Blood Never Dies by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles Page A

other places – on the razor, the lid of the loo and the flush handle, for instance. I think for all practical purposes we can count that out and assume it was murder.’
    ‘Well, that’s a relief,’ Connolly said.
    ‘Yes, too many caveats spoil the broth,’ Atherton said. ‘So, what now?’
    ‘The pizza’s good, guv,’ said Hollis. ‘I mean, that’s almost bound to be local. Nobody buys a pizza a long way from home.’
    ‘It might have been delivered,’ Atherton said.
    ‘Either way,’ said Hollis. ‘You don’t want it cold.’
    ‘We’ve got an approximate time, too,’ Slider said. ‘If it wasn’t delivered, if he called in on his way home from somewhere, he may have had the murderer with him, and we might get a sight of them on someone’s security tapes. If it
was
delivered, the delivery person may have seen something.’
    ‘And in either case someone might have known him,’ said Swilley. ‘Guys living alone eat a lot of takeaway pizza.’
    ‘He must have eaten it out, at a restaurant,’ Atherton said. ‘You seem to be forgetting there was no empty pizza box in the flat.’
    ‘Black-sack man took it away with the rest of the stuff,’ Swilley said witheringly. She was tall, leggy and
Baywatch
gorgeous, and often faintly antagonistic to Atherton, whom she had viewed in times past, in his woman-hunting days, as a philandering, sexist pig. Even though he had calmed down, not to mention settled down, you generally could have chipped bits off the way she looked at him and dropped them in your gin and tonic. ‘The pizza, the vodka, the bath – it’s all part of a seduction scene. There was someone there with him.’
    ‘Well, we
know
that,’ Atherton said, withering back.
    ‘A woman, I mean,’ Swilley said.
    ‘Needn’t be a woman,’ Connolly put in. ‘He might a been light on his feet, for all we know.’
    ‘Either way, it probably means the pizza was delivered,’ Swilley said.
    ‘Job for somebody,’ Slider intervened. ‘Asking round all the local pizza places.’ Everyone looked at McLaren and then away again.
    ‘I’ll do it if you want,’ he said meekly.
    ‘I wouldn’t put temptation in your way,’ said Slider. ‘Mackay, it’s yours.’
    ‘What about these tattoos, boss?’ Connolly asked.
    She was examining the photos. The tattoos were rather fine work: on the victim’s left thigh a leaping tiger, very fierce and muscular, and on the left ankle a dragon winding round, the forked tail on the inside and the fire-breathing head on the outside. ‘Leaping tiger, hidden dragon,’ she said. ‘Sure this is a grand piece o’ work altogether. You’d be looking for a real artist.’
    ‘What do you know about tattoos?’ Slider asked, amused.
    ‘I haven’t got one meself,’ she said, ‘but me sister back home got this little bluebird on her shoulder. Only about the size of me thumbnail, but me Da went mental, said she might as well go out and rent herself a lamp post. But he’s a dinosaur, me Da. Everyone’s got ’em these days. It’s body art.’
    ‘It’s utter stupidity,’ Atherton countered.
    ‘Don’t sugar-coat it, Jim,’ Swilley murmured. ‘Say what you really mean.’
    ‘Anyway,’ Atherton went on, ‘you’re hopelessly out of date. All the big stars are getting them removed now. Johnny Depp, Angelina Jolie, Charlie Sheen . . .’
    ‘Sure, how would you know?’ Connolly asked, trying not to be impressed.
    ‘I read the papers,’ he said. ‘Little trick you pick up as you go through life. Point is, if they were recent, it means he’d managed to get through the rest of his life so far without them, so why suddenly do it now, just when it’s going out of fashion?’
    ‘I’d bet it was a new girlfriend,’ said Connolly, ‘and she dared him to do it. Me friend back home dared her boyfriend get one on his lad. He got her name, Wendy.’
    ‘He had “Wendy” tattooed on his penis?’ Atherton asked with the greatest scepticism.
    ‘T’was fierce