‘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.’