Huber's Tattoo

by Quentin Smith

  He continued to search between the matted and stringy tangles of hair. Suddenly he stopped.

  “My God!”

  “What is it?”

  “Have you got a camera?”

  “Of course. What is it?”

  “She has a tattoo on the skin fold behind her head, at the top of the neck. It’s been split apart by the blast from the bullet, and I think some skin may be missing, but look here.”

  Pelton leaned in and adjusted his thick spectacles, peering through the lens as Henry manipulated the waxy skin between his gloved fingers.

  “Well I never,” Pelton said calmly. “It looks like a ‘G’ on the left side… and something else, perhaps an eight, or it might possibly be a three, on the right.”

  “I agree.” Henry felt his pulse quicken.

  The door creaked open and Natasha sheepishly craned her neck into the room.

  “Natasha, she has a tattoo on the back of her head, just like Haysbrook!” Henry announced. “Come and look.”

  Natasha took one look at Henry huddled over the melting remains while handling the tattered fronds of Vera’s scalp, and began to back out of the door again.

  Henry realized there were too many unanswered questions about Vera Schmidt where she lay in this Romford mortuary.

  “Can we make arrangements for her remains to be transferred to Dr Longstaff at King’s College?” he asked.

  “Why?

  “Dr Pelton, these findings are quite possibly of enormous significance and may link this victim to another in London. We have found very unusual features on the other victim, including an identical tattoo, and I need the Home Office pathologist to examine Vera Schmidt’s remains… very carefully.”

  Pelton nodded solemnly. He did not appear affronted, nor insulted, and simply shuffled off to pick up a camera.

  “Do you still want those photographs, Inspector?”

  Henry helped Pelton to capture images of the tattooing. The tattoo appeared faded and smudged, indistinct, perhaps what Longstaff had termed ‘feathering’ on Professor Haysbrook. Henry wondered if this, too, might be indicative of the age of Vera’s tattoo.

  “I’ll print the photographs for you, Inspector, one thing I am capable of doing. Hold on a minute,” Pelton said, ambling off to a door marked ‘Office’.

  The few minutes afforded Henry alone with Vera allowed him to examine her more closely. It was impossible to be sure, but he favoured the tattoo being a three, not an eight. This was exactly what was tattooed on Professor Haysbrook, although it was impossible to know whether anything else might be missing between the ‘G’ and the ‘3’.

  “I’ve remembered something else that might help you, Inspector,” Pelton said, as he returned from his office and produced a few photographs printed on A5 paper. “I vaguely recall an old friend of mine, also a bumbling old country pathologist like me, you understand,” he said, with more than a hint of sarcasm, “who told me about a scalp tattoo he found on a body recently, asking if I might know of its significance.”

  Henry accepted the photographs with a grateful nod.

  “What was the tattoo?”

  “There it is in the photograph,” Pelton, said tapping a finger deformed by arthritic nodules on the top photograph in Henry’s grasp.

  Henry looked down and froze. The image was of a considerable bald head, perhaps it had been shaven, with a clearly visible tattoo high on the neck where its skin folds melded into the scalp. In faded turquoise-blue ink, with blurry edges, were the markings ‘G4’.

  “Where was this taken?” Henry felt his mouth becoming dry.

  “Quite a way from here, Inspector. Have you heard of Grasmere?”

  Ten

  “This better not be waste of bloody time,” barked Steven Bruce.

  He tossed a brown manila envelope on to the desk between Henry and Natasha.

  “Thank you, sir,” Natasha said. Henry was busy on the telephone and had barely even acknowledged Bruce’s presence.

  Steven Bruce was a big man, tall, square-shouldered, almost completely grey, with a tanned and lined face that betrayed his devotion to sunbeds.

  Henry replaced the phone in its cradle and spun around in his swivel chair to face his boss.

  “I hope that was not a call to Kabul,” Bruce said.

  “George is in Cairo at the moment, sir, thank you for asking.” Henry did not rise to the bait. “I was actually speaking to Dr Longstaff, confirming that Vera Schmidt’s body has arrived and that he will be examining it later.”

  Bruce grunted.

  “These are your rail tickets to Carlisle, plus a night’s accommodation at the local Travel Lodge. I am having difficulty justifying this travel to the Lake District in the peak of summer, so do make it worth my while, Henry.”

  “First class, is it, sir?”

  Bruce snorted. “You’ll be travelling at the rear of the train. And one more thing, if there is even the remotest prospect of a serial killer in our midst I want a full report on my desk before anything is said to anybody, even to Kabul.”

  “Cairo.”

  “Wherever. Understood?” Bruce leaned forward and rested his knuckles on the opposite side of the desk to Natasha and Henry.

  “Three bodies with the same unusual identifying marks on their scalps does not necessarily mean that they were killed by the same person,” Henry said quietly.

  Bruce wagged an index finger at him.

  “Your report – first. Oh, and Henry…”

  “Sir?”

  “Get a haircut, please. You look like Alice Cooper.”

  “Everyone at Mensa is expected to be a little eccentric, sir.”

  “Well, everyone at the Met is expected to look tidy,” Bruce said.

  A uniformed officer approached the desk hesitantly, not wishing to interrupt the Superintendent. Henry glanced at him and gestured for him to speak.

  “What is it, Constable?”

  “There is a visitor for you, Inspector. He wants to see you in private. He says it’s about Jeremy Haysbrook.”

  Natasha reached forward to the manila envelope and opened it, removing the travel vouchers.

  “And I thought you were joking about the standard class tickets, sir,” she said provocatively.

  Bruce waved a dismissive hand at her and turned to walk off. Henry was already preparing for the mystery visitor, grabbing a pad and pen, and retrieving Haysbrook’s file from the top drawer of his desk.

  Sean Wylie sat nervously in Interview Room Two, chewing at his fingernails. Henry studied him through the one-way mirror as Natasha drew closer. Sean was wearing a green, cashmere jacket buttoned up to the top, a canary yellow tie, and round spectacles that would not have looked out of place on Elton John singing ‘Goodbye Yellow Brick Road’. His face was round and well nourished, his lips a cherry-red colour, and a small diamond stud sparkled in his right ear lobe.

  “Watch him closely, Sergeant,” Henry said, as he left the pleasant perfume of Natasha’s Marc Jacob, and entered the room.

  “Mr Wylie, I am DCI Webber, in charge of the investigation into Jeremy Haysbrook’s death. How may I help you?”

  Sean stood up awkwardly to shake Henry’s hand, almost knocking his chair over backwards in the process. He swung around to catch the chair and then pushed his broad white-framed spectacles further up his nose. Henry estimated that he could be about mid-thirties. His head was covered thinly with light brown hair, receding considerably over his temples. The man exuded a strong smell of sweet aftershave, almost perfume-like.

  “Thank you, er, Detective,” he said in a small voice.

  “You can call me Inspector, Mr Wylie.”

  Henry drew a chair up and sat squarely in front of Sean, not too close, nor too far away. He clasped his hands beneath his chin and took a deep breath as he watched Sean’s eyes dart about and his hands fidget, and heard his feet shuffle about on the linoleum floor.

  “I was a good friend of Jeremy’s. We had known each other for quite a few ye
ars.” Sean paused, his eyes flicking up to meet Henry’s, as though judging his response. “Jeremy was a very intelligent man, very intelligent, and very private, Inspector. He didn’t like anyone to know his personal affairs, his preferences, his dislikes…”

  “I understand, Mr Wylie. Do you have any new information that might lead us to his killer?”

  The beginnings of a light sweat were breaking out on Wylie’s upper lip, glistening in the harsh fluorescent lighting.

  “This is very difficult for me, Inspector. I do not like drawing attention to myself.”

  Henry frowned.

  “Are you concerned that we might implicate you?”

  Sean Wylie shook his head.

  “No Inspector, I fear you might judge me, and Jeremy.”

  He withdrew a folded sheet of paper from the green cashmere jacket, but did not immediately hand it over to Henry.

  “Jeremy received this some weeks ago, perhaps even a few months to be honest. It is not dated. He believed that it came from a fellow member at Mensa.”

  “What is it?” Henry said, holding out a receptive palm.

  “It is a threatening letter, Inspector. It may be from his killer.”

  Quickly, Henry withdrew his hand and produced a pair of examination gloves from his pocket.

  “Who else has handled the letter?” Henry asked, gently taking the paper in his gloved fingers and opening it.

  “Only Jeremy, and, of course, me.”

  The letter was short and to the point, devoid of a date or a signature, printed on a standard inkjet office printer.

  I know that you are a homosexual. You should know that this sort of behaviour and lifestyle is neither acceptable nor tolerable to the order.

  Henry looked over the top of the letter at Sean, who now appeared pale and deflated as he fidgeted and shuffled about even more than before. Several times he pushed the spectacles up the bridge of his pudgy nose.

  “How did he come by this letter?”

  “It was posted.”

  “Do you still have the envelope?”

  Sean shrugged and frowned. “I somehow doubt it, Inspector.”

  “It’s all standard procedure, Mr Wylie, but we will need to take your fingerprints to exclude them from this letter, and of course we’ll need your alibi for the night of Professor Haysbrook’s murder.”

  Wylie nodded resignedly.

  Eleven

  “Is this really true?” Bruce asked, pacing up and down behind his desk.

  Natasha grimaced. She felt nauseous under interrogation, guilty even. Was this perhaps how Judas had felt?

  “I did see it myself,” she said.

  Bruce stopped pacing and fixed Natasha with a reprimanding glare.

  “When were you going to tell me?”

  Natasha’s eyes dropped to the floor.

  “I, er…”

  “I heard about this by chance via PC Jones. Not exactly the way I had hoped the Divisional Superintendent would be kept up to date about a murder investigation.”

  “I really didn’t think it was important, sir.”

  Bruce moved out from behind his desk and stood over Natasha, his large frame filling his impeccably ironed black tunic, like Darth Vader.

  “Investigations don’t progress by individuals making judgements and withholding information, Sergeant.” He paused. “I thought we had an agreement?”

  Natasha nodded meekly. She felt trapped, damned if she did and damned if she didn’t.

  “What did Webber have to say about it?” Bruce asked, narrowing his eyes.

  Natasha licked her lips, struggling to meet Bruce’s intense gaze.

  “He… er… he didn’t remember it, sir.”

  Bruce made a disparaging sound and turned away to the window.

  “I need to know about these episodes, Sergeant.” “He was probably on his way home, sir, that’s what he thought. You don’t seriously suspect him, do you?”

  Bruce turned sharply to face Natasha again, shaking his head.

  “No, no, of course I don’t. But I still need to know about these unusual aspects of DCI Webber’s behaviour, understood? It’s vitally important.”

  Natasha felt awful, as though she had been unfaithful to a lover. The gnawing aftermath of guilt and remorse made her feel as though she might vomit.

  Twelve

  Natasha stared at the photocopied letter as they crossed the Thames on Blackfriars Bridge, heading towards King’s College. Henry had decided to drive.

  “What do you think?” he said.

  “I’d say he was almost certainly Haysbrook’s boyfriend. I’d consider whether it was possible that Haysbrook could have been murdered simply because of his sexual persuasion. And what on earth is ‘the order’?”

  “Never heard of it. Is it the order of ‘G3’?” Henry pulled up sharply at the intersection on Southwark Street, allowing an elderly woman to shuffle over the pedestrian crossing, her gaunt cheeks puffing with each laboured step like a guppy in a tank.

  “Our mystery victim in Whitehaven is ‘G4’, though,” Natasha said.

  “Perhaps it’s a membership number, or category, or a rank?” Henry suggested, putting the car into gear.

  “But tattooed on in infancy?”

  “Let’s see what Longstaff has to say about Vera first before we get ahead of ourselves.”

  Within minutes they were parked up outside the mortuary. A light breeze blew off the Thames and whipped Henry’s great curls into a flurry about his head, making him look a little like Medusa.

  It was evident from the smell that Vera Schmidt’s body had been in the autopsy room recently. Layers of synthetic deodoriser simply added to the complexity of the unnatural odours, but did not hide the unmistakeable stench.

  “Inspector,” Longstaff said loudly from the corner of the room where he sat writing at one of the workbenches. “I am this very minute writing up my findings from Vera Schmidt’s post mortem examination. Good call rescuing this from Romford, you know, those provincial pathologists, part-timers, that’s what I call them.”

  “Was I right, Doctor?” Henry said, not wanting to get too close to Longstaff who was still wearing his surgical scrubs which were soiled with slimy-looking fluid.

  “As always, Inspector, as always,” Longstaff said with a sarcastic chuckle.

  Henry elbowed Natasha gently in the ribs to emphasize the point. The bouquet of her perfume mingled with the reek of Vera Schmidt’s advanced, watery decay. Longstaff flipped through the pages of written notes in front of him.

  “Now, let’s see. Yes, a very heavy smoker, lungs saturated with tar, and if she had not been shot I estimate she would have died within a few years at most from an adenocarcinoma I found in the apex of her left lung.”

  “Lung cancer?” Natasha said.

  “Yup,” Longstaff said. “Now, I only found her brain mass to be around 1150 grams and I think there was a lot of water from immersion included in the initial examination in Romford which estimated 1300 grams. As I said, part-timers.”

  “That’s not particularly large,” Henry said.

  “However, Inspector, cranial capacity probably exceeds 2000 cubic centimetres, which would put her brain mass ante-mortem at around 1800 to 2000 grams, give or take, definitely well above average for a woman of her height and weight.”

  Although he already knew this to be the case, the revelation nevertheless startled Henry. He felt the hairs on his neck rising. Two cases in a week, albeit that the deaths were separated by much longer, with such extreme anatomical variation. How could this be?

  “What is different to Professor Haysbrook, however, is that the cranial cavity is extended in different areas. Haysbrook’s skull was bigger at the rear, occipitally, and at the top, sagitally, but Vera Schmidt was larger on the sides and the front, what we call fronto-temporal. It may mean nothing, of course. I have no way of knowing if it is of any significance.”

  Henry shrugged as it meant nothing to him.

  “Wh
at about the tattoo?” he said.

  “Ah, yes.” Longstaff raised an index finger and rifled through the papers before producing a photograph. “I have a Polaroid here which shows that the skin edges at the back of her head would meet up with very little loss of interposing tissue. My opinion is that the tattoo is definitely ‘G3’.”

  “And the age of the tattoo?” Natasha asked.

  Longstaff hesitated.

  “It’s all very odd, I agree, but it’s not my job to explain everything. This tattoo shows the same fading, bleeding, and feathering as Haysbrook’s. I reckon she’s had it most of her life.”

  Natasha gaped.

  “Vera Schmidt was also tattooed in infancy?”

  Longstaff nodded slowly, rubbing his chin with fingers still wrinkled from the surgical gloves he had worn earlier. Henry, lost in thought, stared at the polished white floor tiles before drawing a pensive breath.

  “Would it be at all possible to extract any of that tattoo ink from the skin for comparative analysis?” he asked.

  “You mean using gas chromatography?” Longstaff frowned.

  “Or mass spectrometry?” Henry said. “Could you possibly prove after all these years that Jeremy Haysbrook and Vera Schmidt were tattooed with the same ink?”

  Longstaff considered the question.

  “That’s an intriguing notion. What are you suggesting here, Inspector?”

  “I don’t know, Doctor, but as you said earlier, it is not your job to explain everything. However, it is mine. These cases appear connected at this stage. How closely is what we need to establish next. We have precious little to go on as yet.”

  Longstaff sighed.

  “I can only try, Inspector. I’m not sure it’s ever been done before but, if it can be done, I will most certainly find a way.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. By the way, we’re taking the early train to the Lake District tomorrow to investigate yet another victim who has a scalp tattoo very much like Jeremy Haysbrook and Vera Schmidt. May I call upon you again, if necessary, to examine the remains?”

  “Another one?” Puzzlement creased Longstaff’s brow.

  Henry extracted from his jacket the photograph that Pelton had given to him in Romford and handed it to Longstaff, who stared at it with bewilderment and horror.