The Smiling Man Page 13

  ‘You think he was poisoned?’

  ‘I’m almost certain of it, but that isn’t what I called you here to discuss.’ Her eyes flicked on to me for a moment and I started to sink. Stromer had said if she found drugs she’d feel compelled to report my trying to access the crime scene. That, coupled with my performance the previous night and Parrs’ renewed interest in me, spelled trouble. I was relieved when she went in a different direction entirely. ‘Are either of you familiar with the concept of the missing missing?’

  ‘No,’ said Sutty. ‘We’re not not.’

  ‘Missing persons who are never reported missing,’ I said. ‘As such, they don’t appear in any database. No one’s looking for them and if they’re found deceased, with no ID, they’re generally just referred to by their clothes, or some other distinguishing feature …’ Stromer looked at me, finally, as I tried to summon a case. ‘… the lady in the Afghan coat?’

  ‘An enduring example,’ she said, turning to Sutty. ‘The lady in the Afghan coat was killed whilst hitchhiking on the A1 in the seventies. She’d spoken to a lorry driver earlier that day who said she had a foreign accent, that she introduced herself as Ann. The vehicle that struck her was never identified, never found. More crucially than that, no one ever reported a girl matching her description – young, pretty in a boyish way – as missing. She had an NHS filling in her teeth and wore a long Afghan coat with French supermarket-brand jeans. She wasn’t wearing any shoes …’ Stromer paused. ‘It’s funny the little details that you remember. There are hundreds of such cases every year, with few, if any, ever resolved.’

  ‘Stop,’ said Sutty. ‘My bedsores are weeping …’

  ‘I just want to be certain that you’re familiar with the concept before I continue.’

  ‘Course,’ he said. ‘Sonny and Cher.’

  Stromer nodded. ‘Although I never cared for those nicknames.’

  Sonny and Cher were two unidentifieds from my first year on the force. A woman’s body had been recovered from the River Irwell, in a pronounced state of decomposition. She’d been stabbed so many times that the pathologist stopped counting at a hundred, and there were the remains of a black bin bag wrapped around her head. Because the body had drifted through various jurisdictions, no force or department wanted to accept responsibility for her. It was decided that the caseload would be distributed evenly, and she was nicknamed ‘Cher’ to reflect this. No one matching her description was ever reported missing, a fact that became more confounding when the body of a little boy was recovered from the same river, some weeks later. Tests showed that they were mother and child, and so he was given the nickname ‘Sonny’.

  It seemed impossible that no one but their killer noticed they were gone, but the e-fit of her face, the appeal for information, and even a TV reconstruction, was met with something like the sound of one hand clapping. The missing missing were people who dropped off the face of the earth and kept on going, with no one in their lives who noticed, or no one in their lives who cared. When they were found dead, with no means of identification, it was almost as though they’d been born that way.

  ‘We already know he’s not been reported missing,’ said Sutty.

  ‘It’s a little more complicated than that,’ Stromer replied.

  ‘How?’

  ‘It’s my opinion that this man has gone to great lengths to obfuscate his identity.’

  I cut in before Sutty could object to her choice of word. ‘You said there was no ID on his person?’

  ‘And the labels have been carefully unstitched from his clothing. That’s the least of it, though. Our man’s fingerprints have been surgically removed.’

  We were all silent for a moment.

  ‘Post-mortem?’ said Sutty. ‘Gangland stuff?’

  ‘The scar tissue indicates that the surgery took place some time, perhaps even some years, prior to his death. It stands to reason that our man was a willing participant in events, given that kind of timeline. Gangland stuff seems unlikely to me.’

  ‘Surgery,’ I said. ‘That implies, what, doctors, a hospital? I assume it’s not something you can just go private for?’

  ‘I use the term surgery simply because I don’t know what else to call it. In anything like a gangland body-dump we’d see, perhaps, the hands completely removed from the body. In some instances the fingertips themselves clipped off with pliers. This is much more advanced, much more thoughtful. And done some time before the man died, most likely with his consent.’

  ‘Consent …’ said Sutty, like it was a new word. ‘I once saw some brown bloke who’d burned off his fingerprints with a lighter. Said it was to get through a checkpoint in Fuckbeckistan or something.’

  ‘Totally different. Burns, cuts or even an amateur version of what I’m describing will go deeper than the surface tissue and leave a permanent scar, simply becoming part of a new fingerprint. In this instance, the tissue was completely removed and replaced with something else.’

  ‘Replaced?’

  ‘Skin grafts, Peter. They could take years off you …’

  I leaned forward. ‘Why would someone do that to their fingertips, though?’

  ‘Why, indeed? When you stop and think of the possible reasons – a master thief, perhaps, who doesn’t want to leave his prints behind – it remains senseless. This is an incredibly rare procedure and would leave its recipient with a truly one-of-a-kind fingerprint, even if it’s not a fingerprint in the conventional sense.’

  ‘So, it was less about masking his future activities and more about hiding who he was before?’ I said, thinking out loud.

  ‘That’s one theory.’

  ‘There’s more than one way to skin a cat,’ said Sutty.

  ‘An excellent point. You’re correct, most people sail through life without ever being printed, after all. It’s certainly rare that we identify a body in that manner. Dental records are much more likely …’ She said it like a challenge.

  ‘Let me guess, he missed his last check-up.’

  ‘Quite the opposite, he’s had extensive work done. His birth teeth have either been removed or filed down into pegs. Those pegs have then been used for the affixation of artificial crowns. A Hollywood smile, I’m sure you’ll agree. So dental records are out. Finally, on the physical augmentation side of things, perhaps you were struck by the man’s eye-colour?’

  ‘They were blue,’ I said. But they’d been more than that. A piercing cobalt.

  ‘Very good. But also incorrect. The man’s true eye colour is a rather nice shade of brown. He was wearing tinted contact lenses.’ Stromer straightened her report, aligning the file’s edge with the desk. She seemed satisfied that I, and especially Sutty, were dumbstruck. ‘He was also a stage four.’ Neither of us spoke. ‘Cancer,’ she clarified.

  ‘I take it stage four isn’t good?’

  ‘There’s no stage five. It was riddled through him like dry-rot. Neither his stomach contents nor bloodwork showed evidence of painkillers, though. He must have been in agony.’

  Sutty stirred. ‘So, whoever crossed a line through him could’ve just waited?’

  ‘A matter of weeks, I’m sure. As an aside, in many ways our man was in peak physical condition. I’ve never seen calves quite like them. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say he was either an accomplished free-runner or a disciplined ballet dancer.’

  ‘Terminally ill ballet dancer with no teeth or fingerprints,’ muttered Sutty. ‘Got it.’

  ‘Would you like to regroup or are you ready for the rest of it?’

  We waited.

  ‘Aidan, perhaps you could tell Detective Inspector Sutcliffe what I’d like to discuss next?’ Stromer’s face was blank and open, as happy for me to lose my job in the next sentence as keep it. Well, she can go there, I thought. I was tired of setting traps for myself.

  ‘The stitching,’ I said. ‘There was something sewn into his trousers.’

  Stromer looked into my eyes. ‘Any idea what it was?’

  ‘
No,’ I said.

  ‘And how would you?’ She took two photocopies from her file and handed one to each of us. I didn’t know what it would be, and was relieved to see nothing but a scanned piece of text. Looking closely I could see the original fragment’s edge. It had been torn from something larger. There were two words, in what looked like a foreign language.

  ‘Professionally printed, and on high-grade paper,’ said Stromer. ‘I’d suggest this has been torn from a book. It translates from the Persian as “ended” or “finished”.’ She smiled. ‘And that’s probably as good a place as any for us to draw our conversation to a close.’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Sutty. ‘You said sewn into his trousers? By him or by someone else?’

  ‘Hand-stitched from the inside, so he, or whoever did it, must have done so while the trousers were off. There was one more thing in there.’ She handed us each another photocopy. This one showed a scan of what looked like a cloakroom ticket. It was a number. 831.

  ‘Any idea where it’s from?’ said Sutty.

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  ‘Well, thanks,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I hope the next time we meet I’m lying on the slab.’

  ‘I already know what you’re full of, Peter. I was wondering if I could have another moment of your time, though?’ He grunted and Stromer looked at me. ‘Alone,’ she said. I collected my photocopies and left the room.

  ‘Thanks for your help, Karen.’

  She didn’t answer. I closed the door behind me and walked to the end of the corridor. I didn’t even think about their conversation. I didn’t care. I looked at the first sheet and, despite it being just a photocopy, found myself running my fingers along the ornate letters.

  Ended, it said.

  Ended or finished.

  2

  Sutty looked thoughtful when he climbed into the car. I couldn’t tell if he was reappraising me in light of something Stromer had said, or if I was projecting my own fears on to him. Either way, he didn’t speak for a few minutes. I started up and began driving back into the city while he sat beside me, absent-mindedly cracking his knuckles, neck, knees and wrists. Whatever our interpersonal problems, I knew he had a sharp mind and that when he started popping his joints it generally meant he was putting it to some use. It had been a while since I saw the wheels turning.

  ‘You returned that girl’s jacket?’ he said, finally.

  ‘Two days ago.’

  ‘Bet she welcomed you with open legs …’

  ‘She wasn’t even there, and that’s not what it’s about.’

  ‘Stuck in the friend-zone, are we, Aidan? Stay there, son. Believe me. If the Super finds out you’ve been back at all he’ll donate you to medical science. Luckily, you can rely on my renowned discretion.’

  I drove on in silence for a few seconds. ‘It’s resolved.’

  ‘Keep it that way. What d’ya make of Stromer?’

  ‘Confused as we are. Seemed like it was something she’d never seen before.’

  ‘If it was a cock and ball-sack it’d be something she’d never seen before.’

  ‘For fuck sake, Sutty.’

  He looked at me sharply and I knew I’d put my foot on the line. Disagreements, arguments and insults were fine but anything that touched on morality or acceptance was a no-go. I’d made the mistake of encouraging him.

  ‘I’m just sympathizing,’ he said, holding up his hands. ‘Can’t be easy for a woman who looks like a transsexual Bob Dylan.’

  I didn’t say anything.

  ‘All right then, squeeze into your shorts and meet me on the seesaw.’

  The seesaw was a favourite exercise of Sutty’s, probably because it had all the hallmarks of an argument. He’d make a point about a case and I’d counter it. Sometimes it took us to interesting places. Sometimes it took us to the edge of physical violence.

  ‘Point,’ said Sutty. ‘Smiley Face was looking at a bad death from the C-word. Maybe he took matters into his own hands?’

  ‘Counter. It looks like he was poisoned. Surely if he’d done it himself we’d have found the means of death alongside the body?’

  Sutty was silent for a moment. ‘He could’ve ingested the poison elsewhere and then gone to the Palace.’

  I shook my head. ‘The suspicious circumstances of the scene, an unconscious security guard, suggest that something else was going on.’

  ‘Point,’ said Sutty. ‘That could just be to do with Marcus and his call girls. He was running a fuck house out of the Palace, after all …’

  ‘Come on. Neither of us believe that an escort knocked out Ali.’

  ‘Marcus could’ve been there himself. He could’ve easily whacked Ali. You said there’s no love lost between them.’

  ‘But that barman changed his story once he realized I was police. He gave Marcus an alibi and I believe him. What’s more, he said there was a bar-full of men who could back him up.’

  We drove on in silence for a moment.

  ‘Still,’ said Sutty. ‘Running girls out of your workplace takes some steel. I should talk to him. OK. Point. If someone did kill Smiley Face, they didn’t know him very well.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, if they knew he was weeks away from being worm food they’d have just let nature take its course …’

  ‘Counter. The fact that he wasn’t taking painkillers suggests he was pushing on as normal, maybe hiding or ignoring his illness.’ I thought for a second. ‘And his killer could only let nature take its course if it was personal.’

  ‘Yeurgh?’

  ‘Well, if he wasn’t killed for personal reasons, but because he knew something, then his killer couldn’t have risked waiting for him to pass away. What’s more dangerous than a dying man who knows too much?’

  ‘Point,’ said Sutty. ‘Fair enough, maybe, maybe, our man was murdered. But there’s no more mystery to it than that. He could’ve just forgotten his ID.’

  ‘Counter. No one’s reported him missing and the labels were cut out of his clothes.’

  ‘He might’ve had no friends. The clothes could be from the Salvation Army. They cut out tags with the original owners’ initials on.’

  ‘His clothes looked like new to me, and a good fit, and it still doesn’t explain him sewing messages into them.’

  Sutty chewed on that. ‘Point. This Tamam Shud thing could just be his personal motto.’

  ‘Ended or finished? Pretty ominous motto.’

  Sutty laughed. ‘Came true, didn’t it? Anyway, that bit of paper could be our way out of all this.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Suicide note …’

  ‘It’s not a suicide note.’

  ‘How would you know?’

  ‘Murder victims don’t leave them.’

  ‘Stop,’ said Sutty. ‘Stop saying that. We’re not calling him a murder victim.’

  I changed the subject. ‘That other thing looked like a cloakroom ticket to me. Why sew that into your trousers unless you’ve got something to hide?’

  ‘Hm …’ said Sutty. ‘We need to find that cloakroom. Any ideas?’

  ‘Looks like your standard ticket to me. Ten a penny.’

  ‘OK. Point. He just wanted to pretty himself up with the teeth and the lenses …’

  ‘Counter. Doesn’t explain the fingerprints.’

  ‘Point. He’s one of those mad men who thinks the government can read his mind …’

  ‘A survivalist?’

  ‘A failed one, yeah.’

  ‘But what was he doing in a closed-down hotel? And why’s someone gone after our one witness?’

  ‘Point,’ said Sutty, exhaling through his nose. ‘In every instance, the missing missing were people who wasted air while they were alive and are wasting time now they’re dead.’

  I drove on for a minute. ‘Counter. For us, it’s the Palace break-in or the dustbin fires.’

  Sutty conceded that one. ‘Point,’ he said. ‘Stromer’s a pathological dyke, hell-bent on the destruc
tion of straight white men.’

  ‘Counter. She’s an intelligent woman who’s had enough shit from the likes of you to last her a lifetime.’

  ‘Point,’ said Sutty, looking at the side of my face. ‘She thinks you’re an incompetent officer with a substance abuse problem and too much baggage to work cases. Furthermore that you should be removed from active duty effective immediately and face charges of corruption.’

  I drove on, trying to think of a counter, but I didn’t know what to say.

  To accommodate her office hours, we’d met Stromer before our shift actually started. Although it was now early evening, Sutty decided to take a break. Most likely I’d collect him a couple of hours later smelling of drink, but who was I to judge? The CCTV I’d requested from the scene of the latest dustbin fire was available, and I returned to the office to make a start on watching it.

  Sure enough, our burner had picked another surveillance black spot, and all I could see from the nearest camera was the other side of the road. I could tell when the fire started because a passing cyclist looked sharply in its direction as the light began to change, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. I thought about ladies in Afghan coats instead, mothers and sons who could vanish without anyone noticing they’d gone. Smiling men.

  The missing missing.

  I was getting nothing from the CCTV and was grateful for the distraction when my phone began to vibrate. An unknown number.

  ‘Waits,’ I said, picking up.

  ‘This the police?’

  ‘Yeah, is that Earl?’

  ‘I found your card in Soph’s room …’

  ‘And?’

  He was silent for a moment. ‘Dunno if I should be talking to you.’

  3

  Sophie had received another message from ‘that man’, Earl said. She hadn’t told him it was Oliver Cartwright and, after his earlier reaction to the name, I didn’t want to betray that either. Cartwright told Sophie he’d had the police scared off her case. He’d sent her another clip of their sex-tape to prove it, and asked her to meet him again, this time in public. She hadn’t wanted to tell Earl, he’d said, but he saw her leaving the flat, looking badly shaken.