Scarred for Life (7 page)

Bex had finally looked up from the table and was staring at Jessica. She dropped her feet back to the floor as Jessica handed over her ID.

‘You’re a detective inspector?’ she asked quietly, passing the card back.

‘Yes.’

‘But you’re not going to arrest me?’

‘No.’

‘I’m sorry for stealing your purse.’

‘Did you steal all six wallets and purses over the past month?’

Bex eyed her feet. ‘Maybe.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Seventeen.’

‘And you live rough?’

She shrugged: ‘Some nights I get into the shelter.’

‘Parents?’

A shake of the head.

‘Y’know, I can probably—’

‘It’s fine.’

Bex pulled her gloves off, putting them next to the clean plate and balling her fists. Jessica could see the scrapes along her knuckles and a separate scab on the back of her right hand.

‘I only pinch from people who have a few quid.’

‘I’m not that rich.’

‘You looked it.’

‘Exactly – and maybe it was like that for the other people you stole from too. Some people just make an effort one day a month, or a year, because they come into the city to watch a show. They might save for months, might have children at home with a babysitter they can barely afford to pay. It might be their only treat.’

Bex said nothing for a little while, though her fists were still clenched. ‘I don’t have the money to give back if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘I’m not – I’m just pointing out that people aren’t always what they seem.’

A pause. ‘Like you?’

‘Maybe.’

‘What are you going to do?’

Jessica reached into her pocket and took out a twenty-pound note, placing it on top of Bex’s gloves. ‘A deal’s a deal, but you have to stop nicking. There are cameras all over the city and it’s only a matter of time until someone snags you. Plus I’m a police officer; I should be taking you in.’

‘Why aren’t you?’

Jessica finished the rest of her tea and put the mug down, shooting a glance towards the still-silent trio of men in the booth. ‘There was this guy I knew who lived on the streets for years. He finally got clean a few months ago but I’ve been thinking about him, wondering if I should’ve done more to help earlier.’

Bex stared at the money but didn’t pick it up. ‘So you’re helping me?’

‘I don’t know . . . perhaps. The pickpocket could’ve been anyone.’

In a flash, Bex snatched the twenty-pound note and whipped it into her pocket. She rolled her sleeves up and wrapped her hands around the tea mug.

‘Nice tattoo.’

Bex glanced down at the spidery patterned web on her arm and then rolled her sleeve down again. ‘Thanks.’

‘What does it mean?’

‘No idea. I just liked the pattern. Some guy in town did it for free . . . well, not exactly “free” but . . .’

‘Perhaps you can help me with something?’ Jessica delved into the bag by her chair and pulled out a copy of the same photograph she’d been looking at with Izzy earlier – the robber with the tattoo on his wrist. ‘What do you think of this?’ she asked, passing the picture across.

Bex held it at arm’s length. ‘I don’t know who it is.’

‘I meant what do you think of the tattoo.’

Bex narrowed her eyes and stared at Jessica, wondering if there was some sort of trick being played. Eventually she brought the photo nearer and narrowed her eyes. ‘It’s nice – some sort of tribal thing. Samoan or Hawaiian? Maybe African? It’s intricate. The artist is good.’

‘Have you ever seen anything like it on a person before?’

‘No.’ Bex moved the photo even closer until it was directly in front of her face, and then handed it back. ‘It’s not finished.’

‘What?’

‘The tattoo. Look at the bit that loops under his wrist.’

Jessica stared closely at the picture. It wasn’t that they’d missed the discrepancy when they’d examined it, more that they’d thought it was a glitch in the quality of the CCTV footage. The scythe shape wrapped around the robber’s wrist, interlocking with a thick dark line, but there was a spot where they joined that looked as if the tattooist’s needle had slipped. It was almost smudged. It could still be problem with the camera but the more Jessica looked at it, the more she thought Bex was right. For something so permanent, it was a strange mistake for a person to carry around on their body.

Jessica put the picture back into her bag as the younger girl started to put her gloves back on.

‘Where are you sleeping tonight?’ Jessica asked.

‘Don’t worry about it.’

Jessica took a business card out of her pocket and a pen from her bag, turning the card over and scribbling her address on it. ‘I’m out in Swinton if you need a roof. We’ve got a spare room . . .’

Bex snatched the card away, pocketing it without looking at it. She glanced across to the men in the booth and then back at Jessica, top lip curling into a snarl. ‘I told you I’m not a fucking lezzer, right? Now piss off.’

Jangle, jangle, and she was gone into the night.

8

‘Buster, will you come back here? Buster! Buster!’

The cold air set Philip Raymond off coughing. Bloody Manchester weather: cold one day, warm the next. Frosty, misty, rainy, icy. What the hell was wrong with this place? And where had the sodding dog gone?

‘Buster!’

Philip pulled his coat tighter and zipped it up, setting off in the direction in which the dog had disappeared. On a nice day, it was a lovely stroll through the woods that separated Ellesmere Golf Course and the M60. The previous day, it had been warm enough for people to be walking around with their tops off. Well, the men, anyway. Now his breath corkscrewed into the sky and his sodden feet slid across the muddy slope as he tried to up his pace. It must have rained overnight. For a change. This really was an ungodly time to be up on a Saturday morning.

Philip dug the toecaps of his boots into the soft ground and kicked his way up the slope towards the tree-line.

‘Buster!’

Bloody dog. It wasn’t even his. Emily had promised she’d do all the feeding and walking if only she could have a puppy for Christmas. Eleven months on and it was exactly as he had predicted. Emily spent half her time in her room on the computer and the other half chatting on her phone to her friends. At least it had better be her friends. She wasn’t old enough for boys yet. He tried to remember what he was like at thirteen. Was he into girls then? He didn’t think so; it was all football down the park with his mates. But then kids were different today, weren’t they? It wasn’t just football down the park, it was shooting heroin in the playground and sending naked pictures to each other on their phones. That’s what it said in the papers anyway. They grew up so quickly. One minute you could hold them in the palm of your hand, the next they’re telling you they hate you, slamming doors and refusing to be seen in public with you.

‘Buster!’

And they couldn’t look after their own pets.

Philip stood on his tiptoes, peering through the darkened gaps between the trees. In the distance he heard something scurrying but it was as likely a squirrel as it was Buster. He walked the long way around a thickly packed hedge and quickened his pace. This happened every time he let the dog off his lead. Buster would spot a critter somewhere, get his shaggy head down and tear off.

The truth was, whether Buster was his daughter’s dog or not, Philip liked getting out of the house on a weekend morning to go for a walk. He preferred it when it was warm but at least it wasn’t raining today, even if the ground was sodden. The cool air helped to clear his head and at least it got him away from his wife’s snoring. It was like a pneumatic drill boring into a concrete block. Philip dreaded to think how many hours of sleep he’d lost over the years lying awake, hoping she’d shut up sometime soon. Rolling her over, pulling the covers away, poking her in the back, holding a pillow over her face for ten minutes . . . well, threatening it at least: none of it made any difference.

Yap, yap, yap.

Somewhere over the next ridge, Buster was barking. He’d either caught whatever he was chasing, or, far more likely, had got scared by something small and quick and was now hoping to be picked up and taken home for a bath. The little softie.

Philip slurped his way across the thick mud, up a short ridge and through a gap between hedges. He could see Buster sitting on the ground at the bottom, lower half caked with mud, tail tucked between his legs.

‘What’s wrong, boy?’ Philip called, steadily making his way down the slope. Thick tree roots weaved their way in and out of the earth, with mulched remains of autumn leaves mashed into the ground from where other walkers had been out and about.

Buster tucked his legs under himself and lay on the floor, nose-down, peering at a spot under the ridge Philip was trying to descend. As the animal let out a gentle moan, Philip quickened his pace, worrying what was wrong. He already felt as if his legs were travelling too quickly for him when his foot snagged on one of the roots, sending him sprawling forward, arms flailing uselessly. With a thump, Philip hit the ground chest-first, the wind coughing out of his lungs. As he struggled to breathe, his legs cricked over his head, sending him into a roll. Something slammed into the back of his neck, with an unseen branch snagging his trousers, ripping them above the knee and slicing into his skin. Philip tried to grab something, anything, to stop himself but it only made things worse, vines and roots tearing at his skin. He yelped in pain, bump, bump, bumping his way to the bottom until eventually coming to rest next to Buster.

Ouch.

The dog crept forward and began licking Philip’s face apologetically. Batting him away but at least appreciating the gesture, Philip rolled onto his back and groaned. His eyes felt better closed but he was going to have to pick himself up at some point. Slowly, he opened an eyelid, and then hauled himself into a sitting position. His hands were covered in a mixture of mud and blood, waterlogged trousers sticking to his legs as more blood sluiced from the cut. He reached out and patted Buster gently with his fingers, making sure not to use his aching palms.

‘Silly dog, what did you see?’

Philip followed his pet’s gaze. A mound of leaves, tree bark and twigs had been shoved backwards into the gully but that wasn’t what his eyes were drawn to. Poking through the undergrowth was a pale, lifeless human arm.

9

So much for a day off.

Jessica sloshed her way through the woods until she came to the area that had been covered with white tents. Body suit, over-shoe covers and hair net in place, she allowed the SOCO officer to lead her through the site. In contrast to the scene at the rowing club, Jessica knew the queasy looks on the faces of the other attending officers meant this was something she should see for herself. Not that she wanted to.

Small piles of leaves, twigs and dirt had been moved to the side, exposing the washed-out limp body of a young strawberry blonde. Without wanting to step any closer than the doorway of the tent, Jessica felt the twinge in her stomach. ‘She was probably strangled,’ the officer said softly.

Jessica remained silent, listening to the rest of the details. It was so easy to become desensitised to the things witnessed every day, but every now and then something would hit you. As well as the marks around her neck, the index finger on the woman’s right hand had been sliced off, along with part of her ear. Both cuts were likely made after death because of the lack of blood but Jessica found it hard to tell where the slits began and ended because she had been so brutally beaten too. The woman’s torso, especially her breasts, was peppered with bruises, the remaining fingers jutting off at unnatural angles. Across the small of her back, there was a spiky tattoo weaving its way towards her hips. From the state of the injuries, the officer said it was likely the body had been there for longer than a day, less than two.

With the photographs taken and initial assumptions reached, it was time for the body to be taken for autopsy. Jessica and the other officers watched in a calm reverence as it was carried away through the woods, and then it was to business. Officers had been called in from days off, with others lent from surrounding districts. With the woods a popular spot for walkers, at least a third of those were needed to keep the place as untouched as possible. Jessica separated the rest into teams ready to pick through the area centimetre by devastatingly slow centimetre.

That was all well and good but they all knew the real damage had already been done. Even with the area surrounded by tent and tape, Jessica had seen the footsteps and paw prints all around the body. With everyone off doing something, she walked back to the parked cars and approached a man resting on the bonnet of a muddy Range Rover. At his feet lay a dog, covered with grime, head nestled between the man’s feet.

‘Are you Philip?’ she asked.

The man was middle-aged, bundled up in any number of coats and tops, which made him look chunkier than he actually was. His jeans had ripped and blood was beginning to dry into the material. His lived-in fatherly face was partially obscured by a mud-spattered, skewed deerstalker. He looked at Jessica, nodding, but his eyes were empty.

She pointed towards the wound in his leg: ‘Someone should look at that.’

He held up his hand to show where the ring finger on his left hand was missing the very tip. ‘I’ve had worse.’

‘How did you manage that?’

‘Accident with a forklift a few years back. To be honest, filling in all the accident forms hurt way worse than losing the finger.’ He chuckled humourlessly but Jessica knew what he meant: if someone stubbed their toe around the station then she’d have three dozen forms to fill out in triplicate. No wonder things didn’t get done.

‘I messed up, didn’t I?’ he said, more quietly than before.

‘How?’

‘With the body. You’re supposed to stay clear and not touch anything, aren’t you? That’s what they say. I went and fell on my bloody arse, then the dog was sniffing around.’ He hunched and ruffled the dog’s ears.