literally has suspicious death written all over it.’
‘Literally?’
‘Sometimes I wonder how you ever made it to sergeant, let alone detective inspector.’ Cadwallader wavedhis hand at the body, blackened by the intricate web of designs covering every inch of skin.
‘The tattoos?’
‘Yes, Tony. The tattoos. Unusual enough that someone would go to such lengths. I’ve read a few stories of full body tattooing, but it’s very rare.’
‘So this was an unusual person. Should make identification a lot easier.’
‘Oh I very much doubt that. Quite the opposite.’
‘How so? Surely—’
‘These tattoos are all fresh. Some of them are barely healed. I doubt a single one’s more than a month old.’
‘We’re going to need a room. Somewhere not too far from the Weatherly case.’
Back at the station and McLean was feeling the effects of his walk to the mortuary. His thigh ached deep in the bone. He wanted to lie down somewhere comfortable until the painkillers kicked in, but he’d stupidly left them at home. The thought of running two murder investigations side by side was bad enough; it would be unbearable if he had to spend half his time walking up and down stairs between different incident rooms.
‘Room five’s free I think, sir. It’s not very big, but it’s just across the corridor.’ DC MacBride had a thick wedge of brown manila folders under one arm, his tablet computer clasped firmly in the opposite hand. Not letting such a prize out of his grasp was probably the only way of ensuring it didn’t disappear. McLean wondered if he took it home and slept with it.
‘Set it up please, Constable.’ He leaned back in hischair, stretching his legs out under his desk in the hope that it might ease off some of the pain. ‘I take it we’ve not had any hits back from Missing Persons about our tattooed man.’
MacBride shook his head. ‘Nothing yet. Fingerprints turned up a blank. Still waiting on a DNA profile so we can run that.’
‘Angus’ll have that by the end of the day, hopefully. You’ll need to do the Mis Per all over again, though.’ McLean explained about the tattoos being fresh.
‘The whole body? In a month?’ MacBride’s normally pink face went very pale.
‘I don’t suppose Penicuik turned up anything useful?’
‘Said they walked the banks for a mile upstream and down. Nothing obvious, but then the weather’s hardly helping. Everything’s covered in fresh snow out there.’
McLean tried to remember the area from when he’d mountain biked out that way in his misspent youth. There were a couple of disused railway lines that had been turned into bridleways, if he recalled correctly. Lots of old ruined buildings, and a tunnel.
‘You got a map of the river?’
MacBride looked flustered for a moment, then juggled his tablet computer and the folders until he could access the touch screen. ‘I can call up Google Maps, sir. There’s satellite imagery, too.’
McLean shook his head. ‘No. I’m old-fashioned. Give me paper and lines any day. Get something sorted for the incident room. I’ll be up as soon as I’ve managed to find some bodies to fill it with.’
Severalhours later, with another bruising encounter with Duguid under his belt, McLean entered incident room five, hoping for some peace and quiet. The whiteboard on one wall held a few questions, a photograph of the tattooed man’s dead face and a hastily scribbled list of detectives’ names – those few who would still work with him and the unlucky ones who’d not managed to find a better excuse in time. It was a very short list; he’d have to draft in some uniforms to help out.
At first he thought the room was empty, but a quiet muttering from behind a stack of folders piled up on a desk at the far end turned out to be DC MacBride.
‘Problem?’ McLean peered over the folders. MacBride was fiddling with the cables at the back of an elderly computer.
‘Oh, sir. Sorry. I didn’t see you come
‘Literally?’
‘Sometimes I wonder how you ever made it to sergeant, let alone detective inspector.’ Cadwallader wavedhis hand at the body, blackened by the intricate web of designs covering every inch of skin.
‘The tattoos?’
‘Yes, Tony. The tattoos. Unusual enough that someone would go to such lengths. I’ve read a few stories of full body tattooing, but it’s very rare.’
‘So this was an unusual person. Should make identification a lot easier.’
‘Oh I very much doubt that. Quite the opposite.’
‘How so? Surely—’
‘These tattoos are all fresh. Some of them are barely healed. I doubt a single one’s more than a month old.’
‘We’re going to need a room. Somewhere not too far from the Weatherly case.’
Back at the station and McLean was feeling the effects of his walk to the mortuary. His thigh ached deep in the bone. He wanted to lie down somewhere comfortable until the painkillers kicked in, but he’d stupidly left them at home. The thought of running two murder investigations side by side was bad enough; it would be unbearable if he had to spend half his time walking up and down stairs between different incident rooms.
‘Room five’s free I think, sir. It’s not very big, but it’s just across the corridor.’ DC MacBride had a thick wedge of brown manila folders under one arm, his tablet computer clasped firmly in the opposite hand. Not letting such a prize out of his grasp was probably the only way of ensuring it didn’t disappear. McLean wondered if he took it home and slept with it.
‘Set it up please, Constable.’ He leaned back in hischair, stretching his legs out under his desk in the hope that it might ease off some of the pain. ‘I take it we’ve not had any hits back from Missing Persons about our tattooed man.’
MacBride shook his head. ‘Nothing yet. Fingerprints turned up a blank. Still waiting on a DNA profile so we can run that.’
‘Angus’ll have that by the end of the day, hopefully. You’ll need to do the Mis Per all over again, though.’ McLean explained about the tattoos being fresh.
‘The whole body? In a month?’ MacBride’s normally pink face went very pale.
‘I don’t suppose Penicuik turned up anything useful?’
‘Said they walked the banks for a mile upstream and down. Nothing obvious, but then the weather’s hardly helping. Everything’s covered in fresh snow out there.’
McLean tried to remember the area from when he’d mountain biked out that way in his misspent youth. There were a couple of disused railway lines that had been turned into bridleways, if he recalled correctly. Lots of old ruined buildings, and a tunnel.
‘You got a map of the river?’
MacBride looked flustered for a moment, then juggled his tablet computer and the folders until he could access the touch screen. ‘I can call up Google Maps, sir. There’s satellite imagery, too.’
McLean shook his head. ‘No. I’m old-fashioned. Give me paper and lines any day. Get something sorted for the incident room. I’ll be up as soon as I’ve managed to find some bodies to fill it with.’
Severalhours later, with another bruising encounter with Duguid under his belt, McLean entered incident room five, hoping for some peace and quiet. The whiteboard on one wall held a few questions, a photograph of the tattooed man’s dead face and a hastily scribbled list of detectives’ names – those few who would still work with him and the unlucky ones who’d not managed to find a better excuse in time. It was a very short list; he’d have to draft in some uniforms to help out.
At first he thought the room was empty, but a quiet muttering from behind a stack of folders piled up on a desk at the far end turned out to be DC MacBride.
‘Problem?’ McLean peered over the folders. MacBride was fiddling with the cables at the back of an elderly computer.
‘Oh, sir. Sorry. I didn’t see you come
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