Witness the Dead (14 page)

Rico was fourth-generation Scottish and second-generation policeman, his great-grandparents having emigrated to Troon during the wars from Barga in Italy, then working their way up the west coast to Glasgow. Great-Granddad Geraldo had opened a chip shop on the Ayrshire coast, then a bigger one in Kelvinbridge. Rico’s dad, Gerry, had walked the beat in the city centre and told his son to stay the hell out of it. Rico went to university in Manchester, got a degree in criminology and then came back to Glasgow to do the very thing that his old man didn’t want him to do in the first place. Except he was going to do it his way.

That was Rico all over. All the things he loved about Scotland and the things he hated were pretty much identical. He couldn’t tell you the difference even if he wanted to. Tattoos were a good case in point: love them, hate them, don’t understand them, fascinated by them.

‘What happened to hearts with arrows through them or “Scotland Forever”?’

The man behind the counter looked up and grinned. ‘They went out with mullets and Spangles. Strictly homemade stuff if anyone has those nowadays.’

The accent was English, Midlands somewhere, Giannandrea reckoned. Skinny and dark-haired, he was in his early twenties, wearing a Nirvana T-shirt that exposed both arms, showing the left one covered in an intricate spider’s web with what looked like angels caught up in it, while the right arm was bare.

‘Do that yourself?’ Giannandrea asked.

The guy looked at his arm as if seeing it for the first time. ‘No. You don’t get many artists that ink themselves. You don’t get the same quality of work. What are you thinking of having done?’

‘Nah. Not my thing. I’m here to ask you a few questions.’

The man looked at him suspiciously. ‘Health and safety?’

‘Police. I’m DS Giannandrea. This is DC Galbraith. Mr . . .?’

‘Stark. Ritchie Stark. Listen, if it’s kids getting body art then they must have used false ID because we make certain they have proof of age if they look under eighteen.’

‘No, it’s not that.’ Giannandrea pulled a photograph from the brown envelope in his hand. ‘Do you recognise this tattoo?’

Stark took the A4-sized photograph of Kirsty McAndrew’s lower back showing the snake writhing its way round the lettering of her ex-boyfriend’s nickname. He studied it for no more than a few seconds before handing it back to Giannandrea.

‘It’s one of Stevo’s.’

‘Stevo?’

‘Stevo Barclay. He’s the other inker that works here. He owns the shop. This has his signature all over it. It’s definitely one of his.’

‘This her?’ Giannandrea showed him a photograph they’d got from the family. Stark studied the picture but offered only a shrug. ‘Don’t know. Haven’t seen her before.’

‘Her name was Kirsty McAndrew. Ring any bells?’

‘No.’

‘But you’re sure this was done by your mate Stevo?’

‘Positive. Most tattoo artists in town could probably tell you it’s his.’

‘They did. That’s why I’m here.’

Stark scrunched up his face. ‘So why didn’t you just say that?’

‘I like to be awkward. Where is Barclay now?’

‘He’ll probably be at— Wait a minute. Was? You said the girl’s name
was
Kirsty McAndrew.’

‘You obviously didn’t read the paper this morning, Mr Stark. She’s dead. Murdered.’

Stark’s jaw dropped and quickly lifted again. ‘Shit. That’s . . . Christ.’

‘Hmm. You were about to tell me where Mr Barclay is.’

‘At home probably. He’s not working till this afternoon.’

‘I think Stevo will need to start early today. Phone him and ask him to come in.’

‘Why, what’s this all about? This tattoo . . . the girl . . .?’

‘Just ask him to come in, please, Mr Stark. Now.’

Stark looked as if he wanted to argue but instead picked up the phone behind the counter and punched in a number from memory.

‘Stevo. Ritchie. You need to get your arse in here, man. The police are in the shop and they want a word . . . No, nothing like that . . . Nope, it’s non-negotiable. Okay, okay. See you.’ He put the phone down. ‘He’ll be here in twenty minutes.’

When the bell dinged behind him, Rico turned to see a stocky, shaven-headed man in his early thirties with a thick goatee beard push his way inside. His eyes searched the room, obviously not used to seeing suited types like Giannandrea and Galbraith inside.

‘You Stevo?’

The guy nodded, clearly anxious and unhappy. ‘Yeah. What’s this about?’

‘Something to worry about, Mr Barclay?’

Stevo screwed his face up as if Giannandrea had said something stupid. ‘I’m dragged in here early because the police want to speak to me? Aye, I’m worried. Doesn’t mean I’ve anything to hide, though.’

‘Fair enough, Stevo. Why don’t you and me and DC Galbraith here go through to the back office and have a chat?’

Barclay stood his ground, as if wondering if he had any choice, before offering a shrug and a questioning look towards Stark. Before they could move, the door opened again and a heavily tattooed and pierced figure slipped inside, a tall guy wearing a studded, black leather jacket, with scarlet hair shaved at the sides and the rest crested into a Mohawk. Giannandrea smiled at him.

‘You looking for the nineteen eighties, pal? I think they’re further down the street. You’ll find them if you’re lucky. Do ya feel lucky, punk?’

‘Eh?’

‘On your way, son, this place is closed.’

‘Hey,’ shrieked Stark. ‘You can’t do that. You’re losing us custom.’

‘You know what? This is a murder investigation and you’re shut until I say so.’ Giannandrea watched Stevo’s eyes widen at the word ‘murder’, then turned back to the bewildered punk. ‘Sorry, Swampy, but no piercings for you today. Why don’t you go home for a bath, then maybe try one of your maw’s earrings on?’

‘Eh? What you mean? What you trying to say?’

‘I’m saying goodbye. Arrivederci. Ciao, baby, ciao.’

Giannandrea nodded at Galbraith, who promptly ushered the punk out of the door and closed it behind him, switching the sign to C
LOSED
.

‘Right, Mr Stevo. Let’s you and me have a wee natter.’

Barclay reluctantly led Giannandrea and Galbraith through a red door into a cramped office, where piles of drawings were stacked on a desk next to multicoloured boxes of inks and assorted machine parts. A television was on the wall above the desk and a telephone could just about be seen amid the mess. Barclay lifted four or five boxes, which Giannandrea could see were labelled as needles, off a chair and offered it as a seat. He cleared another chair in the corner for himself, placing more boxes onto the floor. Galbraith was left to stand, notebook in hand.

‘This your work?’ Giannandrea asked, shoving the photograph of Kirsty McAndrew’s tattoo in front of him. Barclay’s gaze went to the photograph and immediately back to Giannandrea, his eyebrows knotting darkly. ‘Yeah. Why?’

‘What can you remember about the young lady that had it done?’

‘I don’t know. It was—’

Giannandrea thrust a photograph of Kirsty into Barclay’s face, watching for a reaction but didn’t get one.

‘Yeah. I remember her. That’s her. She was in here . . . I’d need to check my records but . . . maybe a couple of months back. She had to strip to the waist to get it on her back. It can be . . . well . . . intimate kinda work. So, yes, I remember her.’

Giannandrea leaned in close, smiling, man to man. ‘Fancy her, did you?’

‘No! Well, aye, I suppose she was . . . What’s this all about?’

Rico stared at him for a bit, making an obvious show of weighing Barclay up. He leaned forward further, his chin resting on his hand, staring some more.

‘This girl? She’s dead. Murdered.’

The news seemed to take time to percolate through Barclay’s brain but, when it did, he opened and shut his mouth a couple of times, his face reddening as he got to his feet, pointing at Giannandrea.

‘And you think I’ve got something to do with it? No fucking way! No . . . how . . .’

‘Sit down, Mr Barclay. Sit down!’

Barclay had taken a half-step towards Giannandrea, causing Galbraith to move off the wall ready to intercept before the DS waved him back into place. Barclay put the brakes on himself and stood fuming for a moment before slumping back into his chair.

‘Hell of a temper you’ve got on you there, Mr Stevo. Lose it often, do you?’

‘Piss off. So the girl got a tattoo done here? So what? We do thousands of people a year.’

‘Aye, and how many of them end up dead? It’s a bit worrying. You not think so?’

Barclay braced himself against the armrests of the chair as if about to get to his feet again before thinking better of it. Instead, he spat back at Giannandrea, ‘I’ve got nothing to do with this. Ask me anything you want.’

‘Oh, thanks very much. Okay, where were you last Friday night?’

‘What time?’

‘Any time. You tell me.’

‘I was out. Drinking in Blackfriars on Albion Street. And across the road in O’Neills.’

‘Who was with you?’

‘No one.’

Giannandrea smiled pleasantly. ‘That’s convenient.’

‘Disnae fucking look like it, does it?’

‘What time did you get home?’

‘I don’t know. I was blotto.’

‘Dear, dear. A terrible lifestyle, Stevo. I hope you weren’t the same on Saturday night.’

Stevo’s head sank into his hands until something slowly dawned on him and his head came up again. He wasn’t angry any longer. He was scared.

‘Friday and Saturday night? Those two girls that they were talking about on the radio? No, no, no. No. No way, man. You’ve got to believe me. That wisnae me. Jesus Christ, I’d never do anything like that.’

‘No?’

‘No!’

Giannandrea looked back at him for a while, making a show of deliberating, but in reality just making the man sweat. ‘Maybe I believe you, Stevo. But I think we might have to take a wee trip down the station to continue this chat. You seen this girl – her name’s Kirsty by the way, seeing as you ask – since she came in here to get her skin desecrated?’

‘No. I only ever saw her on the day she got it done and the day she made the appointment. That’s it. Not before or since.’

‘Hmm. Who owns this place?’

‘My old man does, but he doesn’t have anything to do with it these days. He probably hasn’t been through the door in four or five months. He just lets me and Ritchie get on with it.’

‘Okay. And how long have you known Ritchie?’

‘Just under a year. He’d moved up from down south and was looking for work. His timing was good because I’d just lost the guy before him.’

‘You gave him a job just like that?’

‘Well, obviously I got out some practice skin and gave him a trial to show me what he could do. The guy was good, so I took him on. Ritchie’s sound. Wouldn’t do anyone any harm, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘Even I don’t know what I’m thinking, Stevo, so don’t waste your time trying to guess. Okay, you sit here for now and nice DC Galbraith will keep you company. I’ve got to make a phone call.’

Giannandrea closed the office door behind him, leaving a furious Barclay to sit and fret under Galbraith’s stare. Ritchie Stark was pacing the middle of the shop floor waiting for him to emerge.

‘So, Ritchie. You haven’t lived in Glasgow for too long?’

‘Nearly a year now.’

‘Where did you move from?’

‘Near Nottingham.’

‘So why did you move?’

Stark stared back at Giannandrea, seemingly unsure whether to answer. ‘Am I being interviewed here? I didn’t tattoo that girl. I didn’t even meet her. I told you.’

Giannandrea held both hands wide, his face a picture of well-groomed innocence and charm under his dark, thick locks. ‘Interviewed? We’re just chatting, dude. My mother brought me up to be polite and be interested in people. She wasn’t wrong, was she?’

Stark blinked. ‘Um, no. Just chatting. Okay.’

Rico smiled genially. ‘So why did you leave Nottingham?’

‘It was just . . . personal stuff.’

‘Tell me.’

‘I broke up with a girlfriend and just felt like I needed a fresh start. I’d been to Glasgow a few times and liked the place so it seemed as good a place to go as any.’

‘Yeah, well, it’s a good place, right enough.’ Giannandrea just smiled and held Stark’s gaze long enough to make him uncomfortable.

‘You like it here?’

By the look on his face, Stark was obviously trying to work out if he was being tricked in some way. ‘Um, yeah. It’s great. Great place.’

Giannandrea smiled broadly. ‘That’s good to hear. Makes me proud to be Glaswegian.’ He left another pause long enough for Stark to squirm in.

‘Where were you on Friday night, Ritchie?’

‘I thought this was just a chat?’

‘Oh, it is. And now we’re chatting about what you did on Friday night.’

‘Um, I was with my girlfriend.’

‘Ah, nice. No better way to spend a Friday. And she’ll obviously confirm this if we ask her.’

‘Yes. Of course.’

‘What’s her name and where is she?’

‘Faith. Faith Foster. And she’ll be at work.’

‘Where?’

‘She’s an assistant in a vet’s surgery. Drummonds on Duke Street.’

‘Do you live together?’

‘Yes, she moved into my flat a couple of months ago. It’s on Tobago Street in Bridgeton. I can tell her that you want to speak to her when she gets home.’

Giannandrea smiled. ‘That’s all right, Ritchie. No need for you to go to that bother. We’ll speak to her ourselves. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to make a phone call.’

‘Oh right. I’ll just, um . . . I’ll be over there out of the way.’

Giannandrea took his phone out and hit a number from his contact directory. Addison answered on the second ring.

‘Sir, it’s Rico. I’m at Ink Sync, the tattoo shop on Stockwell Street. I’ve been having a chat with the owner. He’s the guy who tattooed Kirsty McAndrew. He’s flapping and has a right temper on him.’

There were a few moments before Addison replied, sounding distinctly edgy and distracted.

‘Yeah? Haul his ass in here, then, Rico. Let’s have a word with him. Oh, what the fu— I don’t fucking believe this. Rico, you got a telly where you are? If so get it switched on. BBC1.’