post-mortem?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were you there?’
‘No. A police woman attended.’ Another lie, but it might help.
‘But you’ve seen the reports?’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘So you’ll know about him. The Pope.’
‘I’ve seen photographs of the tattoo, if that’s what you mean.’
‘It was him killed her, wasn’t it?’
‘I don’t know. Who is he?’
He stared at the tin containing his fixings and I wondered if I ought to tell him I didn’t mind if he had a smoke. Before I could get the words out he said: ‘He was Angela’s father.’
‘What happened to him?’ I asked.
‘God knows, but he was a mean bastard. How Magda became mixed up with someone like him I can’t imagine. She was the gentlest person you could imagine; he was a Neanderthal.’
I said: ‘Some women have a talent for falling for the wrong man. Some men too, I imagine.’
‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘“Love and Wisdom dine at separate tables.”’
I recognised the quote. ‘Henneman,’ I said and he looked at me with a hint of a smile. He was a fan. ‘So what was the tattoo about?’ I asked.
‘He had it done to her. Said it was a birthday present. Magda liked the idea and chose something from the tattooist’s catalogue. A flower or a lizard. Something like that. He didn’t let her see it until after they got home. Property of the Pope , it said. He told her that she belonged to him, now, and if she ever left him he’d kill her. They’d only been seeing each other for about two weeks. That was the most she ever told me about him. After that the subject was out of bounds.’
So that was it. Magda had been murdered by the Pope. Well, perhaps not the Pope, but someone bearing that name. All we had to do was look in the telephone directory and work our way through them all. He made coffee for us both and we chatted for another half-hour. When I could see he was growing restless for a joint I got up to leave.
At the door he said: ‘Can I ask you for a favour, Inspector?’
I turned back to him. ‘What is it?’
‘Magda was funny about some things. She’d never have her photograph taken. I haven’t got a single picture of her. That drawing they showed me yesterday. It was her to a T. Just how I remember her when she was younger. Do you think it would be possible for me to have a copy?’
‘Oh yes, Mr Atkins,’ I replied. ‘I think we’ll be able to manage that.’
Dave was holding court when I arrived back at the office.
‘…and Camilla said: “It gives me terrible indigestion, doctor,” so the doctor said: “Have you tried Andrew’s?”’
I try not to encourage him. ‘So who did it?’ I asked in my best no-nonsense tone, after I’d hung my jacket behind the door, made myself another coffee and joined them. ‘No doubt you have it all sorted.’
‘Pass,’ someone said.
‘Negative,’ Dave added.
‘How did you get on with the boyfriend?’ Maggie asked.
‘Not bad,’ I told them. ‘He’s the last of the hippies, still living in the Age of Aquarius. The only hippy plumber in Yorkshire, but he’s a decent enough bloke. Write these dates down, Maggie.’
Someone slid her an A4 pad and she clicked her pen.
‘Magdalena and Len Atkins met up in 1989,’ I began, ‘and Magda had a daughter aged…twelve, I think. Pope was the girl’s father. He must be our number one suspect.’
Dave said: ‘So Pope and Magdalena must have been together, however briefly, back in…what? 1977 or even ’76?’
I nodded. ‘Yeah, make it ’77.’
‘What next?’ Maggie asked.
‘I’m thinking,’ I told her. ‘OK. Magda walked out on Atkins last August. Call it 2004 – we’ll stick to whole numbers. The circumstances were odd. He said something from her past had caught up with her and she just went. So what if Pope was back in town and wanted her back?’
‘Do we know anything about him?’ Jeff Caton asked. ‘Is he the possessive kind?’
I told him about the tattoo and his
‘Yes.’
‘Were you there?’
‘No. A police woman attended.’ Another lie, but it might help.
‘But you’ve seen the reports?’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘So you’ll know about him. The Pope.’
‘I’ve seen photographs of the tattoo, if that’s what you mean.’
‘It was him killed her, wasn’t it?’
‘I don’t know. Who is he?’
He stared at the tin containing his fixings and I wondered if I ought to tell him I didn’t mind if he had a smoke. Before I could get the words out he said: ‘He was Angela’s father.’
‘What happened to him?’ I asked.
‘God knows, but he was a mean bastard. How Magda became mixed up with someone like him I can’t imagine. She was the gentlest person you could imagine; he was a Neanderthal.’
I said: ‘Some women have a talent for falling for the wrong man. Some men too, I imagine.’
‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘“Love and Wisdom dine at separate tables.”’
I recognised the quote. ‘Henneman,’ I said and he looked at me with a hint of a smile. He was a fan. ‘So what was the tattoo about?’ I asked.
‘He had it done to her. Said it was a birthday present. Magda liked the idea and chose something from the tattooist’s catalogue. A flower or a lizard. Something like that. He didn’t let her see it until after they got home. Property of the Pope , it said. He told her that she belonged to him, now, and if she ever left him he’d kill her. They’d only been seeing each other for about two weeks. That was the most she ever told me about him. After that the subject was out of bounds.’
So that was it. Magda had been murdered by the Pope. Well, perhaps not the Pope, but someone bearing that name. All we had to do was look in the telephone directory and work our way through them all. He made coffee for us both and we chatted for another half-hour. When I could see he was growing restless for a joint I got up to leave.
At the door he said: ‘Can I ask you for a favour, Inspector?’
I turned back to him. ‘What is it?’
‘Magda was funny about some things. She’d never have her photograph taken. I haven’t got a single picture of her. That drawing they showed me yesterday. It was her to a T. Just how I remember her when she was younger. Do you think it would be possible for me to have a copy?’
‘Oh yes, Mr Atkins,’ I replied. ‘I think we’ll be able to manage that.’
Dave was holding court when I arrived back at the office.
‘…and Camilla said: “It gives me terrible indigestion, doctor,” so the doctor said: “Have you tried Andrew’s?”’
I try not to encourage him. ‘So who did it?’ I asked in my best no-nonsense tone, after I’d hung my jacket behind the door, made myself another coffee and joined them. ‘No doubt you have it all sorted.’
‘Pass,’ someone said.
‘Negative,’ Dave added.
‘How did you get on with the boyfriend?’ Maggie asked.
‘Not bad,’ I told them. ‘He’s the last of the hippies, still living in the Age of Aquarius. The only hippy plumber in Yorkshire, but he’s a decent enough bloke. Write these dates down, Maggie.’
Someone slid her an A4 pad and she clicked her pen.
‘Magdalena and Len Atkins met up in 1989,’ I began, ‘and Magda had a daughter aged…twelve, I think. Pope was the girl’s father. He must be our number one suspect.’
Dave said: ‘So Pope and Magdalena must have been together, however briefly, back in…what? 1977 or even ’76?’
I nodded. ‘Yeah, make it ’77.’
‘What next?’ Maggie asked.
‘I’m thinking,’ I told her. ‘OK. Magda walked out on Atkins last August. Call it 2004 – we’ll stick to whole numbers. The circumstances were odd. He said something from her past had caught up with her and she just went. So what if Pope was back in town and wanted her back?’
‘Do we know anything about him?’ Jeff Caton asked. ‘Is he the possessive kind?’
I told him about the tattoo and his
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