Catch as Catch Can (The Merseyside Crime Series Book 1) by Malcolm Hollingdrake (any book recommendations .txt) 📗

We received a later call from Hill, the shopkeeper, to say the finger tattoos might be fancy foreign letters or numbers but he couldn’t be sure. We’ve also received two mobile numbers and the sender’s address from the courier of the medal. Number of the purchaser turns out to be a stolen phone and yes, debit card used was also stolen. We have local police interviewing. When you look at the position of the tattoos, they match the area where evidence of skin removal was performed on the corpse. According to the forensics’ report they are suggesting there was hasty tattoo removal.’

‘Did we not already know that? The fact they might have been there and removed could be coincidence,’ Skeeter announced with no real conviction.

April tapped the side of her nose. ‘That’s the million-dollar question. Now, if they were done together …’

‘Local tattoo shops will hold consent forms of anyone receiving a tattoo, they need to keep them for six years, providing she had it done locally that is.’

‘Providing it wasn’t done in a backstreet shop abroad on a drunken Friday night,’ Brad responded quickly, putting in his two penn’orth.

Both women looked at him and it was Skeeter who answered for them both.

‘The pot’s always half empty for this man isn’t it, Brad?’ She grabbed his cheek.

He knocked away her hand. ‘Just bringing all options to the investigation.’

‘Had experience, have we?’ Skeeter moved closer, her body language matching her mood.

There was a pause and both saw Brad’s face flush. Neither took their eyes off him as he rolled up the sleeve on his right arm before turning the inner part towards them. The tattoo contrasted with the soft pink of the tender flesh. Both women looked at each other, back at Brad and then at the tattoo.

‘Kyrenia, Turkish Cyprus, eight or so summers ago after a day’s drinking …’ He started to sing. ‘Regrets, I’ve had a fe … Me and the mates thought it would be a good idea to have our nicknames tattooed on our inner arm in Turkish. Brad, I asked for which they told me translated to this … Ekmek. Being pissed I believed them and was happy.’

April smiled as if she knew what was to come but Skeeter concentrated on Brad’s face.

‘Either I didn’t explain the word clearly enough or his English was worse than I remember but Ekmek when translated means bread.’

Neither Skeeter nor April knew whether to laugh or gasp but Brad simply rolled down his sleeve.

‘I don’t tend to tell many people that story. It’s part of my embarrassing history – wild child. The worst thing was when I started in this job, I had a flat above a Turkish takeaway and in summer I had to wear long sleeves. I was fed up of having to explain why I had bread tattooed on my bloody arm.’

That lightened the moment as both put a reassuring arm on his shoulder. ‘Your secret’s safe with us, barm cake and you can spell that whichever way you like!’ Skeeter chuckled.

The light-hearted banter was just what Skeeter needed and she smiled at her colleagues. Turning, she studied the photographs attached by coloured magnets to the whiteboard.

‘You could get an artist to interpret the tattoo design and forward it to all tattoo shops in Liverpool to begin with, then post it on missing persons on the Merseyside police website. Someone will have seen something.’

Chapter 10

It was while working in the local Sunday school in her teens that April had become fascinated with the art of coloured and leaded glass. She would relax after the classes, staring at the church windows, intrigued by the artisans’ careful positioning of the colours to bring out the best in the images depicted. She had vowed one day to learn the ancient craft. A six-month night school class had seen her work with copper foil and then quickly progress to the serious art of leading. At the height of her enthusiasm, her then partner had remarked she would have leaded the windows in the car if he had allowed it. She often chuckled at the thought. However, now owing to work commitments, she only used her skills as a form of relaxation; a way of closing the hangar door and leaving work behind, as her father would say.

April stretched a flaccid piece of ‘H’ section lead came until it was stiff enough to hold horizontally before laying it on the cartoon diagram of the window design on which she was currently working. She allowed it to follow the carefully cut coloured glass before pinning the outside edge of the lead with a horseshoe nail. She forced a fid into the lead channel to ensure it was a snug fit to the glass. She tapped another nail into the board. Cutting the lead to neatly edge the glass, she butted it to another lead section. Moving away, her hands now supporting her back, her smile showed she was pleased with the abstract, patterned window that was taking shape before her. A row of nails held the flat collage together until it was soldered.

Her police mobile illuminated and danced across the workbench. She leaned forward and caught it as it collided with the old tobacco tin that held the nails.

‘Ma’am, it’s Brad. We have a hit on the missing person website although I realise she’s not necessarily missing.’

April listened, trying to place to whom he was alluding.

‘The tattooed girl … We’ve had a call to say that someone hasn’t seen a Michelle Pearson for nearly a week. She rents an upper floor flat on Rosslyn Street, Walton, from the couple who live below. According to the report she was co-habiting with a foreign bloke for a while but he hasn’t been seen for ages, like. They thought he’d cleared off. They used to row a good deal, they say. Now she’s gone too. Strangely they don’t owe any rent. Says they always paid in advance – cash – and have always been good