Barely controlled hysteria created cracks in every word the woman uttered. ‘We’ve just seen the local paper. My daughter isn’t here. She’s not here. There’s post in our hallway.’
‘Please slow down, madam. What’s in your hallway?’
‘Post. We’ve been away in Lanzarote and she’s not here.’
‘Can you give me your name and address?’
‘Debbie Young. Her name is Tyler. She has shoulder-length brown hair.’ She dissolved into sobs and a man came on the phone, voice as flat as the fens.
‘We live at 61 Rowfield Road, Stretford.’
‘Thank you, sir. Was that your wife just speaking?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you say you’ve just got back from holiday?’
‘We’ve been in Lanzarote for the past ten days. Tyler was meant to come with us, but there was an argument and she stayed at home. She’s eighteen. About five and a half feet tall.’
‘Does she have any distinguishing features you can tell me about?’
‘Piercings in her ear, her right ear. And a tattoo.’
‘What sort of tattoo, sir?’
He paused, having to force the next words out. ‘It’s of Betty
Boop. Just near her hip.’
‘Confit duck leg with grilled spiced fig?’ the waiter asked, tendrils of steam rising from the plate in each hand.
‘That’s for my wife.’ The man gestured across the immaculate white linen.
‘And slow-braised lamb with sweet pepper mash for you,’ the waiter replied, setting the other plate down with a smile. ‘Enjoy your meal.’
He backed away, leaving the couple to examine their food, anticipation making their eyes shine.
‘This smells lovely,’ the woman said, picking up her fork and spearing a fig. She popped it into her mouth and bit down, eyelashes lowering in appreciation of the flavour.
‘Good?’ he asked, teasing a strip of meat from the cut on his plate.
She nodded, leaning back and staring across the choppy waters of the Manchester Ship Canal to the dramatic silver angles forming the Imperial War Museum North. ‘You know, from here,’ she commented, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a napkin, ‘you can really see the meaning of Daniel Liebeskind’s design. The Earth shard, the Air shard and the Water shard, all interlocking. The three different arenas of twentieth-century conflict.’
Her husband sipped from his glass of Cabernet Sauvignon and nodded. ‘He doesn’t win the world’s most prestigious building projects for nothing I suppose.’
Her eyes trailed back across the water, savouring the setting and atmosphere. Then they stopped, attention drawn to a large, pale object in the water directly below. A seagull was perched on top of it as it drifted slowly past, sharp beak tearing at the eye sockets of the corpse’s hideously puffed-out face.
Jon stood motionless, staring at the body of Tyler Young. She’d left school at sixteen, flitting between several McJobs, bored, restless, convinced the world had to be a more exciting place. When she was younger, she’d won a beauty competition and she’d aspired ever since to be a catwalk model.
But her height had never progressed beyond five feet seven, a world away from the Naomis, Giseles and Carmens. More recently she’d been to Tempters, hoping to get work as a topless barmaid, hungry for paid recognition of her beauty. But the management had turned her away, with the advice that she needed to go up a bra size or two if she wanted a job.
That’s what had caused the row. Tyler said she’d prefer to spend the money her ticket to Lanzarote had cost on plastic surgery instead. They’d refused to entertain the idea and she’d stormed out of the house.
Jon looked at her chest now, the skin of her breasts removed, pectoral muscles showing through the waxy layer of fascia. Could Pete Gray have done this? Tyler Young wasn’t the same as the first two victims. For a start, she was over twenty years younger. The only way someone like Pete Gray could get access to a girl like Tyler was if he paid for it. Had she gone on the game to fund her operation?
He tapped a finger against his chin, arms pressed close to his chest in the cool air of the mortuary.
Or was she the prostitute from the CCTV footage of Gordon
Dean?
He shut his eyes, trying to sift through his thoughts.
A door opened somewhere and he heard metal clang as a trolley was wheeled down a corridor. Soon the plastic curtains parted and the gurney entered the room, two technicians behind it. Jon glanced at the fibreglass shell coffin as they came to a halt by a stainless-steel autopsy table.
‘If you’re staying in here, you might want to hold your breath.’ This from the pathologist, who entered the room in full protective clothing.
‘What is it? Jon asked.
‘He bobbed up in the Manchester Ship Canal, right outside the Lowry theatre’s terrace restaurant. Ruined a lot of preperformance dinners he did.’
‘A floater?’ Jon said. ‘I think I’ll head for the goldfish bowl.’
‘Good move. He’s been in a good week or so, I’d say.’ The pathologist nodded towards Tyler’s corpse. ‘Can we put her away?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’ He stepped out of the theatre area and into the viewing room, wondering how to tell Rick that he’d been following Pete Gray.
In the theatre, the technicians opened up the shell coffin and hefted a large plastic sheet containing the body on to the autopsy table.
The pathologist prepared his implements on a side counter while one of his assistants cut through the adhesive tape sealing the sheet. Then she peeled away the folds to reveal a monstrously bloated corpse, the yellow skin marbled with a network of bluish lines. He was in a foetal position, ankles and wrists bound together.
Oh Jesus, Jon thought, never failing to be shocked at how death could turn the human body into a gruesome parody of its former self. He watched with a grimace as she carefully removed the plastic evidence bag the pathologist had placed over the victim’s head. The neck was twisted round, the eyeless face a blob of marshmallow, short brown hair on top of his head looking like a skullcap.
That was enough. Jon started to walk out, but paused, eyes drawn to a red mark on the corpse’s buttock. He pressed the intercom button and his voice came through the speaker in the theatre. ‘Excuse me. Could someone take a closer look at the mark on his arse?’
One of the technicians stepped round and leaned over the body. ‘It’s a tattoo of a red devil, I think. A small figure holding a trident.’
A jolt shot down the length of Jon’s spine. ‘I can’t see from this angle, but is there another one on his shoulderblade?’
She moved to the head of the table and peered down. ‘Yes. The skin’s distorting it pretty badly, but it looks like a ladybird.’
‘Thanks.’ Jon got his mobile out and called Rick. ‘You can let
McCloughlin know that Gordon Dean’s just surfaced.’
‘So the pathologist reckons he’d been in the water for about ten days?’ said Rick, sipping his gin and Coke.
Jon put his pint down on the table. ‘Yup.’
Rick’s lips moved slightly as he counted out a sequence. ‘That still puts him in the time frame for Tyler Young’s murder. Maybe he killed her then, for some reason decided to top himself.’
Jon shook his head. ‘You’re not having that tenner. With his wrists and ankles bound as they were, it couldn’t have been suicide.’
Rick rubbed his temples. ‘But if he didn’t kill Young we’re no closer to catching the Butcher.’
‘Actually, that might not be the case.’
‘Why not? What do you mean?’
Jon flipped a beer mat over, but failed to catch it. He looked Rick in the face. ‘We’ve still got the Pete Gray lead. I’ve been following it up.’
Rick crossed his arms and sat back. ‘When have you found the time for that?’
Jon shrugged. ‘Evenings. I’ve only caught him coming off his shift a couple of times. Followed him to a bar the other night.’
‘When were you planning on letting me know?’
‘I was about to when Gordon Dean’s body was wheeled in.’