Something Evil Comes Page 7

  None of this sounded to Hanson like it applied to Matthew Flynn. She pressed on, holding up the photograph Chong had given her. ‘Does this look like your work?’

  He gave her a long look then took it. ‘Hard to say. The skin round it looks funny.’ He gave her a sudden, direct look. ‘This isn’t about somebody who reckons he got an infection?’

  ‘No. Did you do this?’

  He examined the tattoo in the photograph, pursing his lips. ‘Like I said, it’s hard to say. It’s not as sharp as I’d have expected.’ He passed it back to her. ‘It’s possible it’s one of mine. It’s got the small embellishments I often use.’

  She reached inside her bag again, tension climbing. ‘Would you take a look at this photograph and tell me if you’ve ever seen this man?’

  He took it from her and stared for several seconds at Matthew Flynn’s face in life. ‘I look at faces if that’s where the tattoo is going, but mostly I look at body parts.’ Hanson waited. ‘Arms, legs, hands, torsos. I can tell a lot about a person from them. Take you, for example.’ She narrowed her eyes at him as he continued, pointing at her hands. ‘They say a lot about a person. Yours are telling me you don’t do a lot of manual stuff.’ Clever, seeing that I’m five-three and you know from my ID what I do for a living. She reached for the photograph. He pulled it away. ‘Hang on, give us a chance.’ Hanson waited, impatient, beginning to suspect she was being messed around.

  ‘It’s him.’

  She stared up at him. ‘What? Who?’

  Fat Mack held the photograph towards the green-haired woman. ‘See this?’

  She looked up from her client’s meaty back. ‘Yeah. Looks like him.’

  Hanson looked from one to the other. ‘You’re confirming that this man was here?’

  He nodded. ‘A good few months ago. Around last autumn at a guess. It was just before I went on holiday to Marbella. I remember him now because of how he was, all twitchy and het up.’ Hanson frowned. He gave her a sage nod. ‘Tattoo virgins are like that. Probably why he brought his mate with him.’

  Hanson deep-breathed. ‘He came here with someone?’

  He passed Flynn’s photograph back to her. ‘Yeah. A kid of about the same age. Now he was no virgin. He already had an inverted crucifix on his neck.’

  ‘Tell me more about the one who came to get the tattoo,’ persisted Hanson.

  The man getting the Freddy emitted a deep grunt. Fat Mack gave her a direct look. ‘You don’t let up, do you? All I remember is that he was young with dark hair, like his photo. Nothing else stood out.’

  ‘He and his companion spoke to each other?’

  ‘Course they did. The one who came with him was being reassuring, like. Telling him it was painless.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Give us a chance to think.’ There was a brief pause. ‘The one in your photo listens to what his mate has to say. He’s still nervous, worried like, but now he wants it done, pronto. He even refuses a skin test. You’re sure this isn’t about an infection, because if—?’

  ‘Do you remember anything that was said between them?’

  ‘No. They stood close together and his mate did the talking. After that he was as good as gold while I did it. When I finished I gave him the usual aftercare instructions, took the money and he was all smiles. Well, more cheerful than when they came in. He seemed like a nice kid. He thanked his mate for coming with him.’

  ‘What specific words did he use?’

  Fat Mack gave her another long look. ‘You are joking.’

  Hanson frowned. ‘Have you got any record of exactly when this happened? A receipt?’

  His eyes slid away. ‘I’m not that good at keeping records but I remember he called his mate by name.’

  It was Hanson’s turn to give a long look. ‘You remember that from a year ago.’

  ‘For one reason. It’s the same as my son’s: Callum.’

  ‘Any surname?’

  ‘No.’ He walked her to the door and held it open for her. ‘Have a card.’ He handed it to her. ‘I could do you a butterfly. Very popular on the shoulder, they are. Or how about a nice mouse?’

  Two minutes later Hanson was heading inside the public car park when she was halted by a shout.

  ‘Doc!’

  She waited for Watts to catch up. ‘How’d you get on with the “type” you came to see? Did you find him?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, breathing hard. ‘I described the three assaults on Flynn. His opinion was they were amateurs because of the risk involved. He also suggested the same as Corrigan: they might have victimised Flynn because they thought he was an easy mark. How about you?’

  ‘I’ve been to the tattoo parlour down the road. It’s where Matthew Flynn got his inverted crucifix done. He had a friend with him. Somebody named Callum, no surname.’

  ‘Good going. That’s something to follow up. All leads welcome right now.’ They walked into the car park together. ‘You going to headquarters?’

  ‘Briefly.’

  He headed for the Range Rover parked nearby, looking upbeat. ‘We might be seeing a bit of movement in this case.’

  Hanson was waiting on the phone, watching her two colleagues entering data into the Smartboard. ‘That about covers it for me,’ said Corrigan. ‘Delaney didn’t recognise Matthew Flynn’s name. His church has been targeted by vandals in the last year or so, the most recent damage being satanic in nature. Security is a little lax there which helped those two guys get inside the crypt. Looks like they were hoping for access to the church itself.’

  Watts pointed at the board. ‘We need to follow up Matthew Flynn being victimised because a couple of types reckoned he was some kind of vulnerable misfit. Problem is, we don’t know what kind. According to what you were told, doc, Satanists and a few other fringe types like inverted crosses. Maybe he was seen with it and it got him killed. But, first thing we do is follow up this mate Callum he had with him.’ He waited for Hanson as she replaced the phone. ‘What’s Mrs Flynn have to say?’

  ‘She doesn’t recognise the name Callum. She’s confirmed that she and the family knew nothing of Matthew having a tattoo.’ She gazed at the board. ‘I’m wondering why they didn’t know about it. See it.’

  ‘Maybe he kept it covered to avoid upsetting his mother,’ suggested Corrigan. ‘That, or he didn’t get the tattoo until after they last saw him.’

  She looked at the phone, contemplating a call to the tattoo parlour but dismissed it. Fat Mack had told her it was around October last year. Without any sales records it was unlikely he could or would be more precise.

  Watts pointed to the notes he’d just added on Brad Flynn: confident. In charge. In control. ‘Anything you want to add about him, Corrigan?’

  ‘What you’ve got about covers it. Flynn is the type who assumes he’s in charge, whatever the situation.’ He turned to Hanson. ‘Right after we delivered the news about Matthew’s death, he was preparing to leave for a business meeting.’ Watts grunted. ‘Suppose it fits with him being one of these entrepreneurial types. A workaholic. The other son came across as the same.’

  Hanson had her own opinion of what she’d just heard. Brad Flynn sounded like an alpha male. Her colleagues’ description of him as tall and good-looking added to it. She gave Corrigan a fleeting glance. Tall. Good looking. Deep voice. Alpha males tended to have more sexual partners. More affairs. She’d never known Corrigan seek to dominate situations, but … But.

  ‘You all right, doc?’

  ‘Fine. What’s this about Flynn being a “controller”?’

  ‘He told his wife to make him something to eat before he left,’ said Corrigan. ‘Dominic Flynn presents as a similar character although I’m not sure how deep it goes, but he sure as hell didn’t like his father referring to the business he runs as his “pet project”.’

  Hanson gazed at the board. ‘The two Flynn males sound like strong characters. Not like Matthew. Or, rather my impression of him.’

  Watts flipped
shut his notebook and dropped it onto the table. ‘We’ve talked to those closest to him. They didn’t have much to tell us about his friends or anything else for that matter. It’s time to start working outwards.’

  The door opened and Chong came inside. ‘I’ve got a hit-and-run fatality waiting for me and two minutes to give you the results of the blood test on Matthew Flynn’s clothes. Forget any hopes of a DNA identification of his killer. I’ve tested every item of his clothing for blood which isn’t his. There is none. Not on the overcoat, the jeans, the boots or anything else he was wearing. His killer got lucky. He didn’t injure himself when he ripped out Matthew Flynn’s throat.’

  ‘What about his scarf?’ asked Hanson.

  Chong turned, halfway to the door. ‘No blood on that either.’

  Hanson stared after her. ‘None at all?’

  ‘Not a trace.’ She was gone, leaving Hanson still staring.

  ‘That’s odd.’ She looked at her two colleagues. ‘Has the Flynn family specifically identified the scarf found on the body as belonging to Matthew?’

  Corrigan churned A4s on the table and held up a list. ‘Mrs Flynn referred to all clothing items listed as Matthew’s. Both the brother, Dominic, and Mr Flynn were a “couldn’t say”.’

  She took the sheet from him, read it then reached for the phone.

  ‘What you up to?’ asked Watts.

  ‘I’m going to read the description of the scarf to Mrs Flynn. I want her categorical confirmation that it belonged to Matthew.’

  Watts glanced ceiling-ward. ‘Doc, if there was a national award for determination in following up every angle, nobody else would stand a chance against you.’

  He and Corrigan listened to Hanson’s half of the conversation. ‘Yes. A long cashmere scarf with a blue-and-green zigzag pattern.’ There was a pause then: ‘Thank you very much, Mrs Flynn. I apologise for ringing you at a time like this.’ She replaced the phone. ‘She’s categorical that the scarf belonged to Matthew. It was a birthday present from her and her husband.’ She raked back her hair with both hands and looked down at her notes. ‘That makes no sense to me. That he sustained such a terrible injury to his throat yet the scarf he was wearing wasn’t bloodstained.’

  ‘He could’ve taken it off before he was killed,’ said Watts. ‘And afterwards, whoever killed him put it back on him.’

  ‘Why?’

  He shrugged. ‘To make certain that when he was put into that crypt, everything of his was with him and not lying around somewhere and needing disposal.’

  She was silent for a moment. ‘My impression from what we’ve got is that the Flynn family wasn’t all that aware of what was happening in the life of its youngest son. Is that how you see it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Watts. ‘But that’s not so unusual when kids don’t live at home anymore.’ Hanson thought of Maisie. Still living at home but do I know what’s going on with her? She re-tuned to Watts’s voice. ‘They saw him, what, once a week? I remember my daughter leaving home for university. OK, Oxford was a bigger move than the one Matthew Flynn made but it’s the leaving, not the number of miles. After she went there I never had much of a clue what she was up to, although her mother probably knew more. I never got told much and I didn’t delve. University life was a mystery to me and it mostly stayed that way.’ He glanced at Hanson. ‘I know more now but back then Oxford was about as familiar as the moon. It wasn’t until the day we took her to her college that I realised there was more than one.’ He looked across the table. ‘How about you, Corrigan? Was your daughter a bit of a stranger when she was getting her independence?’

  Corrigan nodded, chair on recline, his eyes on the written-up information. ‘I guess. But somebody, somewhere, knows about Matthew Flynn and his life after he got his own place.’

  Hanson stood, pushing her notebook into her bag. ‘We need to talk to whoever knew Matthew on a daily basis, the people he lived and worked with in the months prior to his disappearance. If we don’t yet have a list of them, we need one.’

  ‘We’re onto it, doc.’

  Hanson glanced at her watch for the third time in as many minutes. Seven fifty-five. Maisie should have arrived home from her youth club twenty minutes ago. She looked again. Make that twenty-five minutes.

  Charlie’s voice drifted across the kitchen. ‘Don’t worry. She’ll be here soon.’ Charlie wasn’t worried. Or he wasn’t showing it. Either way, his reassurances weren’t helping. She headed for her study.

  Inside, she took her phone from her bag. Her call was picked up after three rings. ‘Candice, it’s Kate. I was starting to wonder what’s delaying the girls.’ There was a brief silence. ‘Kate. I thought you knew. Chelsey was off-colour when she got home from school so she decided to give the club a miss. Maisie went without her, saying she would phone you.’

  The words slammed into Hanson’s ear. Twenty minutes late, she’s thirteen, it’s dark, it’s … Candice’s voice came again. ‘Don’t worry. The club probably over-ran again like it often does. She’ll be home any time—’

  The front door banging shut making Hanson flinch, triggering a rush of relief which made her head spin. ‘It’s OK, Candice. She’s here. Sorry to have bothered you.’

  Maisie was removing her boots as Hanson came out of her study. ‘Hi, Mom … What’s up?’

  Hanson got her voice under control. ‘You went on your own to the club.’

  ‘Yeah. So? When I got to Chel’s she was like, “I’m not coming, I feel bad”.’

  ‘You told Candice you would phone me. You didn’t.’

  Maisie looked up, exasperated. ‘I forgot.’

  Hanson did some deep breathing. ‘What you should have done is come back here and I’d have taken you, then picked you up.’ She got a sulky look. ‘If I had, I’d have been late getting there. I went to the club and I came back from the club without a problem. Just … calm down.’

  ‘Do not tell me to calm down, Maisie. You’re nearly half an hour late. You should have phoned me and you know it.’

  They looked to where Charlie was standing at the kitchen door. ‘Hello, Maisie.’ He glanced at Kate. ‘I’m making toast and a drink. Any takers?’

  ‘Please.’ Maisie made her escape, two stairs at a time. Hanson watched her go, telling herself that at thirteen Maisie needed to test her independence. Which is fine. Except she doesn’t know what I know about risk and depravity and … She put a hand to her forehead. She doesn’t realise that one of my jobs is to make sure she never will.

  She wandered into the kitchen where Charlie was organising plates and mugs. ‘Thanks. I know I over-react where Maisie’s concerned but I need to feel I’m in control. That I’m doing all I can to keep her safe.’

  He gave her arm a gentle squeeze. ‘I know. Just go easy on the throttle.’

  The doorbell rang and Hanson went to open it. It was Watts. ‘Evening, doc. You all right?’ He followed her towards the kitchen.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ she snapped.

  He gave her a mild glance. ‘It’s what we say around here.’ He caricatured his own accent. ‘You-alroight?’

  She laughed, some of the tension draining. Charlie held up a cup to Watts.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do. Two sugars in mine, ta.’ He reached inside his coat. ‘Here you go, doc. The names of five one-time work mates of Matthew Flynn’s who worked with him in a coffee shop in the Bull Ring. Can you pay ’em a visit when you can fit it in? Me and Corrigan are visiting some others he worked at around the city centre tomorrow morning.’

  She took the details. ‘I can do it tomorrow.’ She looked across at him. ‘How do you think the case is going so far?’

  He shrugged. ‘Early days, doc. Early days.’

  At eleven thirty Hanson went upstairs. Reaching the landing she saw a seam of light under Charlie’s door. She knocked gently. ‘You OK, Charlie?’ Getting a positive response she went inside. A couple of days before, she’d noticed his suitcase out of the wardrobe and standing in one corner. Now it
was lying open on the wooden chest at the foot of his bed.

  He tracked her eyes. ‘I’m starting to get organised.’

  ‘So I see.’ She watched as he folded a sweater, added it to the suitcase and looked across at her.

  ‘I need to think about going home.’

  ‘No. You don’t.’ She bit her lip. Throttle back. ‘You were quite ill during the summer, you know. You’ve only been here a few weeks and the doctor said—’

  ‘You need your home back, Kate.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  He came to her. ‘Before it gets too comfortable here, I need to pick up my life again.’ He smiled down at her then returned to the suitcase. She watched him add another item then turned away and headed for the door.

  EIGHT

  Following an early-morning progress session with her research students, Hanson left the university. Within the hour she was inside the Bull Ring shopping centre stirring coffee, her eyes on the five names Watts had given her the previous evening, four of them already crossed through. This was the coffee shop Matthew Flynn had worked in most regularly but those four employees had worked different shifts and couldn’t comment on him. Which left just one. She checked the clock high on the wall then glanced towards the young woman serving drinks and snacks. She’d been helpful, although not directly in relation to Matthew. She’d started work here six months ago, her knowledge of Matthew Flynn confined to what she had picked up from colleagues’ conversations since they learned of his disappearance and now the news of his murder. When she’d spoken to Hanson she’d mentioned one name.

  ‘Terri Brennan’s your one hope, I’d say. She worked the same shifts as Matthew. She’s a bit older than the rest of us. I heard somebody say she was a sort of mother figure to him.’

  Brennan’s was the one remaining name on Hanson’s list. Getting a subtle signal from behind the counter she looked towards the door. A woman of around Hanson’s own age, mid-thirties, was coming inside. She watched as the two employees exchanged greetings, the one behind the counter pointing in Hanson’s direction. The woman looked uneasy as she walked to where Hanson was sitting and took a seat across the table. ‘I’m Terri Brennan. You want to talk to me?’