Behind Dead Eyes (DC Ian Bradshaw #2) - Howard Linskey Page 0,13

was indicating. ‘So you can,’ he agreed, ‘just.’

‘That could be a line that moves outwards into an edge, ending here and joining up with this more pronounced line that’s still partially visible,’ said the tattooist and he pointed at the blue mark on the burned girl’s neck. ‘I think this mark you found might just be the curve of a sword or the outer edge of the wing tip of a bird.’

‘Really?’

‘Take a look,’ said Quinn, and he slid the images he had found along the table so they were close to the photo of the burned girl. ‘These designs are very popular and small enough to go on your neck, ankle or an inner thigh. I’ve done a few of those.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘The positioning of the smudge would tally with a tatt at the base of the neck and to one side so it’s discreet. You can have it on show or not. Lasses like that.’

Bradshaw surveyed the images closely then glanced back at the picture of the burned girl.

‘Maybe,’ he said uncertainly.

‘Hang on,’ said Michael and he peeled a transparent design away from a pile of images and placed it right next to the smudge. Bradshaw could now more easily compare this tattoo and the mark on the burned girl. ‘It’s not quite to scale but …’ Michael slid the image of a dove towards the smudge until its edge slotted into its corner. Now that it virtually overlapped, Bradshaw could tell the faded edge of the tattoo could easily be a match to the outer edge of the dove’s wing.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Bradshaw, ‘you might just be on to something there, Michael. How did you manage that?’

‘I just picked the dozen or so most popular designs and this one is the closest match.’

‘Well done.’

‘Aye, well, I’m glad you’re pleased and there’s a very simple way you can repay me.’

‘Go on,’ said Bradshaw assuming he wanted money for his time.

‘By telling no bugger about it.’

‘Have no fear, Michael,’ said Bradshaw, ‘my lips are sealed.’

‘They’d bloody better be.’

Helen’s Norton’s newspaper ran a front-page lead story about the Riverside tender. It stressed the need for openness and transparency during the bidding process and the importance of getting the very best deal possible from the sale of publicly owned land. Next to it they printed the photograph she had taken, with the caption, ‘Council leader Joseph Lynch enjoys lunch with Camfield PLC owner Alan Camfield and well-known-local-businessman James McCree in a high-class, city centre restaurant.’ The hyphens in McCree’s title were her editor’s idea. They were not quite as blatant as punctuation marks but they ably highlighted the ironic nature of their description of the local gangster

For anyone outside the region, that photograph would have seemed innocuous. However, if you were from Newcastle the image would have been shocking. The leader of the council was sitting down to a cosy and expensive lunch with a multi-millionaire and one of the city’s best-known criminals.

Councillor Lynch used his right to reply to offer a flustered and angry response, which Helen’s editor included at the foot of the article. ‘I absolutely deny I had lunch with Mr Camfield and Mr McCree. I was there to meet someone else. Mr Camfield was already at his table. I went over to say hello to a prominent local businessman I have known for many years. While I was speaking to Mr Camfield, Mr McCree arrived at the restaurant to discuss opportunities for his security business, should Camfield Offshore be successful in their bid for the Riverside development scheme. At that point I left both the conversation and the table.’

‘I should have waited till the food arrived,’ said Helen, ‘I’ve given him an out.’

‘Do you think anyone is going to believe that?’ asked Graham. ‘The people of Newcastle have legendary bullshit detectors. Lynch has been banged to rights. We have done some serious harm to his credibility.’

‘Was he angry?’ Helen asked.

‘No,’ said her editor, ‘he was apoplectic.’

‘So will he try to …?’

‘Ruin our lives? Oh yes. If I know anything about Councillor Lynch he will not rest until I’m fired, this paper’s closed down and the building we are standing in demolished, but do you know what? Fuck him. That’s journalism. Sometimes you just have to roll the dice and print the story, otherwise what’s the point?’

Helen Norton may have been a reporter but right then she would have struggled to put her admiration for her editor into words. ‘Print and be damned, eh?’