romantic,’ said Connolly. ‘’Course, it only said “Wendy” some of the time. When he got excited it said, “Welcome to Dublin, have a nice day.”’
FOUR
Unnatural Smoothness
T he source of all wisdom about tattoos at Shepherd’s Bush nick was PC Kevin Organ, whose unfortunate name was so far beyond satire he was probably the least teased man in the Job. In a youthful attempt to out-cool his disadvantage, he had had his arms so extensively tattooed they looked like two rolls of
toile de jouy
wallpaper, and he could never take advantage of short-sleeve order when it came in in the summer.
He was rumoured to have other artistic gems too, in other, hidden places, but Slider preferred not to know about that. He was not as vocal on the subject as Atherton but in his mind tattoos were a social marker, like piercings, and they didn’t belong on policemen, who ought to fade into the background of their uniform to be really effective, not make fashion statements at any level.
Fortunately, Organ’s organic furbishment was not Slider’s problem. Also fortunately, Organ was on duty that day, and at Slider’s summons came climbing up from the trolls’ dungeon behind the front shop where the woodentops lived, to the airy cloud-borne fastnesses of the CID room, to be consulted.
There were, Organ told them, four tattoo parlours in the immediate area, plus a couple of mobiles, who advertised on the Internet and came and inked you in the comfort of your own home. The four with premises were Punktures, The Fill Inn, Inkerman’s, and Blues ’n’ Tattoos – it seemed that imaginative names were all part of the culture.
The mobiles were Krazy Kris and Needlepix. ‘But you can forget them,’ Organ said as he examined the photographs of Robin Williams’s decorations. ‘These are nice inks – classy stuff. Krazy Kris, and Mona from Needlepix, couldn’t do anything as elaborate as this. Apart from anything else, you need a steady hand, and Mona drinks, and Kris, well, he’s getting on now. Must be nearly seventy. Whatever you asked him for, you’d end up with a snowstorm.’ He admired the photographs again, taking his time, pleased to be the centre of good attention for once. ‘I’d say they almost certainly came from Blues ’n’ Tattoos, in Hammersmith Road,’ he pronounced gravely. ‘If not them, then Inkerman’s, but I’d try Blues first. Honest John’s the bloke’s name, he’s the owner, and he’s a real artist.’
‘Is it a pukka emporium?’ Atherton asked. ‘Or is his sobriquet ironic?
Organ didn’t get forty per cent of the words in that, but he followed the force of the enquiry. ‘Oh, he’s right as rain,’ he said. ‘Never been in any trouble. Pays his taxes and everything.’
‘Ah. His price is above rubies.’
‘Well, you got to pay for quality work,’ Organ said defensively, then frowned. ‘Who’s Ruby? She another mobile?’
‘Just for that,’ Slider said sternly to Atherton, ‘you can go and do the enquiry.’
‘Me? No! What do I know about tattoos?’
‘You’ll know more when you’ve done it. The acquisition of knowledge is the cornerstone of civilization.’
Organ stumped away back home to the nether regions, reflecting that it was true what he’d heard, they were all bonkers in CID. Totally tonto.
Blues ’n’ Tattoos was half way along Hammersmith Road, in a small parade of shops which were a reminder of how nice Shepherd’s Bush must have looked when it was first built. The two-storey Victorian buildings were identical to the yellow-brick, slate-roofed terraced cottages in the adjacent roads, except that the ground floor had a shop window instead of the residential bay; so they blended in perfectly, and gave a gentler, more humane face to commerce. The entire parade was still made up of small businesses, too – the square footage was too small to attract chains. There was a newsagent, a café, a dry-cleaner ( SPECIAL SUMMER OFFER ON DUVET’S,
FOUR
Unnatural Smoothness
T he source of all wisdom about tattoos at Shepherd’s Bush nick was PC Kevin Organ, whose unfortunate name was so far beyond satire he was probably the least teased man in the Job. In a youthful attempt to out-cool his disadvantage, he had had his arms so extensively tattooed they looked like two rolls of
toile de jouy
wallpaper, and he could never take advantage of short-sleeve order when it came in in the summer.
He was rumoured to have other artistic gems too, in other, hidden places, but Slider preferred not to know about that. He was not as vocal on the subject as Atherton but in his mind tattoos were a social marker, like piercings, and they didn’t belong on policemen, who ought to fade into the background of their uniform to be really effective, not make fashion statements at any level.
Fortunately, Organ’s organic furbishment was not Slider’s problem. Also fortunately, Organ was on duty that day, and at Slider’s summons came climbing up from the trolls’ dungeon behind the front shop where the woodentops lived, to the airy cloud-borne fastnesses of the CID room, to be consulted.
There were, Organ told them, four tattoo parlours in the immediate area, plus a couple of mobiles, who advertised on the Internet and came and inked you in the comfort of your own home. The four with premises were Punktures, The Fill Inn, Inkerman’s, and Blues ’n’ Tattoos – it seemed that imaginative names were all part of the culture.
The mobiles were Krazy Kris and Needlepix. ‘But you can forget them,’ Organ said as he examined the photographs of Robin Williams’s decorations. ‘These are nice inks – classy stuff. Krazy Kris, and Mona from Needlepix, couldn’t do anything as elaborate as this. Apart from anything else, you need a steady hand, and Mona drinks, and Kris, well, he’s getting on now. Must be nearly seventy. Whatever you asked him for, you’d end up with a snowstorm.’ He admired the photographs again, taking his time, pleased to be the centre of good attention for once. ‘I’d say they almost certainly came from Blues ’n’ Tattoos, in Hammersmith Road,’ he pronounced gravely. ‘If not them, then Inkerman’s, but I’d try Blues first. Honest John’s the bloke’s name, he’s the owner, and he’s a real artist.’
‘Is it a pukka emporium?’ Atherton asked. ‘Or is his sobriquet ironic?
Organ didn’t get forty per cent of the words in that, but he followed the force of the enquiry. ‘Oh, he’s right as rain,’ he said. ‘Never been in any trouble. Pays his taxes and everything.’
‘Ah. His price is above rubies.’
‘Well, you got to pay for quality work,’ Organ said defensively, then frowned. ‘Who’s Ruby? She another mobile?’
‘Just for that,’ Slider said sternly to Atherton, ‘you can go and do the enquiry.’
‘Me? No! What do I know about tattoos?’
‘You’ll know more when you’ve done it. The acquisition of knowledge is the cornerstone of civilization.’
Organ stumped away back home to the nether regions, reflecting that it was true what he’d heard, they were all bonkers in CID. Totally tonto.
Blues ’n’ Tattoos was half way along Hammersmith Road, in a small parade of shops which were a reminder of how nice Shepherd’s Bush must have looked when it was first built. The two-storey Victorian buildings were identical to the yellow-brick, slate-roofed terraced cottages in the adjacent roads, except that the ground floor had a shop window instead of the residential bay; so they blended in perfectly, and gave a gentler, more humane face to commerce. The entire parade was still made up of small businesses, too – the square footage was too small to attract chains. There was a newsagent, a café, a dry-cleaner ( SPECIAL SUMMER OFFER ON DUVET’S,
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