The first involved a metal plate with interchangeable needles attached to it. The plate was impressed into the flesh on the left side of the prisoners’ chests and then dye was rubbed into the wound.’
‘And the second…?’
‘The second was even more crude. The tattoo was just carved into the flesh with pen and ink.’
‘So, hardly skilful?’
‘No,’ said O’Neal. ‘Which means that it will be deeper than usual. And, over time, the ink will have penetrated the deep dermis, maybe even the lymph cells, which could also assist us with recovery. But, even so, if the people who have done this have cut right down into the hypodermis, it’s unlikely we’ll find anything.’
‘And have they?’
O’Neal examined the wound more closely.
‘We might be lucky. Whoever’s done this has used some sort of scalpel, and he’s sliced the top layer clean off.’
‘So you might be able to get something back?’
‘It’s possible, yes. If the scarring is deep enough it will show up. But it’s going to take time.’
‘Time is one thing you haven’t got, Doctor. I was told you were the best forensic dermatologist in the country. I need you to work some magic on this one. Here’s my number – call me as soon as you get something.’
In war, truth is the first casualty.
Aeschylus
Greenwich, London
6th January – 3.00 p.m.
A passing storm had left the sky bruised and the pavements slick and shiny. Turnbull was waiting for them outside number 52, a handsome Victorian red-brick house identical to all the others on the terrace. Standing up, he looked even fatter than he had the previous day, a situation not helped by a cavernous dark blue overcoat whose heavy folds hung off his stomach like the awning of a Berber tent.
‘Thanks for meeting me here,’ Turnbull said, holding out his hand. This time, Tom and Archie shook it, though Archie made no attempt to disguise his reluctance. Turnbull didn’t seem to mind. ‘And for helping.’
‘We’re not helping yet,’ said Tom firmly.
‘Well, for turning in the arm, at least. You could have just got rid of it. Others would.’ Tom noted that he glanced at Archie as he said this.
‘What are we doing here?’ Archie demanded impatiently.
‘Meeting Elena Weissman. The victim’s daughter.’
Turnbull opened the gate and they made their way up the path under the watchful gaze of the bearded face that had been carved into the keystone over the front door. There was no bell, just a solid brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. Turnbull gave it a loud rap, and they waited patiently until they heard the sound of approaching footsteps and saw a shadow through the rippled glass panels.
The door opened to reveal a striking woman with jet-black hair, secured in a chignon by two lacquered red chopsticks which matched her lipstick and nail varnish. Tom put her age at forty, or thereabouts. She was wearing foundation that gave her skin a bronzed, healthy glow, although it couldn’t fully disguise the dark circles under her sad green eyes that betrayed a lack of sleep. She was dressed very sharply though, a black cashmere cardigan worn over a white blouse and black silk trousers, her feet clad in what looked like a very expensive pair of Italian shoes.
‘Yes?’ She had an immediately arresting, even formidable presence, her voice strong, her manner ever so slightly superior. Tom found himself wondering what she did for a living.
‘Miss Weissman? My name is Detective Inspector Turnbull. I’m with the Metropolitan Police.’ Turnbull flashed a badge which, Tom noticed, was different from the one he had shown them yesterday. No doubt he had a drawer full of badges to choose from, depending on the situation. ‘It’s about your father…’
‘Oh?’ She looked surprised. ‘But I’ve already spoken to –’
‘These are two colleagues of mine, Mr Kirk and Mr Connolly,’ Turnbull continued, speaking over her. ‘Can we come in?’
She hesitated for a moment, then stepped aside.
‘Yes, of course.’
The house smelt of wood polish and lemon-scented floor cleaner. Faint squares on the walls showed where pictures had hung until recently, their outlines preserved where they had shielded the ageing wallpaper from London’s clogging pollution.
She showed them into what Tom assumed had once been the sitting room. It had been stripped, brass rings clinging forlornly to the curtain rail, a single naked lightbulb drooping from the yellowing ceiling. A sofa and two armchairs were covered in large white dustsheets and several cardboard boxes stood in the far left-hand corner, their lids taped down.
‘I apologise for the mess,’ she said, flicking the dustsheets on to the floor and indicating that they should sit. ‘But I’ve got to go back down to Bath. I run a property business down there, you see. I’m going to have to leave the place empty until all the legal and tax issues are sorted. I’m told it could be weeks before you even release the body.’ She flashed an accusing stare at Turnbull.
‘These matters are always very difficult,’ he said gently, settling on to the sofa beside her while Tom and Archie sat on the two armchairs opposite. ‘I understand how painful this must be, but we must balance the needs of the family with the need to find those responsible.’
‘Yes, yes of course.’ She nodded and swallowed hard.
Tom, with the benefit of a childhood spent in a country where the open display of human emotion was applauded, marvelled at her uniquely English struggle to balance grief with the need to maintain dignity and self-control in front of strangers. Just for a second, he thought she would succumb and cry, but she was clearly a proud woman and the moment passed. She looked up again, her eyes glistening and defiant.
‘What did you want to ask me?’
Turnbull took a deep breath.
‘Did your father ever talk about his time in Poland? In Auschwitz?’
She shook her head.
‘No. I tried to talk to him about it many times, to find out what happened, what it was like there. But he said that he had locked everything away in a dark corner of his mind that he couldn’t look into again. In a way, that told me all I needed to know.’
‘And
