Mary Carmody still hadn’t rung him by mid-afternoon. Nor had Abra. Though, obviously, Rafferty had rung her a few times. She’d snapped at him the last time he rang, he reflected ruefully. He was beginning to think he was never destined to be a daddy.
‘Can you get his picture off to the Drug Squad, Dafyd? I know it’s a long shot. But they might recognise him. By the look of his arms, he must have been a regular customer of theirs at one time.’
Llewellyn nodded and turned back to his screen.
Rafferty mused on what the baby would look like when it finally deigned to arrive, and that, in turn, caused him to think about another face. That of the corpse. That faint feeling of familiarity still clung to him as determinedly as ghostly fingers, and once again he ran through his mind a line-up of criminals he had known. He dismissed them, one by one. And he was vaguely stretching his mind towards an elusive name, an elusive face, when the phone rang. It made him jump. Heart pounding, he snatched it up. ‘Rafferty?’
‘Inspector Rafferty? Incident Room here. We’ve a chap on the phone, a tattooist, who says he recognises the dead man’s tattoo.’
‘Another one? We only put it out a few hours ago.’ The vague, barely remembered face of the elusive criminal vanished back into the dark recesses of memory.
‘That’ll be the wonders of the internet.’
‘Very likely. Does he sound kosher? Or is he another one with a screw loose?’ They’d had a few calls like that since they’d circulated the picture of the corpse, bringing hope that soon faded, to be replaced by an irritation at the incomprehensibility of humanity.
‘I’d hardly send you a nutter,’ complained the anonymous voice, while Rafferty gave a silent guffaw, because someone had. Several someone’s. ‘Are you in?’
More in hope than expectation, Rafferty said, ‘If you reckon it’s a definite possible.’
Ignoring Rafferty’s doubts, the officer said confidently, ‘I’ll put him through. Name’s Neil Samms.’
At least the anonymous male voice could operate the equipment, because there were none of Bill Beard’s fumbles with the technology, and the next voice he heard said, ‘Inspector?’
‘Speaking. I gather you’re a tattooist.’
‘Yeah. That’s right. I particularly remember that one because he wanted me to make it look rough, you know, amateur?’
‘Why would he want that?’
Neil Samms laughed. ‘I reckoned he was going to pretend to his girlfriend that he’d done the tattoo himself. To demonstrate his undying love. Or something. Proving resistant to his charms, probably. Just as long as he didn’t tell anyone I’d done it. I’ve my professional reputation to think of.’
That had Rafferty raising his eyebrows. He hadn’t thought that tattooists had a professional reputation to ruin. Seemed he was wrong about that. ‘Where do you live, Mr Samms?’
‘In Elmhurst. Why? Where are you based?’
‘Elmhurst.’
‘That’s handy.’
It was, too. ‘Can you come in? Or we can come to you. Whichever you prefer.’
‘I’d prefer you to come here. I’m booked solid this week.’
‘That’s fine. When can you fit us in? Today?’
There was silence on the other end.
‘Mr Samms?’
‘Sorry. I was just thinking. If you can come this afternoon around three? I usually have a short break then, so I could speak to you.’
‘That’s good of you, sir, thank you. What’s your address?’
Samms told him.
‘I know it. We’ll see you at three.’
Rafferty put the phone down and said, ‘Result. The tattooist. Well a tattooist. But seems a likely prospect. We’re seeing him at three.’ He gave Llewellyn the address, just in case he forgot it. Or more likely, because addresses weren’t his strong point, and his brain was all over the place, in the certain case that did forget it.
There was nothing else much happening, so Rafferty was surprised to find himself agreeing to go out in plenty of time for their three o’clock appointment. And even with Llewellyn driving, they were still there with time in hand. Only to find themselves in the waiting room, twiddling their thumbs, while they heard from the high-pitched drone that Neil Samms was still hard at work.
‘I knew we left too early,’ complained Rafferty. ‘I could have had that second cup of tea.’ He got up restlessly, and peered at the examples of the tattooists’ art adorning the walls, from red roses to extraordinarily complicated grotesques in vibrant primary colours, that had him shaking his head in amazement, that anyone should choose to have them etched into their skin, to live with them every day. And every night. Clearly some of Samms’s clients had no fear of nightmares. Having exhausted Samms’ examples of his art, he slumped in a chair with a heavy sigh.
‘Well, we’re here now. I’m sure Mr Samms won’t be long.’ As if in admonishment to a child, Llewellyn said, ‘Read a magazine.’
Rafferty grinned quietly to himself, as his sergeant acted the weary parent with an overactive child, then did as Llewellyn suggested. The magazine was only four years old. Nice. As he flicked through, not seeing anything, he heard the drill cease. He closed the magazine with a snap. A minute later, out walked a man who was a picture. Literally. Rafferty couldn’t take his eyes off him.
Once the man had paid and left, Samms commented, ‘One of my best customers.’
Rafferty stood up and smiled a greeting. Samms was a fair picture himself, swirling green dragons climbed up his arms with their two heads meeting at his neck, in mutual fire breath beneath a weak chin and a wispy moustache. ‘I’m not surprised. He looks very profitable.’
Samms grinned in turn, and said, without a trace of self-awareness, ‘Some people just don’t do minimalism.’ Samms pulled the bolt across his front door and said, ‘Come in.’ He walked through, and Rafferty and Llewellyn followed.
‘I’ll get another chair.’
‘Don’t worry on our account,’ Rafferty said hurriedly, aware, if he sat down, he might just nod off. ‘So, Mr Samms, tell us about the tattoo in our broadcast.’
‘God, it must have been all of ten years ago now. I remember it because it was so unusual to get a request for amateur hour.’
‘And the man—do you remember the man?’
‘Not really. But I’ve still got the paperwork if you’re interested. Never throw anything away. My girlfriend says I’m crackers.’
God, did that mean they might soon be able to identify their victim? Rafferty’s heart beat an excited little pitter-patter.
‘Of course, I’ve got to find it first.’ Rafferty’s heart calmed down again at that. ‘I’ve been going fifteen years, so that’s quite a search. But they’re organised into tax years, incomings, outgoings, so it should be a quicker look than it sounds.’
Rafferty nodded as his heart practically came to a dead stop. Abra saw to their paperwork or he’d be a hoarder, too. Before they’d got married he’d had bank statements going back to when he was sixteen, and started work. It was fascinating to look back and see the cost of things. Or it would have been. They’d all gone now, of course, Abra had seen to that. Cleared all the clutter when they’d moved from the flat.
‘This receipt, is it likely to give this man’s name?’
‘No. But it’ll give an address. I always ask new clients for their address, I check it out, too. It saved me from rubber cheques, though cheques, rubber or otherwise, are as rare as hen’s teeth now. Even if he’s since moved, you should be able to find his ID.’
That was true. Rafferty smiled. ‘I don’t suppose you could have a quick look now?’
‘Sorry, but I don’t keep the paperwork here. Not enough room. But I’ll look tonight.’ There came a rattle, then a knock on the outside door. ‘That’s my next customer. She’s early.’ He smiled. ‘No peace for the wicked.’
Rafferty took the hint. ‘Can you give my sergeant your home address and phone number?’
‘Sure.’ He turned to Llewellyn, who whipped out a pen and notebook, as Samms rattled them off.
He ushered them out, greeting his next customer as he did so. She was a young woman who, by the look of her, was well on the way towards being as much a walking picture as his previous customer. The door shut behind her and Samms.
‘Have you ever fancied getting a tattoo, Dafyd?’
‘No.’ Llewellyn shuddered.
‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’
‘Why a lovely young woman like that should want to cover her perfect skin with a garish red and green snake, is so far beyond me—’
‘I thought of having one once. But there was never the money for luxuries like that. Anyway, Ma would have had the hide off me. And then when I could have afforded it, the thought of the pain persuaded me otherwise.’ And the needles. Don’t forget the needles.
‘Just as well. I doubt Superintendent Bradley has much of a tolerance for tattoos.’
‘No. There’s none of the rebel soul in his bosom. I bet he was shaping up to be a bureaucrat in his cradle.’ Rafferty paused and looked back. A slow grin appeared. ‘Perhaps I should book an appointment? I rather fancy St George and the Dragon. Guess who’s the dragon?’
‘Think of the pain.’
Rafferty’s grin faded. ‘There is that,’ he agreed.
‘Though why you should even think of deliberately antagonising the Superintendent, I can’t imagine.’
‘No. You wouldn’t. He’s blocked any hopes of me advancing here – I’m waiting him out as he’s convinced he’s destined for higher things in Chelmsford – so why shouldn’t I look to needle him? Needle him, get it?’ Rafferty chuckled quietly to himself. He glanced at Llewellyn, but his face was unamused at his facility with words.
Llewellyn shrugged. ‘It’s your choice, of course. It depends whether you wish to have a career of any sort by this time next year. You’re an expectant father. And if I understand correctly, Abra wants several children. So—’
Trust Llewellyn to hit the nub of the matter. Rafferty’s brief flirtation with drills and dragons faded. ‘All right. You’ve persuaded me. No tattoo. Not even a small one.’
‘Far be it from me to persuade or dissuade you. I’m sure you’re perfectly capable of understanding the facts. You will do what you want in the end.’
Llewellyn walked ahead, bringing the conversation to an end. Rafferty looked after him and muttered, ‘There’s damn all rebel in your soul, either,’ before he walked slowly after him.
***
On his way back to the station, Rafferty instructed Llewellyn to stop off at the hospital. He wanted to visit Matheson, who had regained consciousness. He left Llewellyn in the car, fretting about the only parking space he could find, which was beside an enormous Chelsea Tractor.
‘Wait here,’ he said tersely. ‘I doubt I’ll be long.’ Shaking his head at Llewellyn, Chelsea Tractors, and the sky that had come over gloomy, with several large and threatening clouds, he made his way through the hospital’s maze of corridors.
Matheson seemed none the worst for his experience. He spoke lucidly, clearly recognising his family who had been at the hospital all this time. He waited patiently, while Matheson’s mother and father hugged him, showing their love and relief. His parents began to move, expressing a wish to leave Matheson and his long-standing girlfriend some peace. They headed towards the canteen. After a brief, apologetic chat with Matheson’s girlfriend, Rafferty moved to the bedside of the young officer.
‘Good to see you awake and making sense. Are you feeling all right?’ Rafferty conducted a quick, surreptitious examination. Colour good. Eyes clear and steady.
‘Apart from a thumping headache, sir.’
‘Do you remember anything that happened?’ When Matheson began shaking his head, Rafferty added desperately, ‘Anything at all?’
‘Not really. But I do remember one thing.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘The smell. Whoever hit me had a very expensive aftershave.’
Rafferty frowned while he thought about it. Matheson was showing signs of graduating in the Llewellyn school of personal grooming. He’d know an expensive aftershave, whereas Rafferty admitted he wouldn’t have had a clue. It was fortunate that it was Matheson rather than Peters who had been clubbed over the head. Peters was of splash it all over fraternity, no matter how his colleagues pulled his plonker about it.
This investigation was getting curiouser and curiouser. Okay, there was no reason to think that drug addicts or their cohorts didn’t wear expensive aftershave. He was sure some of the cocaine snorting City traders had expensive everything, so awash with cash were they. It surprised him all the same.
‘Thanks for that. Any idea which one?’
‘Yes. Nirvana Pour Homme.’
Rafferty had never heard of it. He had his old faithfuls and he stuck to them. Occasionally, Abra tried to wean him off them and bought him a different brand, but somehow, he always ended up coming back to his favourites.
Curious to know how Matheson knew the scent if he could only stand with his nose pressed against the glass of their High Street’s high-class perfumier, he asked about it.
Matheson looked a little sheepish as he admitted, ‘I go in there regularly and I always have a dab of the tester.’
Rafferty was impressed. It was more than he dared do. The assistants in there acted as if they were only one down from God. He had been in there once, and had felt so uncomfortable he’d never tried it again. He looked at Matheson with new respect. ‘So how much would that go for?’
Matheson named a figure that had Rafferty whistling.
‘Really? Two hundred smackers? Who in the hell would spend that just to smell nice?’
‘You might be surprised, sir.’
Evidently. He told Matheson to take as long as he needed. His own uniformed inspector might have other ideas of course, but it had been a nasty injury and he’d only just regained consciousness. He hadn’t even tried walking yet. Who knew what lingering effects would make their presence felt in due course? Head injuries, as Sam Dally himself had admitted, were tricky things, and their extent not always immediately apparent.
He said goodbye to the young officer, added, ‘Thanks,’ with a quick smile for his waiting girlfriend, and took himself down to the mortuary. Sam would tell him what the prognosis was. He knew he’d get the truth from him.
He found Sam Dally preparing to disinter the insides of another corpse, and hastily interrupted him with a question about Matheson.
‘The consultant saw him,’ said Sam. ‘So—’
‘So, never mind the consultant. Have you seen Matheson?’
‘I did pop up when I knew the consultant was doing his rounds.’
‘And? What did he tell you, medic to medic?’
‘The secrets of the confessional mean nothing to you, do they, Rafferty?’
Rafferty waved this aside. ‘Just tell me, Sam. There’s a young man with his life before him upstairs. I want to know what sort of life he can expect.’
Sam stood back and considered. ‘Well, he’s had his scans. Looked okay. He may well make a perfect recovery.’
‘But?’
‘There’s the possibility of recurring headaches. Headaches of surprising severity. The consultant obviously tested his reflexes. No trouble there. Look, he seemed fine. Let’s just meet any other problems as they present themselves. No sense looking for trouble.’
‘That’s not much comfort.’
‘Well, I see the end result. Of everything. So what else do you expect? Are you staying? Only, I’ve a particularly interesting specimen here.’
Rafferty shook his head and backed away. He went out, followed by Sam’s mocking laughter. It was only later that he realised he hadn’t even noticed the cloying smell of death all around him. Perhaps he was finally desentis…desentisitis…getting less sensitive. Or perhaps his senses felt as weary as he did, which was more likely.
They drove back to the station. The dark clouds had vanished while he was in the hospital. He hadn’t appreciated till then what a beautiful day it was. As they drove back over Tiffey Reach, across the River Tiffey, past the Priory ruins where the dig was, and the sixteenth century Almshouses, he took it as an omen, for Matheson, their tame tattooist finding the victim’s address, and for his solving this case in particular.
They got back just as Mary Carmody was ushering a woman out.
‘Another misper possible,’ she mouthed at him, as he held the door open for them. He just nodded, smiled regretfully at the woman as she went past him, and then went up the back stairs to his office.
‘How’s Matheson?’ Llewellyn enquired as Rafferty sat down, and looked hopefully at him for a mug of tea. An enquiry not made before as Llewellyn had struggled to extricate himself from not one, but two Chelsea Tractors, hemming him in. An attempt not helped by Rafferty’s advice to, ‘Take the paint off the bastards.’ And Llewellyn’s reply that if it had been Rafferty’s car, he just might. Which was a monstrous flirt with the law for Llewellyn. Llewellyn’s car, polished to an inch of its life, was safe from such dangers.
‘He’s fighting fit,’ said Rafferty, determinedly shrugging aside Sam Dally and his look on the black side. ‘Sitting up, taking notice, family all about him, and generally looking better than I feel most days.’
‘That’s good news. I’ll go and see him this evening. Is there anything in particular that he would like me to take him?’
Rafferty’s face fell as he realised he’d gone hospital visiting empty-handed. Then he remembered and he smiled. ‘Try smellies. Expensive ones. You’ll know the sort.’ He mentioned the sort their particular criminal favoured, and Matheson’s look of longing. Llewellyn seemed almost misty-eyed for a moment, before logic reasserted itself.
‘Perhaps not quite that expensive.’
Rafferty sat down and glanced at his paper-strewn desk, which had spawned in his absence. ‘Any chance of a cup—?’
Llewellyn sighed faintly. ‘I was just about to. Though have you ever thought of what your stomach must look like? Served a waterfall of tea, it must be stained dark brown by now.’
‘Nothing wrong with strong tea. I’m forever reading in the papers how good for you it is.’
‘In the quantities you consume it? And when one considers the dreadful state it leaves your mug in—’
Rafferty waved his comments aside and Llewellyn disappeared through the door. He settled down to read the latest reports, only coming up for air when Llewellyn returned with the tea.
‘Ah. The cup that cheers.’ He took a huge slurp from his giant mug for Llewellyn’s benefit. ‘I feel better already. You should try it.’
Llewellyn tended to drink lemon tea, the sugarless variety, of course, or he brought green tea from home, and charged it up with boiling water from the canteen.
‘I prefer to preserve my stomach.’
‘Mine must be well preserved by now then.’ Rafferty grinned. ‘Practically an antique.’
‘But do you want an antique stomach in your early forties?’
‘Why not? I’ll qualify for Antiques Roadshow. I’ll be” oow-ed” and “ah-ed” over by the ladies. Best of all, I’ll be on the telly. As that seems to be the aspiration of the age, I’ll be doing well with only one antique brown-stained stomach to recommend me.’
Llewellyn shook his head as at a lost cause, and sat down at his desk where he quietly immersed himself in paperwork.
‘So how many suspected mispers’ families have we had look at our cadaver so far?’
Rafferty hadn’t kept up, knowing Mary would soon tell him if they had a potential match. It was the sort of thing Llewellyn would be sure to have at his fingertips, though.
And he did.
‘Eleven. None of them a match. All that hopeful emotion lives to fight another day.’
‘One way of looking at it. Not advancing our investigation though. I’m beginning to think Smales was right, and we’ve got an unloved loner. Wouldn’t be surprising for a druggie with what they put their families through, though you’d think they’d at least want to claim him and give him a decent burial.’
‘Possibly they wouldn’t recognise him if they hadn’t seen him for some years. Drugs tend to age one so dreadfully. He was very emaciated.’
‘True. Sad what life does to some people.’
‘Quite.’
Why did he know Llewellyn was thinking of his antique brown-stained stomach when he looked at him in that tone of voice?
***
It was after a sandwich lunch at their desks that Mary Carmody popped her head round the door.
‘Can I have a word, Guv?’
‘You can have several,’ Rafferty replied jovially. ‘Which ones would you like?’
‘These ones. You know that woman you saw me with at the door earlier?’
‘Yeah. What about her?’
Mary let go of the door and advanced into the room. ‘Might be nothing, but I could have sworn she recognised the dead man.’
‘And she denied it, I take it?’
‘Yes. Adamant, she was.’
‘We’ve got her address?’
‘Yes. But I’ve just checked. It doesn’t exist.’
‘Hmm.’ He studied Mary for a moment, then he smiled. ’Don’t look so worried. This could just be our first break.’ Alternatively, it could be nothing of the sort, just a sad woman who liked looking at corpses. ‘If we get no other leads we’ll put her picture out.’ The police station cameras automatically videoed everyone who came and went from the front and back entrances. ‘Get you to work on her face with the police artist. Right, Mary?’
Mary nodded and went out.
Rafferty got on with studying the latest reports, from those of the team checking out the cameras on the various main roads leaving Elmhurst, Lilley and his little band investigating the foreigner angle, and those looking into the increasingly worrying possibility that the dead man was a loner missed by nobody.
Something would turn up, he told himself again. But it was a hope that was getting progressively more tarnished as the negative reports continued to come in. He tried to think of what he had failed to do. But he knew Llewellyn, far more on the ball at the moment than he was, would soon remind him if there was anything.
He propped his eyelids open with metaphorical matchsticks, and ploughed on with the reports. But his diligence went unrewarded and he threw the last of them back on his desk with a weary sigh.