Scarred for Life (10 page)

Jessica tried to take in as much of the surroundings as she could: initially a row of slightly rundown shops and takeaways on the right and an elaborate Chinese on the left, then, a little further down, an elaborate six-storey red-brick building on the right, an Oriental supermarket on the left and roadworks.

In the centre of the road, red and white signs read ‘road ahead closed’, as if the row of knocked-over orange traffic cones, horizontal striped barriers and the hole in the ground stretching across four lanes didn’t give it away. Still, some drivers would likely try to follow their sat navs straight through the makeshift obstruction into the ditch.

On one side, there was a stretch of three boarded-up shops next to a billboard and a covered-over bus-stop sign, with a long red-brick building on the other. Mustard-yellow boards signalled a diversion, with an arrow pointing into one of the side streets. At night, the whole area would have looked particularly bleak, even for Manchester.

With it being a little after ten in the morning, Jessica wasn’t entirely surprised to see a group of workmen in bright jackets standing around chatting, drinking tea, flicking through newspapers and looking at their phones. They must have been working for at least half an hour, so it was time for a break, after all. Give it an hour and they’d be off for lunch.

Jessica left Izzy and Dave taking photographs and approached the one who looked like he was in charge – or, in other words, the fattest one. He was just starting to tuck into a sausage roll fresh from a Greggs paper bag when she interrupted him mid-bite. ‘Are you in charge?’

‘Mmmf,’ he replied, straightening up as flaked pastry tumbled from his lips. She waited as he continued to chew, squidges of pale pink sausage oozing between his teeth and sticking there. ‘Sorry, darling, we’ll be right back on it. Just a quick five-minute rest. Back-breaking stuff, this.’

Jessica held up her identification for him to see. ‘I’m from the police.’

A look of relief flashed across his face. ‘Oh, right, sorry – I thought you were from the council.’

‘How long have these roadworks being going on?’

Before answering, he took another bite of his sausage roll, whirring a hand close to his face as he chewed. Somehow a scrap of pastry had found its way into his nostril and it fluttered distractingly as he spoke. ‘This is the start of week three. We’re resurfacing the entire stretch.’

‘And what sort of hours do you work?’

9 a.m.: Arrive and chat.

9.30 a.m.: Unload equipment from van.

10 a.m.: Morning break.

10.30 a.m.: Start digging as long as it isn’t too rainy, windy, snowy, sunny, warm or cold.

11.30 a.m.: Lunch.

1 p.m.: Continue digging as long as it isn’t too rainy, windy, snowy, sunny, warm or cold.

2.30 p.m.: Afternoon break.

3.30 p.m.: Start packing up.

4 p.m.: Knock-off.

‘We normally start at around seven,’ the foreman claimed.

‘What about finishing?’

‘Six? Sometimes seven?’

‘Is there any night-working at all – say after ten?’

He spluttered: ‘You’re ’avin’ a laugh, luv. Council don’t want to pay for that.’

‘Weekends?’

Another munch of the sausage roll: ‘Nah, you’ve gotta have some time to yourself.’

‘So between six in the evening and seven in the morning, there’s no one here?’

‘Right.’

Jessica suspected that it was more likely between around four in the afternoon and nine in the morning but it didn’t make much difference – the key thing was that this area would have been unoccupied at the time Cassie walked past it late on Thursday. With all the shadows created by the boarded-up shops and surrounding barriers for the roadworks, it would have left multiple places where someone could have hidden before grabbing her. From where she was standing Jessica could see at least half-a-dozen spots. She thanked the man for his time and then returned to Dave and Izzy, who had reached much the same conclusion as she had. Behind and in front of them, there were bright street lights, through traffic, flats and shops; here it was gloomy and shaded.

Although they might never have it confirmed, as the workmen laughed at a joke she hadn’t heard, Jessica knew instinctively that this was the spot from which Cassie had been abducted.

With a narrow width of tarmac, Tib Street was a one-way, third-of-a-mile-long throughway connecting the centre of Manchester with the main road leading in and out. Tall buildings created long shadows and with boarded-up shops, graffiti, small bars, a chippy and a hydroponics shop that definitely didn’t sell wacky baccy, it was the type of place that chain stores didn’t want to be a part of, while entrepreneurs smelled the chance for an opening into a big city. A complex web of small side streets linked it to the Northern Quarter on one side and a shortcut to the Manchester Arena and Printworks cinema and restaurant complex on the other.

Metal-shuttered cubbies and an array of cheap flats provided the perfect haven for artistic types, meaning that as the three officers weaved their way back towards the car, they passed a pair of tattoo shops within a couple of hundred metres. By the time they reached the third, Jessica couldn’t resist the lure any longer, stopping and turning to Izzy. ‘Which one do you want to go in?’

‘What for?’

‘You know why. Pick one – there’s a bunch right here.’

‘What if I didn’t bring the photo of the robber with me?’

‘I know you did. If I had to guess, you’ve got half-a-dozen copies in the car just in case.’

Dave laughed as Izzy admitted that was the exact number.

‘Why don’t we pick a shop each?’ Dave suggested. ‘We can ask about non-permanent tattoos and what someone might have used to create something that can be rubbed off. If they seem like they know what they’re on about, we can show the photo.’

‘We’ve already had someone down here going into all the shops,’ Izzy said.

‘Yes, but that was to ask if they knew anyone they’d tattooed with that design – this is different,’ Jessica said. ‘It’s more about asking what techniques someone could use and then jogging their memory about the picture we do have.’ Jessica slipped her phone out of her pocket. ‘Anyway, Bin Boy, first roll up your sleeve.’

Dave glanced from Izzy to Jessica. ‘Why?’

‘Just do it.’

He narrowed his eyes but did it anyway. Jessica focused the camera on her phone and snapped a photo of the tattoo on his inner forearm.

‘What are you going to do with that?’ he asked.

‘I’m going to ask the guy in the shop what those symbols actually mean.’

Dave looked down at the Chinese lettering on his arm, scowled, then rolled his sleeve back down. ‘I told you years ago, they mean “warrior”.’

Izzy giggled: ‘Ten quid says they don’t.’

‘I want in on that too,’ Jessica added.

Thrusting his hands into his pockets, Dave muttered something about not having any money on him and how he didn’t gamble anyway.

Five minutes later, photos in hand, and they were back. Jessica naturally picked the dingiest-looking tattoo parlour, Izzy chose the one that had an impressive if slightly pornographic-looking drawing of a barely clad woman in the window, which left Dave with the shop that had a vast mural at the front containing images of straight swords, scimitars, a kilij, assorted knives, throwing stars and any number of other weapons. Jessica assured Dave he was unlikely to get himself stabbed, but if he did then he should keep the noise down because this was a quiet area.

The shop that Jessica had chosen looked far nicer on the inside than it did on the outside. Compared to the half-closed shutters that had ‘rachal takes it up the arse’ graffitied onto them in admittedly fancy letters, the bright cream of the interior and spotless floor was a surprising change. Lining the walls were row after row of artwork ranging from small black and white letters up to elaborate prints of safari animals. There were two doors at the back, with a bored-looking slim woman resting against a desk near the front. Her long, straight black hair and bright red lips were offset against extravagant red and green tattoos winding the entire length of both arms.

Jessica didn’t ask but mentally named the woman ‘Rose’ because it was etched onto her shoulder.

‘How can I help you, luv?’ Rose asked.

‘Do you actually do the tattoos?’

‘Not yet – only piercings.’ Without missing a beat, she screeched the word ‘Bones!’ so shrilly that it made Jessica wince.

From one of the rooms at the back a man emerged wearing an apron. Average height, average weight, mid-thirties, half-smile: everything about Bones seemed perfectly normal – except for the fact that his entire bald head was tattooed with an intricate, inter-connecting pattern of shapes, lines and symbols. Around his eyes there were crescent moons, with ripple-like markings stretching out to his ears. At least half-a-dozen small rings were pinned into his right nostril, with some sort of spike poking out from the other side. As he walked towards her, Bones interlocked his fingers, cracking his knuckles and showing off his bare arms.

‘A’ight?’ he asked, with a slight hint of a local accent.

Jessica showed him her ID and asked if he could spare a few minutes. With a shrug he said it was okay if she was quick. Considering his shop was teeming with hordes of invisible people, Jessica thought it was fair enough.

‘How much do you know about temporary tattoos?’ she asked.

‘I don’t do henna,’ Bones replied.

‘I’m not sure that’s what I mean. Is there any sort of ink you use that’s particularly easy to clear away? Perhaps in the shower? Something like that?’

‘Why?’

‘It’s something we’re working on.’

‘I think she means ballpoints,’ Rose called across.

Jessica turned to Rose, who hadn’t looked up, and then back to Bones. ‘Like a biro?’ she asked.

Bones shook his head. ‘It depends on the artist. Generally, you’d use a regular tattoo gun that was slightly modified. You’d be putting the ink onto the surface of the skin, rather than puncturing it. I’ve heard of some lads who do it with an actual pen but you’d have to really know what you were doing – and trust whoever was inking you.’

Jessica thought of the tattoos she’d seen on a few prisoners over the years who had used needles or blades and a biro. They were nothing like the intricate markings on the arm of their robber.

‘How elaborate can a ballpoint tattoo be?’ she asked.

Bones shrugged, indicating the images on the walls around the room. ‘You could turn any of these into a ballpoint tattoo if you wanted – it’d cost you a lot, though.’

‘Is the ink expensive?’

He scratched his head, just below a wide arc that dipped towards his eyebrows, and glanced towards Rose. ‘It’s the time. It takes the same length to create as a real one but only lasts a few days.’

Jessica was confused. ‘So why would you get one?’

‘People rarely do. Perhaps if you were in a play or on television, something like that. If you’re doing a movie with a huge budget, then the cost doesn’t matter.’

She paused for a moment, thinking that it would be a lot of expense if you were simply going to hold up a few off-licences. Jessica took the folded photograph out of her pocket and showed it to Bones, asking what he thought of it.

He stared closely and shrugged. ‘One of your lot came around asking about this the other day.’

‘I know, but we believed it was a real tattoo then. Now I’m thinking it could be one of your ballpoint ones.’

Bones took another look but shook his head. ‘Not my thing. There are a few places around here, perhaps try them?’

Jessica was about to ask how long it might take to create when Bones started scratching at his crotch. ‘Sorry, I really need a slash. Been on the water all morning.’

Charming.

As he scurried into the back room, Jessica approached Rose again. ‘Have you ever seen anything like this?’ she asked, holding out the photo.

The woman took it. ‘Not as something temporary but it’s fairly common stuff. If you were good, you’d be drawing lines like those pretty much every day.’

‘How long would it take to come off?’

Rose shrugged and handed the photo back. ‘If you did nothing to it, it could be there four or five days, maybe longer. But you could make it really temporary by washing it off yourself.’

‘Could you smudge it by accident?’

‘Maybe. The ink’s on the skin so I suppose.’

Interesting.

Jessica put the photo away and then remembered Dave’s arm. She held up her phone, showing the photograph. ‘Any idea what this says?’ she asked.

Rose peered closely. ‘Is that Mandarin?’

‘No idea. He claims it says “warrior”.’

With a smile, Rose climbed off the stool and led Jessica to the far wall. ‘People always come in wanting things like that – “king”, “general”, “prince”, “ninja”, any old shite.’ She pointed to a string of Far-Eastern-looking characters. ‘That’s Mandarin for “warrior”. We have some steroid-freak in every few weeks asking for it.’

Jessica compared the characters on the wall to the ones on her phone. Although the design seemed similar, the exact characters were completely different. Jessica grinned: if only she could find out what the tattoo actually said.

She packed her phone away, ready to give Dave the good news, when she had one final thought. Showing Rose the photo of the robber again, Jessica asked: ‘If the ballpoint tattoos cost roughly the same as a regular tattoo, how much would this be?’

‘A few hundred?’

Definitely not worth it just to hold up an off-licence then.

Rose chewed on her tongue for a moment, before adding: ‘Well, unless you did it yourself, of course.’

Jessica glanced down at the photo, taking in the scene: balaclava, bare arms except for the drawn-on tattoo, normal height, normal weight . . .

Oh. Shite.

13

‘He’s got to be bloody somewhere,’ Jessica yelled into her phone, trying to run at the same time. ‘His head’s covered in tattoos – it’s not like he’s going to be sitting on a park bench twiddling his thumbs. I only saw him two minutes ago.’