by Linda Coles
“And that’s just it. Something tells me there’s more to a woman we have in the mortuary than we can find. Firstly, she looks a lot like another woman from the train, one now missing and off our list. And secondly, no one has come forward to claim or report her missing. No one. And most people have someone that would miss them. Yet she doesn’t appear to, even though she has signs of giving birth – several times in fact.” Dean paused and sipped on his own lager, taking in somewhat smaller amounts than Alan.
“Have you got photos with you?”
“Yes, here,” he said, opening a folder that had been on another stool beside him. He handed it over and watched as his colleague studied them. Alan flipped back to the woman’s facial shot,: she looked badly banged up and bruised. There was also one of the thigh tattoo.
“That’s a beauty, an artist for sure,” he said, studying it closely. “And you think she looks a lot like the missing woman, Susan Smith?”
“She certainly does. But she’s not Susan Smith. DNA says so. And the only other woman on the list is Tabitha Child, though we can’t confirm it’s her at all. I’m hoping the tattoo and dental records will help, but since we’ve no idea if she’s even from England, it could be a while.”
“I see the resemblance now. And you want me to run this tattoo, see if that matches somewhere, and whatever else I can dig up on Tabitha Child, is that it?”
“Yes. We’re stumped for now.”
Alan picked up the tattoo picture again and held it close. He appeared to be interested in the dead centre of the flower.
“We’ve got a guy back at our station who should take a look at this image. A bit of an expert on tats. I can take this with me, I presume?”
“Of course. What are you thinking?”
“I’d rather not say as yet. Let him take a look first.” He tipped the remainder of his lager down his throat. Dean wondered if he even tasted it, it went down so fast. Dean tossed a bucket of water down the drain slower than this man drank his brew. An empty glass smacked the table.
“Another?”
“Better not,” he said. “But back to your mystery woman. If the tattoo doesn’t tell us anything, and no one comes forward looking for her, she’ll stay put in the fridge for a while?”
“No other choice. Afraid so.”
“Then let’s see if we can’t find out her name, then. I was out at the hangar looking for our missing Mrs Smith’s handbag, but I didn’t look for your mystery woman’s. Maybe her stuff is still in there? I stopped when I found what I was looking for. Perhaps I’ll drive out there again in the morning, take another look.” He stood to leave, Manila folder of photographs in his hand. “I’ll let you know what I find out,” he called back, leaving Dean to finish his barely touched pint. The gentle throb of voices lubricated with alcohol filled his ears and he sat back, resting his weary head against the wood-panelled wall. It had been a tough few days, and there was still a ton of work ahead of him.
And a nameless woman occupying a refrigerated container.
Chapter Thirty-One
Now it was Alan’s turn to have something gnawing away at his stomach. Back in his vehicle, he let his brain run its built-in scanner over the mystery woman and, in particular, the tattoo on her thigh. While it was only small, a part of it had sparked something deep in his psyche, something from the recent past he was sure of it. But could he be mistaken? He was tempted to drop in at the home of his tattoo specialist colleague – just to see his reaction. Or if there even was one. The clock on his dash said it was coming up to 8pm. It wasn’t that late; it wasn’t like it was midnight. Justifying it to himself, he changed course from driving towards home and made his way back across town to see if his gut was correct. He decided it best to call ahead first, in case the man was out enjoying the evening somewhere else. His car filled with a ringing tone that stopped almost immediately.
“Evening, Alan.” Caller ID made anonymous calls almost impossible these days.
“Evening, Carl. I wonder if you’re home? I have something I could do with you taking a quick look at.”
“Well, if it won’t wait until Monday, I’m betting it’s urgent so come on round.”
“Thanks, I’ll be there in ten.”
“I’ll put the kettle on,” he said, before disconnecting the call.
Alan pulled up outside the large terraced house and by the time he reached the front door, Carl was opening it for him and he headed inside. Alan’s stomach rumbled at the smell of Chinese takeaway that still lingered. He detected sweet-and-sour something, the vinegary tang playing with his nostrils. It must have registered on his face since Carl said, “There’s leftovers if you want them?”
“Please, if they’re going spare,” he said as they made their way through to the back room. A TV was playing close by, and Alan assumed the rest of the family were ensconced watching a show. Had he pulled Carl away from something?
“I don’t want to intrude…” he started, but Carl waved his hand at him that things were fine. Alan watched as the microwave turntable started its slow rotation, his meal beginning to steam almost instantly. The two men waited for the hum of the machine to finish before Alan stated his business as Carl placed a plate of hot sweet-and-sour chicken and fried rice in front of him. He’d been correct about what his nostrils had picked up. A few prawn crackers sat on a side plate nearby and Carl slid them over.
“May as well finish them off too,” he said, refilling his wine glass. “You want a drink?”
“I’d better not, thanks. I’ve just had a pint.” Alan tucked in with gusto. He hadn’t realised quite how hungry he was, lunch had been way too long ago. When he’d shovelled in a couple of large forkfuls and allowed the food down to his awaiting stomach, he paused for a moment then slid the photo of the tattoo across to Carl. Between chews he asked, “What do you make of that?”
Carl picked it up and studied it carefully. There was obviously a reason why his colleague had driven over, something concerned him about the inking. He reached for his reading glasses, scanned it again, and then moved to open a drawer on the far side of the kitchen. He pulled out a magnifying glass and waved it at Alan’s questioning look that read, ‘You’ve got a magnifying glass – at home?’
“Age catches us all, my friend,” he said as he once again bent his shoulders and concentrated on the image of a half-opened rose. Alan let him peruse and think while he worked on demolishing his plate of food. By the time he had picked up the last of the prawn crackers, Carl was looking at him intently.
“You think this has been done to conceal an original tattoo, a tattoo that points to all kinds of crap?”
Alan wiped his mouth on the corner of a tea towel that was nearby and said, “I do. And since you’ve spotted it too, I know I’m not imagining it.”
“Where in holy hell did you come across this?”
“She’s a mystery woman in the mortuary at this point. A victim from that train crash.”
“Holy flaming hell. But you said ‘mystery woman’?”
“It seems no one has come forward saying she’s missing so she’s lying in her own fridge awaiting an ID. The only name on the list unaccounted for is Tabitha Child. Mean anything to you?”
“No, but I see what you’re getting at. You want me to check for an alternative identity.”
“Yes. Because this is serious. She’s not simply a woman with no fixed abode or family. She’s important. Or should I now say was important. She’ll not be a fat lot of use now she’s in the mortuary.”
“Do you think they know that she’s dead?”
“I don’t see how they can do. But look, I don’t know for sure it’s her, hence why we need to cross-check and find out her real name. Because if it’s not her, then we have another victim on our hands.”
“Sounds like she’s already a victim, being dead and all.”
“Can you look her up and let me know?”
Carl looked at the image again. There, in the centre of the half-opened rose,
was a tiny but distinctive tattoo that had since been covered by the more appealing pale-pink petals of the flower. The original tattoo now formed the centre. He wondered why the woman had gone to so much trouble when she could have had the original removed. Maybe it had simply been a case of it being easier and quicker to do so, or maybe she wanted to keep the memento as a reminder, though Carl couldn’t think why. There was only one reason she had a stigma tattoo, the inference obvious when you looked for it.
Just like a rose’s reproductive organs, this woman had had her uses at some stage.
But she hadn’t lived long enough to tell.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Dominic watched the tracker icon flash on his screen and sighed heavily, contorting his mouth with dissatisfaction. Tabitha Child was in the centre of Paris on a spur-of-the-moment and somewhat stupid jaunt. What was she thinking? Was she trying to get herself killed? Her being out in the open with no backup close by was tantamount to suicide, but since he couldn’t keep her locked up, a prisoner, there was little he could do. Except get her back somehow. She was under no legal requirement to stay put, but it was in the interests of her own safety to do so.
People like Tabitha, that found themselves in witness protection, sometimes through no fault of their own, found it tough, he knew. Being witness to a crime, a murder on the street corner below your flat, for instance, a murder you witnessed from your own window, could land you with unwanted attention from gangs or other people that weren’t keen to have you stand up in court and tell the jury exactly what you had indeed observed. Intimidation, then, was scary stuff, particularly when threats involved your children or other family members. Protection, therefore, was the only alternative. Or let the bad guys get away with it.
He knew it was tough. Many people he’d handled in protection fell apart at some point, though it was usually the men, not the women. Men tended to miss their girlfriends, sneaking out and risking the wrong people learning their whereabouts, desperate for a quick lay. Some missed their mothers, and it was these natural situations that caused the protective team the most headaches. Women tended to be less hassle, particularly if their spouse and children were in the programme with them, but, again, the men still loved to be with their mothers. When things did fall apart and a protected person had to be moved, it generally happened in a bit of a rush. That meant midnight flits to yet another nondescript house in yet another town some distance from the last one. Setting up again in a small and often undesirable town at the opposite end of the country to their previous life, along with another set of IDs, was a nuisance for all concerned, and it was expensive. The notion you’d be given a flash house, car and a job were not the reality. The pull of their old life could be strong at times and it was hard not to give in and call it a day. But to what end? Tabitha had, up until this point, been a model protected individual, but he’d noticed her restlessness of recent. He should have seen something like her running off looming in the distance, but he’d missed the signs.
At least with the phone tracker Dominic could monitor Tabitha’s movements from a distance. He thought back to the messages he’d left her – perhaps he’d gone overboard with the threat of ‘collecting’ her, maybe in hindsight he’d actually scared her into staying away even longer, left her in no rush to get back to the confines of the house. He knew he’d go stir-crazy himself if he had to go through it but such was life – you couldn’t control everything that happened.
He watched the screen intently. The dot had been stationary for a while so she was most likely having a bite to eat.
“Time for a visit I think, Tabitha. Don’t go wandering off too far while I get myself there.”
He had to at least try and persuade her back, she’d been gone too long and if it came out she wasn’t where she was supposed to be, he’d be in the shit. And that would mean deviating from his own plans and he wasn’t going to let her ruin those. Dominic checked flights, chose one that he could get to in time then closed his laptop and slipped it into his bag before heading out. If he was going to Paris, he needed a change of clothes and his passport. So a quick pitstop home and then on to the airport. Her being in the city centre somewhere was handy as it was quick and easy enough to get to. Persuading her to go back with him? That would be the hard part. He’d figure something out along the way. There was no way he was going to let her screw things up, not at this late stage.
“I’ll be on my phone if you need me,” he said casually over his shoulder to no one in particular as he left the room. He didn’t need to check in with anyone, not yet, but he’d casually mentioned his departure in passing for anyone paying attention. He doubted they had been: their heads down, concentration in their shoulders, eyes focused on the screen in front of them. He had a job to do – get Tabitha Child back home where she belonged.
And without any hassle.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Tabitha Child wasn’t the only woman being tracked. As soon as Detective Alan Davies plugged in Susan’s iPhone to charge, her whereabouts, or rather the phone’s whereabouts, pinged up on Marcus’s screen as a notification where he was sitting in the departure lounge at Heathrow. He too was about to board a plane, heading back to Hong Kong while the police and the two oddball women, as he’d termed them, searched for his missing wife. He doubted either party would return having had any real success, though the massive detective with the messy hair had notified him they’d picked her handbag up from the hangar. Wherever she was, she hadn’t kept her identity with her. If Susan was still alive, and it was a big ‘if’, she obviously didn’t want him to know the fact, or indeed where she was hiding out or why.
Their marriage had been over for some time, though he had never got around to telling her. It would at least save on a rather expensive divorce, and the embarrassment and time wasted on such. This way, with his wife simply disappeared, possibly dead, he could save face. He didn’t need her. Or the insurance money. He could now focus back on the job in hand before he lost the deal all together. Buying ailing companies and selling off the valuable parts didn’t earn him many close connections, but Marcus coped by enjoying his own and rather special kind of outlet. His mouth smirked, curling slightly at the memory of the lithe young woman that had slithered from his bed only a few days ago. Perhaps he’d call her back for a repeat performance, she could massage his soul from the inside.
Or he, hers.
It was only a twelve-hour flight back to a life spicier than the stone-cold presence he shared with Susan in Surrey. If she did return, and he doubted she would, maybe he’d buy himself a bolthole of his own, somewhere more pleasing for when he was in the UK. Or he could stay away more often. Either was preferable to the current situation. But since he doubted her return, indeed hoped for her continued absence, he could do what he liked from this point on. He’d never particularly liked their home together, but she’d seemed to like its vastness, to begin with anyway. Something to show off to her friends. But when they’d lost interest, so had she. The obvious thing to do was sell up.
The phone he’d been staring at in the business lounge vibrated – his plane was boarding. He dismissed the notification and flicked back to the tracker screen where the live dot pulsed its location at a local police station somewhere in Kent. For all his bravado, Marcus Smith found himself once again pondering the disappearance of his wife. He’d loved her once. She’d been loyal all along; he should know, he’d been watching her for long enough. But that was what men did, wasn’t it? Looked out for their spouses? Watched over her? A sign he cared? And when she’d had the nerve to disobey him, he’d shown her quite how to respect him and he’d never had to remind her again. Certainly, she’d needed a verbal reminder, but that was all it took. Like with a petulant child, it was important to nip bad attitude in the bud before it festered into something else.
Marcus gathered his briefcase and overnight trolley bag and sauntered to the lounge exit, taking his time. The departure gate was a little way off, but Marcus Smit
h was in no rush. The plane wouldn’t leave without him.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chrissy hung the call up and settled back in her office chair. It wasn’t the news she was hoping for. Valance Douglas, the tech wizard she’d contacted, couldn’t help her with what she needed, not legally anyway. And she wasn’t about to break the law, or rather he wasn’t prepared to break the law for something like a missing adult woman that had most likely simply deserted her husband. A missing child presumed abducted? He’d have been in immediately, but he’d drawn the line on his involvement with Susan’s case. Now, without confirmation of whether Susan’s passport had been used to gain entry into France and possibly beyond, Chrissy was still in the batting box, waiting to swing at a ball that wasn’t going to come anytime soon.
She slammed her fist on her desk. “Damn it!” she shouted, making Julie jump. Julie had driven over and had been sat nibbling on half a biscuit while Chrissy made a couple of calls. Now Chrissy was unsure how she could possibly find out the passport status without a contact and without bribing an official.
“So, what else did they teach you at PI school?”
Chrissy sat thoughtful for a moment, her fingers rubbing both temples simultaneously in an attempt to stimulate a thought. Preferably one they could use. “With no digital footprint, no other friends to contact, and no leads whatsoever to follow, we’re somewhat limited. And she clearly wants to stay hidden or else she’d have called someone by now.” She continued to mull things over before adding, “There is a simple explanation to all this, you know, though I’ve no clue as to what that is. But what if we can’t look via passport control. There must be another way.”
“What other way?” Julie had finished her nibbling and was playing with the few remaining crumbs of biscuit on the small plate, her long pale-pink fingernail moving around in slow circles as her finger teased the tiny edible rubble underneath it.