checking,’ said Michael, ‘I call it door-stepping where anybody could see you.’
‘Just tell them I was after a tattoo.’
‘You don’t look the sort.’
‘You see all kinds with them these days; perfectly respectable lasses getting little tattoos on their ankles or the small of their backs. I prefer the good old days when we used to call tattoos barcodes-for-criminals.’
‘Times change, Detective Constable.’
‘It’s Detective Sergeant, actually.’
‘Gone up in the world have we? Who did you nick to get that promotion?’
One of my own colleagues thought Bradshaw, but he didn’t tell Michael that, or the fact the man hadn’t lived to do prison time.
‘It’s alright,’ Bradshaw reassured him, ‘it wasn’t the case you helped me on.’
‘Could you not say that out loud, please.’ Quinn winced, even though there was no one else in the shop.
‘You did the right thing, Michael. You could have carried on covering up gangsters’ tattoos and done time for perverting the course of justice but, instead, you shopped them, retaining your liberty and the right to continue earning your livelihood.’
‘And those people on the inside still have friends on the outside. One careless word from you and I’m history.’
‘Is that right?’ said Bradshaw nonchalantly.
‘Yes.’
‘Then you’d better stay out of dark alleyways,’ said Bradshaw, ‘and on my good side.’
‘I don’t know nothing else. I swear it. I haven’t done any of those cover-up jobs since you blackmailed me.’
‘Blackmail is a very strong word, Michael. I just gave you the chance to do the right thing, but I’m not looking for you to shop anyone, at least not today. It’s your professional expertise I am after.’
Bradshaw produced the photograph of the burned girl then and placed it face up on Quinn’s tattoo bench.
‘Jesus,’ said Quinn, ‘what the fuck happened to … it?’
‘It is a she, Michael, and the answer to your question is undiluted sulphuric acid.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘We are having a problem identifying the poor victim, which is where you come in.’ Bradshaw pointed at the photograph. ‘Take a close look at this,’ he ordered the man, ‘and tell me what you think.’
Reluctantly Quinn bent lower and squinted at the area of the photograph Bradshaw had indicated. After a moment he said, ‘It could be.’
‘I know it could be but is it?’
‘Most of it has gone. It’s just a tiny smudge really,’ and he swung round a desk lamp with a magnifying glass attached to it so he could take a closer look. Bradshaw watched as Quinn turned on the lamp, peered through the glass and examined the light blue mark on the burned girl’s neck. ‘But it does form an angle.
‘I think it is a tatt,’ he said eventually, ‘but it could be almost anything.’
This was not the answer Bradshaw was hoping for. ‘What do you think it is?’
Quinn looked again. ‘Well it could be a number, a letter or the shape of an animal or possibly the corner of an emblem of some sort.’
‘Bloody hell, Michael, I could have told you that.’
‘Well, I’d need a bit more time if I’m going to examine it properly and compare it.’
‘How much do you need?’ he asked.
‘I dunno,’ Quinn shrugged helplessly, ‘a while, possibly quite a while.’
Bradshaw folded his arms. ‘I’m in no hurry.’
‘Look, I don’t mean this disrespectfully, but could you at least fuck off for a bit and come back later?’
‘No, Michael, I couldn’t.’
‘Christ,’ hissed Quinn, as if Bradshaw was standing there in full uniform and not a suit.
‘So if you want me gone, you’d better get a move on.’
‘Alright, alright.’ And Quinn did get a move on. He started dragging catalogues containing tattoo designs over to the bench and opening them near the photograph of the burned girl so he could compare the smudge to them.
‘Take your time, Michael,’ said Bradshaw, ‘but I’m expecting great things from you.’
‘Don’t hold your breath,’ said the flustered tattooist as he leafed through the catalogues. Bradshaw killed time looking at the myriad of designs on the tattoo parlour’s walls before deciding that none of them were remotely appealing to him.
It took Michael Quinn some time before he felt confident enough to look up from the catalogues and share his findings with Bradshaw.
‘If it is a smudge from a tattoo then it could be just about anything but …’
‘But what?’ pressed Bradshaw.
Quinn pointed to an area on the photograph just inside the portion of skin that had been virtually destroyed by the acid, ‘you can just make out what remains of a very faint line.’
Bradshaw peered through the magnifying glass at the area Quinn