by Tim Ellis
‘What happened to the field in Handforth?’
‘It’s still there.’
‘Why didn’t you wake me?’
‘You were obviously tired.’
‘That’s true. I hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours.’
‘You want to see someone about your snoring though.’
She pretended to laugh. ‘Very funny. What happened at the crime scene?’
‘Still only four bodies – the girls who went missing last year: Erin Jameson, Christine Lloyd, Jane Thomas and Jasmine Troop. The killer must have buried the ones he abducted and murdered in 2014 somewhere else.’
‘Is that it?’
He found the photographs he’d taken and passed her his phone. ‘Take a look.’
She flicked through the pictures. ‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why any of it? Why is the killer abducting the girls? Why these girls? Why is he killing them? Why is he tattooing beautiful butterflies on their left breast? Why is he burying them in a field in Handforth? Why?’
‘All good questions.’
‘Who is he? Let’s call him a “he”, because it’s hardly likely to be a woman, is it?’
‘No.’
‘I mean, is he a tattoo artist? Or a wildlife artist? Is that who we should be looking for? I don’t understand how he’s found all these girls from different care homes. I mean . . .’
‘More good questions.’ He opened the driver’s door and climbed out. ‘Come on.’
‘I’m not being forced to stay here against my will?’
‘No, but keep your mouth shut.’
‘Okay.’
They walked down to the Mortuary and stood on the public side of the viewing glass.
The forensic pathologist was removing organs from Erin Jameson’s corpse, speaking into a hanging microphone, and dropping the organs into glass jars which were half-full of liquid and held up by one of his assistants.
Dark pressed the button on the intercom system. ‘When you’re ready, Professor.’
Professor Daniel Finn was one of the best forensic pathologists in the country, had been awarded an MBE for his work in the Queen’s Birthday Honours List of 2002, was an Honorary Consultant to various hospitals around the country, had travelled all over the world doling out expert opinion, and chaired the government’s Forensic Pathology Special Advisory Committee, but at seventy-two he was in the winter of his career. He had wispy grey hair, sagging jowls and rheumy eyes. If he’d been a surgeon, the hand tremors would have forced him to retire long ago.
‘Detective Inspector Dark! How are you?’
‘I’ve been better.’
‘And you’ve brought me a young woman to brighten up my day.’ He turned his head. ‘And who might you be, my dear?’
Dark answered for her. ‘She’s just someone I met on the way down here. She said she was your illegitimate daughter from an illicit affair you’d had with one of the Duchess of Manchester’s handmaidens.’
Finn laughed. ‘So, you don’t want to tell me?’
‘What’s the news, Professor?’
‘Let’s get the boring stuff out of the way first, shall we? She wasn’t sexually assaulted. At least . . . not that I can ascertain anyway. Her body has been washed, her hair brushed and her nails scrubbed. The killer treated her well.’
‘Cause of death?’
‘I can only speculate that she was given a drug which killed her, but what I have no idea. She has no bruises or other marks except an injection site on her neck – hence the drug hypothesis, and a large-bore cannula entry point above her femoral artery. Neither can I tell you time of death, but I understand you know when this girl was abducted, so any time between then and now.’
Dark narrowed his eyes. ‘Forgive me Professor, but I thought you were a forensic pathologist.’
‘The evidence you would normally expect from me has been destroyed.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Mmmm! Where to begin?’
‘I find that the beginning is usually a good place?’
‘The beginning was in 1867. A German chemist by the name of August Wilhelm von Hofman discovered formaldehyde, which was subsequently used to preserve bodies, or parts thereof. However, like its predecessor – arsenic – it is highly toxic and carcinogenic, and in 2007 the bureaucrats at the European Union in Brussels discouraged its use. All was not lost though, because a man calling himself Walter Thiel had been looking for an alternative since the 1960s, and after thirty years he found it . . .’
‘As fascinated as I am by the history of body preservation – where is this leading us, Professor?’
‘Always so impatient, Dark. Whole human bodies tend not to be embalmed using formaldehyde anymore, Thiel’s method is generally used. This entails injecting preserving fluid into the blood vessels followed by a red dye to give the flesh a realistic colour.’
‘And you’re saying that this is how the killer has preserved the victims’ bodies?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are there any out-of-the-ordinary chemicals that we could trace back to him?’
‘No – usual chemicals, I’m afraid. And he’s not the only one using Thiel’s method now either.’
‘Who would know about this method, and how to use it?’
‘Most people in the medical profession, but particularly embalmers – funeral directors and the like. Most bodies aren’t embalmed, but there are a number of occasions where they might be. For instance, when they’re put on public display, for religious reasons, or for medical and scientific purposes.’
‘That certainly narrows our pool of suspects down. What’s your opinion on the way it was done?’
‘Very professional job. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing.’
‘So, we’re not looking for a keen amateur?’
The professor shook his head. ‘Not in my humble opinion.’
‘What about the butterfly?’
‘Wonderful artwork.’
‘Is it real?’
‘As in – does such a butterfly exist?’
‘Yes.’
‘This particular one is called the Blue Morpho, so one of my able assistants tells me. He’s not a collector, or anything like that. Merely a youthful obsession that blighted his childhood, so you’d better check it out for yourself.’
‘Was it inked on before or after death?’
‘Oh, after. A tattoo is essentially a million pinpricks. There’s no evidence of blood on the tattoo at all.’
‘You do know that all the victims have butterflies tattooed on their left breasts?’
‘Above the heart. Yes, Polly did tell me.’
‘Any ideas about who or why?’
‘Lepidopterists are a strange breed.’ Finn glared at a thin, angular man with pale skin and what looked like patchy alopecia. ‘Other than my assistant, who I’ll be encouraging to seek employment elsewhere, I have no idea who might do such a thing, or why.’
The able assistant cleared his throat.
‘What is it, Murray?’
‘I have a suggestion, Professor.’
‘On your next career opportunity?’
‘I know you don’t mean that. If I wasn’t here, who’d do all the work?’
‘Ha! I’m sure I could find someone.’
Murray looked at Dark. ‘There’s a place called Manchester Lepidopterist Supplies – MLS for short – not far from Salford Central train station on Chapel Street. If the killer is a lepidopterist then he’ll probably get his supplies from there.’
‘What type of supplies?’
‘Chemicals, dissecting equipment, display boxes, magnifying lenses, pins, pheromone lures . . .’
‘I get the idea.’
‘Also, the woman who owns the business – Joanna Blake – knows most of the collectors in the area.’
Thanks for your help, Murray.’
‘You think I should keep him on, Inspector?’ Finn said.
Dark
shook his head. ‘A person who knows about a shop selling supplies for lepidopterists is a suspect in my book.’
‘My thoughts exactly. There you go, Murray. Start looking for another job. I’ll give you a fair-to-middling reference.’
‘Very kind, Professor.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
‘Is he always like that?’ Dixie said as they made their way back out to the car park.
‘More or less.’
‘Are we going back to your house now?’
‘Were you not listening when I said we had the rest of today and tomorrow before we cease to be players in this investigation?’
‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean we have to work the whole time.’
‘You’ve got something better to do?’
‘I’d like a shower, a change of clothes, something to eat, and maybe watch a bit of television before I snuggle up in a warm bed on my own.’
‘I estimate that we’ll get back to my house around midnight, and we’ll be up and out early in the morning.’
‘You’re fucking joking?’
‘It’s not something I’m renowned for. First, we’ll go and talk to this Joanna Blake at MLS supplies, and then we’ll return to Bootle Street to mull over, and try and make some sense of, the information we’ve accumulated today. What I will do, is buy you a takeaway to eat while we’re mulling.’
‘Christmas has come and gone you know.’
‘Or I could leave you to cook us both a meal when we do get home?’
‘Me? Cooking? At midnight?’
‘You don’t think I’m going to cook, do you?’
‘I think I prefer option one. Chinese or Indian?’
‘Doner kebab?’
‘I haven’t had one of those for simply ages.’
‘It’s your lucky day then.’
***
There were no lights on in MLS Supplies, but he banged on the glass shop door anyway.
There was no response.
He banged again.
‘Why don’t you just smash the glass and walk right in?’ Dixie suggested.
A window opened above them. ‘We’re closed,’ a female voice said. ‘Can’t you read?’
‘Police.’
‘We’re closed. Come back tomorrow after nine o’clock.’
‘Police. Open up.’
‘You’ve obviously come to the wrong address. I sell butterfly supplies.
‘Joanna Blake?’
‘Yes! Who are you?’
‘Police.’
‘You keep saying that. It’s too late for trick or treating.’
‘I could arrest you.’
‘Really! Is it 1984 already?’
‘Come down and open the door. I’d like to speak to you about your customers.’
‘They’re butterfly collectors – harmless people.’
‘It’s connected to the body of a fourteen-year-old girl found in Handforth.’
‘Why didn’t you say?’
‘I just did.’
‘Just a minute.’
Eventually, a light went on inside the shop, and a rotund woman with wiry grey hair, ruddy cheeks and a thread-pulled green cardigan over a flowery dress unlocked and opened the front door.
Dark showed his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Dark from the Serious Crime Directorate.’ He indicated Dixie. ‘And this is one of my colleagues.’
‘Are you sure you haven’t come to the wrong address?’
‘Can we come in?’
She stood to one side. ‘I suppose so,’ she said, and locked the door after them. ‘What’s this about, Inspector?’
‘Butterflies.’ He took out his phone and showed her the butterfly pictures one after the other.
‘That’s a Blue Morpho – lovely artwork . . . a Banded Orange Tiger . . . a Spicebush Swallowtail . . . a Glasswing.’
‘You know your butterflies,’ he said.
‘I have a PhD in Zoology specialising in lepidoptery, which is the study of moths and butterflies, so I should know a thing or two about them.’
‘Why are you not in a university department somewhere?’
‘Rat race. I’m my own boss here. It’s less stressful, better paid and I have a life . . . Well, I did until you turned up banging on my door. So, why are you here harassing a law-abiding citizen, Inspector?’
‘I have four dead bodies with butterflies tattooed on them, which has not been released to the press yet, by the way.’
‘In the field in Handforth?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you think the killer is one of my customers?’
‘It’s a lead that we’re pursuing – that’s all.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘I wish I knew.’
Dixie interrupted. ‘Hello. My name’s Dixie. You obviously recognised the butterflies through your own expert knowledge, but would some of your customers own any of those species?’
‘No, no. I should have said before. Those four species are all on the World Wildlife Fund’s endangered species list.’
‘Which would mean it’s illegal to own any of them?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Why do you think the killer would tattoo butterflies onto the dead bodies? And those butterflies in particular?’
The woman thought for a handful of seconds. ‘The Japanese, Romans and Greeks believed that the butterfly was the personification of a person’s soul whether they were living, dying or already dead. And in some cultures, the butterfly can also symbolise rebirth.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to ask the killer when you catch him – or her.’
‘We’ve decided the killer is male. So, what you’re suggesting is that the tattoos could be his way of freeing the soul, rebirth or resurrection?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s possible.’
Dark said, ‘Could any of your customers be the killer?’
Joanna Blake screwed up her face. ‘On what basis? I mean, any of them could be, I suppose. I have over four thousand five hundred customers on my database, and that’s not counting the people who walk in off the street and buy one or two items, but decline to join my newsletter mailing list. Would you like me to close my eyes and stick a pin somewhere in the list?’
‘That won’t be necessary. Do you know your customers well?’
‘Well? What does that mean exactly?’
The corner of Dark’s mouth creased upwards. She was certainly quick off the mark. ‘What information do you hold on your database about your customers?’
She led them into a back room, turned on a computer and logged in. ‘Let’s see, shall we?’ she said, sitting down in front of the screen . . . Okay, here we are: First and last name; date-of-birth; email address; home telephone number; job title; work address and in some cases a home address.’
‘Can you interrogate it?’
‘It wouldn’t be much of a database if I couldn’t.’
‘I suppose not. Can you look to see if you have any doctors, nurses, vets or funeral directors?’
‘I think you’ve got the wrong idea about “Job Title”, Inspector. There are none of those careers on my database. I’ll certainly look, but I’m pretty confident I have none. The job title refers to people whose work directly relates to the collection, study, preservation and display of moths and butterflies such as an entomologist, environmental officer, field trials officer, nature conservation officer, research scientist, biomedical scientist, environmental education officer, toxicologist, higher education lecturer . . . Need I go on?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Take a look anyway.’
She input the query, but it came back with: “No Results”.
‘Thanks.’
Dixie chipped in again. ‘Presumably, those are your professional customers?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about those customers where lepidoptery is simply a hobby?’
‘I have many customers who study moths and butterflies as a hobby. We still
have the avid collectors who like to stick pins into living insects and mount them in display cases or on slides in drawers, but most now are happy to collect photographs of the butterflies instead.’
‘Although you don’t have any on your database, do you personally know any doctors, nurses, vets or funeral directors who collects butterflies?’
Her brow furrowed, and she slowly shook her head. ‘No.’
‘It was a long shot,’ Dark said. ‘Sorry to have dragged you down here from whatever you were doing.’
‘Have you given up?’ Joanna Blake said.
‘Hardly, but you don’t seem to have the information we need.’
‘What else can you tell me about the person you’re looking for? In complete confidence, of course.’
‘All the victims are from residential care homes around Greater Manchester, which means the killer must have had access to those care homes; the bodies have been chemically preserved, which means he has access to, and knows how to use, the latest methods to embalm bodies; and each girl has a different butterfly on the endangered species list tattooed on her left breast, which suggests the killer is a lepidopterist and a very talented tattoo artist . . .’ He looked at Dixie. ‘Have I missed anything?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘I can give you a printed copy of my database if you’d like, but I don’t know how it will help you.’
‘Thanks for the offer, Mrs Blake . . .’
‘Miss. I tried a man once, but he wasn’t to my liking. I never bothered again.’
‘They’re certainly not to everyone’s liking,’ Dixie agreed.
Dark pulled a face. ‘If we need a copy of your database, we know where you are.’ He passed her his card. ‘If you do think of anything that might help us, please call me.’
‘Of course.’ She stood up and followed them to the shop door. ‘I wish I could have been of more help.’
‘Doner Kebab?’ Dixie said as they climbed into his Rav-4.
‘I don’t see why not.’
***
‘She wasn’t much help,’ Dixie said, unwrapping her kebab.
‘Don’t unwrap that in here,’ he said.
‘I’m starving.’
‘You’ll make my car stink of kebab for a month. We’ll eat them back at the station.’