Who Is She? Page 3

  “What’s over this way?” asked Jack.

  “The place we’re heading after this – Clifton.”

  “A suburb of Manchester?”

  “Salford. Don’t confuse Salford and Manchester. People can get funny about that.”

  Near the top of the slope, Jack stopped and turned. A narrow channel through the trees gave a view of the clearing. A movement in the treetops halfway down the slope caught his eye. “Look at that,” he whispered, pointing. A small bird with a short flat head and plump body was shuffling along a branch. The bird had greyish brown feathers mottled with white. White lines angled down over big yellow eyes, giving it a frowning expression. “I think it’s some kind of owl.”

  “A Little Owl,” Steve said as the bird stretched out its wings in the rain. “It’s taking a shower. I’ve seen one doing it before. I used to do a bit of birdwatching when the kids were little.”

  Jack cocked an eyebrow. “You were a birder?”

  “Yeah well you know how it is. You get home from a shift absolutely bolloxed. The kids are fighting. The house is a tip. The wife’s pissed off at you for some reason or other. So you find yourself looking for any excuse to get away from it all – birding, the pub, the footy. And then before even know what’s what, your wife’s not your wife anymore and you can do your own thing every night of the week.” Steve faded off into a sigh. He quickly followed up with a forced-sounding chuckle. “These days the only birdwatching I do is in the city centre. You should come out with me and the lads one Saturday. We’ll take you around the meat markets. All the MILFs will be creaming themselves over you.”

  “Thanks but no thanks.”

  “Take it from me, mate, you need to get back on the horse, start enjoying life. That is unless you’re planning on becoming a monk.”

  “That might not be such a bad idea,” Jack said humourlessly. He started back down the slope before Steve could reply. The conversation was heading into uncomfortable territory. Time to knock on some doors.

  Chapter 3

  Junction 16 of the M60 led into Clifton along a road of semi-detached houses and low-rise blocks of flats. Jack and Steve started with the side of town closest to the crime scene. Under their direction, constables fanned out across an estate of bland modern detached houses. It was a little past four in the morning. No hint of light showed in the starless November sky. People were slow to wake and even slower to open their doors. This wasn’t a particularly affluent area, but it was far from poor. Houses without alarms were a rarity. The place had a small community feel. The people Jack spoke to were friendly enough, but wary. As one man said after making Jack slide his ID through the letterbox, “Scallies don’t usually knock on doors, but you never know around here.”

  After an hour or so, the officers regrouped. Most had nothing to report. A few had come up with potential matches, but that was to be expected. Caucasian, shoulder length reddish hair, brown eyes, five four or so, 160ish pounds. There must have been dozens of women within a mile of where they were who fitted that description. The key was to find a woman who fitted that description and was missing. No luck so far on that score. Steve and the majority of the constables moved on to a neighbouring estate. Jack took four officers with him to check out a scattering of houses at the end of a narrow, pitch-dark lane. Strings of potholes exposed worn cobblestones through the lane’s tarmacked surface. To its right was a grassy field. To its left was a patchwork fence of green-streaked wood and rusty corrugated panels.

  Jack shone his torch over the fence. Horse stables, allotments and chicken coops were mixed in with yards cluttered with caravans, vans, cars, porta-cabins and sheds. A little oasis of businesses operating in the grey economy. The light set a dog off barking. A sign warned that ‘Security Patrol And Protect These Premises’. Beyond the last allotment was a short terrace of two-up, two-down houses. The lane continued past the houses towards what Google Maps indicated to be a farm. Jack sent a couple of constables on to the farm whilst he and a constable worked through the houses, starting at opposite ends of the terrace.

  The rain was coming down hard. Jack scurried across a small front yard and rapped at a door. A light came on in the upstairs window. Half a minute passed. A minute. He hunched his shoulders. Water was seeping through his coat. They’re either slow on their feet or they’re not answering, he thought.

  A tremulous old woman’s voice came through the door. “Who is it?”

  “Detective Inspector Jack Anderson of Greater Manchester Police.”

  “Who?”

  Jack repeated himself more loudly, adding, “I’m sorry for the disturbance, but I need to ask you some questions.”

  “Why? What’s happened?”

  “A woman has been hurt. We’re–” Jack broke off as the door opened, revealing a short barrel of a lady somewhere in her late seventies or early eighties. A hairnet protected her permed white hair. A quilted pink dressing-gown insulated her from the chill air. She eyed Jack uneasily through milk-bottle glasses. He displayed his ID and her unease turned to sympathy.

  “It’s raining like the devil,” she said. “Come in.”

  Smiling gratefully, Jack stepped into a little hallway that smelled of cigarettes and fried food. A jumble of coats, woolly hats and scarves occupied pegs to the left of the door. Underneath were brollies, wellies and fur-lined boots. The dark carpet and yellowed wallpaper looked almost as old as the house.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” asked the old lady.

  “No thanks,” replied Jack, but the woman didn’t seem to hear. She was already shuffling towards a cramped kitchen at the back of the house.

  Jack followed, glancing through a half-open door into a living-room. Embers glowed invitingly in a stone hearth, casting their orange light on a threadbare rug, an armchair with an ashtray precariously balanced on its arm and shelves overcrowded with a lifetime’s worth of ceramic figurines, Toby jugs, bits and bobs of brass and silver and other ornaments. Magazines and books were scattered across a table – ‘Where To Watch Birds In Britain’, ‘Birdwatching In Lancashire’, ‘Britain’s Birds’...

  “Are you a birdwatcher?” asked Jack.

  The old lady’s wrinkled features were starkly illuminated as she took milk from a fridge. “No. My husband Bill was the birdwatcher.” She added matter-of-factly, “He’s been dead almost ten years.”

  “Can I ask your name please?”

  “Doreen Salter. I like to look at Bill’s books. They remind me of him.”

  Jack jotted down her name and kept the conversation on track. “So about this woman.”

  “What woman?”

  Jack had dealt with a thousand old dears like this one back when he was in uniform. There was no point trying to hurry them. They did things in their own time. He described the woman. Doreen frowned in thought then shook her head.

  “No love. Doesn’t ring any bells. What’s her name?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out. Have there been any disturbances tonight? Unusual noises or lights in the lane?”

  “No.”

  “OK. Well thanks for your time, Mrs Salter. I’ll let you get back to bed.”

  “What about your tea?”

  Jack smiled ruefully. He would have liked to sit by the embers with a hot drink, but time was of the essence. There was a newborn baby out there somewhere. Alive or dead, it had to be found as fast as possible. “Sorry, but duty calls.”

  He closed the door on his way out and moved on to the neighbouring house. Twenty minutes later he and the constable met in the middle of the terrace.

  “Anything?” asked Jack.

  “No sir,” replied the constable.

  The other constables returned from the farm with the same answer. The four of them headed back to Manchester Road and re-joined the main group. Jack found Steve puffing irritably on a wet, drooping cigarette. “Sometimes I wonder why I bother with this job,” muttered Steve, grumpy as an old dog. “I might as well be a parking warden for all t
he thanks I get.”

  “It’s not all bad. A nice old lady just invited me in for a cuppa.”

  Steve humphed. “Lucky you. Did she offer you anything else while she was at it? I’ve always had a thing for older women.”

  Jack didn’t reply to the crude remark. “Where to now?”

  Steve’s phone rang. “The DCI,” he told Jack before answering it. “Hello sir... We’ve done about half the houses south of Manchester Road... Nothing so far... OK, I’ll tell him.” He hung up and said to Jack, “In answer to your question, you’re off to North Manchester General. The victim’s out of surgery. The DCI wants a photo of her.”

  Jack frowned. “Do I look like a photographer? And why can’t the prick tell me directly what he wants me to do?”

  Steve spread his hands. “I dunno what’s going on between you two and frankly I don’t want to know, but I’ve had a gutful of being your go-between.” As Jack turned to head for his car, Steve called after him, “Sort it out.”

  Chapter 4

  North Manchester General Hospital was a sprawling assortment of buildings a couple of miles north of the city centre. Jack parked near the main entrance and made his way through a labyrinthine series of corridors to the Intensive Care Unit. A bored-looking constable stationed outside the unit pointed Jack to a ward sister. At Jack’s request, the nurse phoned the surgeon who’d operated on the victim. A few minutes later a man with sharp grey eyes and the long delicate fingers of a concert pianist approached and introduced himself as Doctor Medland.

  “How is she?” Jack asked in a voice that matched the funereal hush of the ward.

  Doctor Medland pointed at his forehead above his left eye. “The bullet penetrated the frontal bone and travelled downwards, grazing the frontal and temporal lobes and lodging itself about here.” He drew a line from his forehead to behind his left ear. “We attempted to remove it, but there’s too much swelling.”

  “So she’s going to need more surgery.”

  “It’s likely, but I can’t say for certain until things settle down and we get a clearer picture of what’s going on in there.”

  “How do you rate her chances?”

  “Penetrating brain injuries are difficult to predict. If the brain continues to swell or if the bullet moves even a few millimetres, the effect could be catastrophic. The best I can say right now is she has a chance.”

  “Can I see her?”

  “Yes, but I must insist on absolute silence.”

  Doctor Medland led Jack to a room filled with the hum of monitoring devices. The woman was almost lost amidst a bewildering array of medical equipment. Her head and neck were immobilised by a brace. A ventilator tube was taped to her mouth. Another thinner tube snaked up her nose. Her chest was a forest of electrodes. The skin surrounding her left eye was swollen and purple. A thick gauze pad covered the entry wound. The left half of her long auburn hair had been shaved off. She’d been cleaned up, but there was ingrained dirt under her nubby fingernails. Scratches that might have been defensive wounds crisscrossed her arms. But what really caught Jack’s attention was the tattoo that flared outwards like a wing from her right eye, covering part of her forehead, cheek and temple. Concentric circles of white, then black, then white ringed her eye. Beyond them, the ‘wing’ was rusty red, except for a thin line of brown along its ragged outer edge.

  Jack photographed her from different angles with his phone. He studied her for a moment, listening to the gentle whoosh of the ventilator. Even with all the swelling, it was apparent that she was good looking. He wondered why she – why anyone – would want to tattoo their face. He’d seen ex-cons – mainly men, but also women – with spider webs, knives, guns, tears and the like inked on their faces. Such tattoos were like stripes on a soldier’s uniform. They commanded respect and fear. Had this woman been in prison? Or maybe she was simply into tattoos. When he was growing up, tattoos had been taboo, something that marked out criminals and drug addicts. Today they were mainstream. Fresh-faced middle-class kids paraded around flaunting their ink. Still, facial tattoos were rare. You had to be either extremely confident or stupid to think someone would employ you with a big red wing on your face, unless you worked in the tattoo industry or some other niche business where tattoos might boost your credibility.

  “Does she have any other tattoos or birthmarks?” asked Jack.

  Doctor Medland sharply shushed him and ushered him from the room. “No.”

  “Are there any drugs or alcohol in her system?”

  “No.”

  “Was she wearing jewellery?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

  “According to the two men who brought her here she couldn’t speak properly, which may indicate damage to the Broca area.”

  “The what?”

  “It’s the region of the brain that controls language. It’s located in the left hemisphere, which is consistent with the injury. If the patient regains consciousness, it may be that her ability to communicate has been severely affected.” Doctor Medland glanced at his watch. “Are we done here? It’s seven o’clock and I haven’t been to bed yet.”

  Jack nodded. “Thanks doctor.”

  He looked through the observation window. Whoever the tattooed woman was, it was difficult not to feel a twinge of sympathy for her. Her life hung by a thread. And even if she found her way back to consciousness, she had the prospect of brain damage and a missing baby to look forward to.

  He scrolled through the photos and sent the best ones to his colleagues along with an update on the woman’s condition. The chances of identifying her had improved considerably. There couldn’t be many women in the Greater Manchester area – or for that matter the entire country – with a tattoo like hers. If she’d ever come into contact with the police, it wouldn’t take long to find her on the PNC database.

  Jack returned to his car. The rain had diminished to drizzle. A watery sun was fighting its way through the clouds. Traffic was gathering as the city awoke. Naomi would be awake soon too and going through the usual pre-school rituals. Rebecca had used to brush and plait Naomi’s hair every morning. Naomi could do her own hair, but she preferred someone to do it for her. If Laura wasn’t around, that someone was Jack. He was fine with the brushing bit. Not so much with the plaiting. But he was improving. It was a running joke between Laura and him that when Naomi hit her teens he would have to help with her makeup too. He’d come to enjoy doing her hair – it was a chance for them to chat about what the day held in store – but he drew the line at messing around with lipstick and mascara.

  He wondered whether the DCI wanted him to return to canvassing the neighbourhoods adjacent to the crime scene, or whether he had time to nip home and take Naomi to school. Chorlton was in the opposite direction to Clifton. Battling his way south at rush hour, then back north would take at least an hour. He dialled Paul. The call went through to an answering service. He hung up, muttering, “Prick.”

  He headed south. It wasn’t professional, but neither was not picking up the phone on one of your DIs in the middle of an investigation. Paul obviously wasn’t desperately in need of his services. In recent months, Paul had done everything he could to marginalise Jack, keeping him on the fringes of investigations, dumping every crappy duty going on him. No doubt, Jack reflected, he wouldn’t have been called out last night if several team members hadn’t been away on a training exercise.

  In some ways, the current status quo suited him. The further you were from the sharp end of investigations, the less stressful the job was. Besides which, he got to spend more time with Naomi. In other ways, it was incredibly frustrating to be denied the chance to do his job properly. Several times he’d found himself wondering if his talents would be better used elsewhere, but he always brusquely dismissed the thought. He wasn’t about to give Paul the satisfaction of pushing him out of serious crimes. If one of them was heading out the door, it wasn’t going to be him.


  Guilt tugged at Jack as the hospital receded from view. Paul might not need him, but the tattooed woman and her baby did. He resisted the urge to turn the car around. In the past he would already have been on his way back to Clifton regardless of any issues he had with his commanding officers. But his priorities had changed since Rebecca’s death. Naomi had to come first.

  Chapter 5

  Naomi ran to greet Jack as he entered the modest, three-bedroomed semi they called home. He was disappointed to see that her hair had already been plaited – the traffic had been a bitch – but he smiled broadly as she hugged him and exclaimed, “Yay, Daddy. Aunt Laura said I wouldn’t see you until after school. Why didn’t you wake me and tell me you had to go to work?”