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  ‘Betty Boop? That cartoon character? Oversized head, little kiss-curl, miniskirt and heels?’

  ‘Yeah, I think that’s her.’

  ‘Is the cartoon on TV at the moment or something? I’ve seen that character recently. God, where was it?’

  Rick was frowning. ‘If he’s covering his tracks, why leave her tattoo? Especially when virtually all the skin from the rest of her torso had been removed.’

  ‘He leaves their knickers on. I don’t think he saw it. We didn’t at the crime scene, remember?’

  ‘You’re right,’ Rick answered. ‘It was under her knickers. He fucked up.’

  Jon clicked his fingers. ‘It was in the book in Jake’s tattoo parlour. That Betty Boop character.’

  Rick’s eyebrows were raised. ‘Gordon Dean and victim three could have got their tattoos done in the same place?’

  Jon shrugged. ‘Might be worth checking how often that Jake character is asked to do Betty Boop.’

  ‘Back again, gents? I can see you’re tempted. You know it’s two for one on all body piercings? You could go halves, one nipple each.’

  Jon leaned over the desk, his frame filling Jake’s vision. He knew his size was intimidating. But when the person was as annoying as this little twat, who gave a shit? Remaining silent, he stared until the provocative smirk began to wilt. Then he raised a hand and swept it towards Jake’s head. Jake’s shoulders came up, his eyes screwing shut in readiness for the cuff. But Jon’s hand carried on over his head and came to rest on the book of tattoos on the shelf by his side. ‘Ease up man, I’m only fooling around,’ Jon mocked, taking a seat.

  Jake’s eyes opened again. ‘Oh, you’re after a tattoo?’ But the riposte was delivered weakly.

  Jon ignored the comment and flicked through the plastic sheets until he found the right page. ‘Betty Boop. How often have you done tattoos of her?’

  Jake curled the corners of his mouth downwards. ‘Dunno. Not that often. Why?’

  ‘Do you keep a record of tattoos as you do them?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What about paperwork? Receipts, sales dockets, that kind of stuff?’

  He nodded. ‘Of course. I keep accounts and pay my tax. Anything to help cover the wages of servants of the state such as yourselves.’

  ‘Good man,’ Jon smiled. ‘Here’s what we need to know. Not counting his latest delivery, when was the last time you bought gloves from Gordon Dean?’

  Jake slid a file off the shelf and started working backwards.

  ‘Here, fifteenth of January.’

  ‘Great. Was that also the date you gave him his ladybird tattoo?’

  Jake thought. ‘Could have been. Yeah, in fact I think it was.’

  ‘Can you tell us which other tattoos you did that day?’

  He took a ledger down. Each page covered a month, with names of tattoos and their prices listed. His finger stopped halfway down the entries for January. ‘Yeah, there’s the ladybird. Twenty-five quid.’

  Jon looked at the page. Immediately below it was an entry for Betty Boop, with sixty pounds written in the next column. ‘I know it was a few weeks ago, but do you remember who had the Betty Boop tattoo?’

  Jake closed his eyes and raised a hand to his face. His forefinger and thumb twiddled the silver bar in the top of his nose as if it was a dial that turned on memories. ‘A young girl. I asked her for ID to check she was eighteen.’

  Jon raised his eyebrows. ‘And?’

  ‘Yeah, she was. Well, she had one of those proof-of-age cards for pubs.’

  ‘Can you remember the name on the card?’

  Jake frowned, silent for a couple of seconds. ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘On which part of her body did you do the tattoo?’

  He tapped the left-hand pocket of his trousers. ‘Here, just below her knicker line.’

  ‘What did she look like?’

  ‘I don’t know. About five and a half feet tall. Slim, pretty. Little button nose, brown eyes and short brown hair.’

  ‘How short?’

  Jake held a hand to just below his ears.

  ‘Any distinguishing features? Scars, birthmarks, piercings, that sort of thing?’

  ‘Could have had a few piercings at the top of her right ear.’ Jon and Rick exchanged a glance.

  ‘Do you take customers’ addresses? Perhaps for a mailing list?’ Rick asked.

  Jake snorted. ‘I’m not that hi-tech. Keeping this thing up to date is about my limit,’ he said, hand on the ledger.

  Jon glanced at the payment column. ‘How did she pay?’

  ‘Cash. That’s all I accept.’

  ‘Do you remember if Gordon Dean was in here at the same time as the girl?’

  ‘Yeah, he was. It was busy.’ He gestured to the curtain at the back of the tiny room. ‘I was doing another one.’ He looked at the book. ‘There you go, a Maori arm ring, seventy-five quid. They waited out here together while I was doing it.’

  ‘Were they chatting?’ Rick asked, leaning forward eagerly.

  ‘I don’t know. When the machine’s buzzing I can’t hear much out here.’

  ‘But they were here for a while, sitting next to each other?’ He nodded. ‘Easily for half an hour.’

  Jon stood. ‘Thanks a lot. You’ve been a massive help.’

  As they trooped back down the stairs, Rick started humming

  ‘I’m in the Money’.

  ‘Don’t get cocky,’ Jon said, wagging a cautionary finger. ‘There’s nothing to link him with Angela Rowlands or Carol Miller.’

  ‘True. But Angela Rowlands was in the dating game and Carol Miller disappeared while on some mysterious errand. The sooner more information’s entered into HOLMES, the sooner a link to Gordon Dean will emerge. You wait.’

  ‘I am, and I’m not holding my breath.’

  Except for a few waiters laying tables, Don Antonio’s was deserted. The manager sat down at a table by the door and tilted Gordon Dean’s photo to the window. His accent had the necessary elongated vowels for Italian authenticity. ‘Ah yes, Mr Dean, he dines here regularly. But this photo is from before his new haircut.’

  ‘And he was most recently in when?’ Rick asked.

  The manager waved a hand. ‘Four or five nights ago?’

  ‘Five,’ answered Rick.

  The manager looked surprised. ‘You know already.’ Rick nodded. ‘Where did he sit?’

  A finger was pointed across the room. ‘The corner table, for two people. But he was alone.’

  ‘And he left at what time?’

  ‘Early – he always eats early. We cleared his table well before eight, I’m sure.’

  ‘Do you remember what he was wearing?’

  ‘Chinos, maybe, a black shirt. Smart casual, as they say.’

  ‘And how did he seem to you? You mentioned he had a new haircut.’

  ‘Yes. Very short and sticking up. His moustache had gone also. He looked like a new man, much younger.’

  ‘Did he seem happy?’

  ‘Of course.’ The manager spread his hands. ‘Always happy. But yes, he ordered a glass of champagne, even though he had no one to toast it with.’

  Back at the station they started typing. A couple of hours later their reports were ready for handing to the receiver, who would read them for any vital information before passing them on to the indexer for entering into HOLMES.

  Leaning back in his seat, Rick stretched his arms above his head. ‘So, next stop, Gordon’s choice of late-night venues?’

  Gay Village here I come, Jon thought uneasily. ‘Yeah, I suppose so.’

  Rick glanced outside at the darkening sky. ‘There’s no point in going now – far too early. A swift one instead?’

  Jon rubbed the back of his hand across his lips, thinking of Pete Gray’s duty roster. His shift at Stepping Hill finished at eight o’clock. Under an hour’s time. He wondered whether to suggest they follow him, see what he got up to after work.

  But then he imagined Rick’s r
esponse: their orders were to investigate Gordon Dean’s disappearance, and that’s what they should stick to until instructed otherwise.

  Jon clicked his tongue. ‘Actually, I’d better show my face at home. My other half will be forgetting who I am.’

  ‘No problem, I’ve got some stuff to sort out.’ Rick’s smile was overdone and Jon suddenly wondered if he had someone waiting for him wherever he lived. Rick looked at his watch.

  ‘Shall we meet at around nine?’

  Jon was putting his jacket on. ‘Sounds fine. Whereabouts?’

  ‘Will you get the train in?’ Jon nodded.

  ‘The Yates’s in Piccadilly station, then?’

  ‘OK. See you there.’

  Chapter 16

  Jon followed the A6 all the way to Stepping Hill hospital. The car park was three-quarters empty and he reversed into a shadowy corner space from where he could watch the porter’s lodge unobserved.

  I should be at home, he thought guiltily, picturing Alice sitting on her own yet again. Outside, splinters of rain started lacing the air. They hit the windscreen, fragmenting into diagonal lines of minuscule droplets. A swirl of wind pushed a flurry of little needles against the glass from another direction, cutting the lines and creating a crosshatch effect. Seconds later the shower picked up in strength and the delicate effect was lost forever.

  Bang on eight o’clock Pete Gray emerged through the doors, a US-style leather flying jacket over his uniform. He made straight for a Staff Only bay and got into a pale blue mini van. Its lights came on and he pulled out, heading for the main road. Keeping his distance, Jon shadowed him back on to the A6, then to a terraced house near Davenport train station.

  Jon parked on the opposite side of the road and turned his lights off. The droplets clinging to his windows twinkled under the streetlights as he watched Pete Gray unlock his front door and go into the dark house. The hall lit up, quickly followed by the front room. Gray walked across to the corner, stooped to turn the telly on, then plucked the remote control from a shelf crowded with large books. Standing there, he flicked through a few channels, his other hand wandering round to his buttocks, where it began a lazy scratching.

  The flickering light abruptly died and he put the remote back on the shelf, walked over to the front windows and drew the curtains.

  Jon’s eyes shifted to the blue van parked on the drive. The rear windows were facing him and he could see a Confederate flag in the corner of one of them. There were another two stickers in the other window, but the writing was too small to be legible.

  Jon waited until an upstairs light went on, then climbed out and crossed the road. From the end of the driveway the writing on the stickers was plain to see: Shaggin’ Wagon and If it’s a-rockin’ don’t come a-knockin’. He tried to see into the back, but the windows were heavily tinted. Perfect for ferrying around cargos you didn’t want anyone else to see, Jon thought. Back in his car, he jotted down the house number and the van’s registration.

  ‘Hi, babe, it’s me.’

  ‘In here.’ Alice’s voice floated back to him from the kitchen. He shut the front door behind him, eyes fixed on the corridor. Punch’s head appeared in the doorway to the living room a second later. Jon dropped to one knee and slapped his thigh.

  ‘Come here, you stupid boy!’

  Once their customary wrestling match was over, Jon planted a big kiss on Punch’s muzzle, then stood up and walked into the kitchen. Alice’s back was to him as she passed the iron over one of his shirts.

  ‘You’re late,’ she said, looking at him over her shoulder.

  ‘Yeah, I know. Sorry. It’s this case.’ He stood behind her and slid his hands across her stomach. ‘How’s you and the bump?’

  ‘We’re fine.’ Alice smiled, hooking a hand round to stroke his cheek. ‘Been snogging your dog again?’

  ‘No,’ said Jon guiltily. OK, then, he thought, I’m a liar.

  ‘Well, someone’s given you dog-breath.’

  Jon glanced down at Punch. ‘Haven’t you brushed your teeth?’

  The dog looked upwards, the skin above its eyes wrinkled into a frown.

  Alice resumed her ironing. ‘Seriously, Jon, you’ll have to be careful about playing around with Punch once the baby arrives. I was reading about these parasites dogs can carry. They can make a baby go blind.’

  Jon knew the parasites were only found in dog faeces, but he didn’t want to reply in case doing so opened up a wider discussion that led to whether they should keep Punch at all.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ Alice said.

  ‘People have kept dogs in family homes for centuries. I’ve never heard of babies going blind.’

  ‘It’s true. I read about it in Joys of Motherhood.’

  Fucking stupid magazines, Jon thought. Filling their pages with any old shit, nothing more than a vehicle to carry advertisements for extortionate baby equipment. He unwrapped his arms and addressed the back of her head. ‘I’ll wash my hands each time I’ve touched Punch.’

  ‘And no kissing him, either. It can’t be healthy.’

  Still behind her, Jon made a face, then looked down at his dog and gave him a big wink.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ Alice asked, folding up the shirt.

  ‘No, but don’t worry. I’ll just grab a sandwich – I’ve got to go back out.’

  ‘Again?’ Alice’s voice had gone up a notch.

  Jon sighed and moved into her line of vision. ‘We need to trawl some of the bars a suspect was last seen drinking in. See if anyone knows where he is.’

  ‘Which bars?’

  ‘Just some around Canal Street.’

  A smirk appeared on Alice’s face. ‘With your new partner?’

  ‘Yeah, why?’ Jon replied, not liking where this was going.

  ‘People will think you’re a couple.’

  Jon rolled his eyes. ‘I hadn’t thought about that.’ Alice grinned. ‘You’ll look lovely together.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Actually, what should I wear? I forgot to ask him.’

  Alice wasn’t able to drop her smile completely. ‘For Canal Street? That white ribbed T-shirt I got you from Gap. The fitted one – it shows off your muscles. And your old 501s – they hug your arse beautifully.’

  Jon shook his head. ‘You’re bloody loving this aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she giggled. ‘It’s hilarious watching you squirm. What if any of your rugby mates see you?’

  ‘Well, they’re not going to, are they? The last place any of them would drink in is the Gay Village.’

  Alice cocked her head to one side. ‘You might be surprised.’

  ‘I’m not listening,’ Jon said, walking towards the door with a hand held up. If men wanted to shag each other, fine. Just as long as they did it behind closed doors. Problem was, now he was heading behind closed doors himself.

  After a quick shower he came back downstairs with his jeans and T-shirt on. Bracing himself, he went into the kitchen.

  Alice looked him up and down, eyes lingering at his crutch.

  ‘They’ll be like flies around shit,’ she lisped in a camp voice.

  Jon gripped his temples. ‘Just stop it, will you? This is really doing my head in.’

  She laughed again. ‘Seriously, though, nice touch. Black leather belt and black leather boots.’

  Jon studied her face for signs of a piss-take. ‘They’re my old shoes from when I was in uniform. Doc Martens,’ he said uncertainly.

  Alice kissed him on the mouth. ‘You look fine, honey. And stop worrying, will you? Anyone would think you’re about to climb into a cage full of pit-bulls.’

  As Jon slapped squares of ham between two slices of granary bread, she started folding the ironing board up.

  ‘Here, I’ll do it,’ Jon said. Licking margarine from his fingers, he took it from her.

  ‘Cheers,’ she answered, one hand on the small of her back.

  ‘Oh, I saw Fiona today. She called into the salon.’

  ‘How was she?�
� Jon asked, sliding the ironing board into the cupboard under the stairs.

  ‘Can you get the hoover out while you’re in there?’

  ‘Alice, forget vacuuming. You should put your feet up.’

  ‘And who’ll clean this place?’

  ‘I’ll do it. Tomorrow before work, OK?’

  Alice shrugged. ‘I’ll have to get pregnant more often.’

  Christ! The prospect of one baby was frightening enough. He looked round, hoping to see an expression on Alice’s face that would tell him she was joking. But her back was to him as she sorted through the pile of ironing.

  ‘So how was Fiona?’

  Alice’s hands paused. ‘She worried me, actually. I mean, she’s sorting herself out, looking to rent somewhere, so she’s finally free of that arsehole she married. But she was going on about what she thinks she heard in that motel room.’

  Jon stood in the doorway, arms crossed.

  ‘She’s determined to find out what happened to that girl Alexia, or whatever her name was. She went to some escort agency, the one whose business card she found.’

  He nodded.

  ‘The owner had interviewed someone, but didn’t take her on. So Fiona said she’s going to start asking street hookers if they know her.’

  Jon pictured what went on in Manchester’s red-light areas after dark. It was a sad fact, but even many of his colleagues considered the working girls fair game for a bit of fun. Stories occasionally circulated of prostitutes being invited into the back of police vans, of freebies demanded in return for increased patrols whenever a violent punter was on the prowl. It was a brutal place for Fiona to be wandering around asking questions. ‘She needs to be very careful.’

  ‘I know. But she’s determined to find out if she’s alive. It’s like some sort of fixation.’

  ‘Listen, if she tells you anything more about what she’s up to, let me know. I don’t want her getting into trouble. There’s some very nasty operators making their living from those women.’

  As Fiona drove through Belle Vue her eyes were drawn to the Platinum Inn. Lights shone behind the curtains in a few of the ground-floor rooms. Several couples were walking along the pavement, and she wondered which were genuine and which were not.

  Five minutes later she was driving round the back of Piccadilly station. Spotlights ran along the top of a huge billboard poster. Stretched out in their glare was a bikini-clad woman, leaning towards the camera, lips slightly apart. Fiona just had time to see the ad was for a forthcoming plastic surgery programme on TV before the road turned left, leading her down a dark street bordered by several locked Manchester University buildings. It was a part of town she was unfamiliar with, and she slowed to a crawl. At once she became aware of women she’d been oblivious of a moment before. Now that she was looking properly, she could see more of them, some hanging back in the cobbled side streets that branched off from the road. A sign caught her eye. Minshull Street. One woman stepped to the edge of the kerb and started to beckon. The car passed under a streetlight and, seeing that it was a woman at the wheel, the prostitute’s hand fell.