’ A light came on in Trotter’s eyes. ‘Is that the one they’re talking about on the TV?’ He smiled. ‘A TV on the TV.’ He laughed.
‘Hilarious,’ said Phil. ‘So where did you know her from?’
‘The —’ He started to speak, stopped. His lips coming down fast, abruptly cutting off the words.
‘Where?’ Phil’s voice calm, inquisitorial.
Trotter put his head back. His eyes were hooded, unreadable. He shrugged. ‘Here and there. Around. Bars and that. Clubs.’ His eyes slid away once more.
‘Which ones? Which clubs?’
His lips came together. His eyes stared at the tabletop.
‘Which clubs, Martin?’
Trotter looked up, a light coming on in his eyes. ‘You think I murdered her? Is that what this is about it? You want to pin it on me?’
‘So tell me why I shouldn’t charge you.’
‘Because I barely knew her.’ He sat back, arms folded. Smiled. ‘Changed my mind. Here’s me waiting for my solicitor.’
Phil pretended he hadn’t heard the last bit. ‘If you barely knew her, how do you explain the fact that you were seen at her house?’
‘What? I wasn’t.’
‘You were. Not only that, you had sex with Amanda.’
‘What? This is… this is a stitch-up…’ His eyes darted desperately round the room once more.
Phil remained calm. ‘We’ve got it on DVD, Martin.’
He began to shake his head wildly. ‘You can’t have… You’re lying, you’re fucking lying… I swear, it wasn’t me…’
‘Really? Here’s a couple of tips, Martin. If you want to video yourself having sex, don’t do it with someone who then ends up dead. And try to hide any distinguishing marks or features.’
Trotter looked puzzled. ‘What?’
‘The tattoo, the temporary one that looks like you’ve inked it in again when it started to fade. The symbol of life itself,’ said Phil. ‘How appropriate. Life is what you’re looking at now, Martin.’
Then Trotter did something that Phil hadn’t been expecting. He laughed.
‘Something funny?’
‘Yeah,’ said Trotter. ‘What you’ve just said.’
‘You’ve just been identified from your tattoo. There can’t be many of them around.’
‘You think?’
Phil felt like a winter pond skater who had underestimated how thin the ice was. ‘You’re saying there’s more?’
‘Oh yeah,’ said Trotter.
‘How many?’
Trotter looked at his arm, then back at Phil. Something dark and ugly danced in his eyes.
‘Loads,’ he said.