The Half Truth(6)

‘Did you sort it with Maxine?’ he asked as Martin slid into his seat opposite him.

‘Yeah, all good,’ said Martin. He nodded at the photos in John’s hand. ‘Anything of interest.’

John studied the first one. It was a close-up of a man’s shoulders and top half of his torso. The victim’s throat had been cut. John passed it over to Martin.

‘It appears he didn’t die from natural causes,’ he said. ‘Slashed throat. Jagged edges to the wound, cut from right to left, I’d say.’

‘From someone facing him, as opposed to behind him – assuming they are right-handed,’ said Martin.

‘Yep, the jagged skin means the neck was loose as opposed to being taut when someone’s head is pulled from behind.’

‘Asleep?’

‘Probably. Unless there are other signs of injury, meaning he put up a fight. Probably didn’t know a thing about it.’ John passed over another photograph. ‘Otritsala.’

Martin shrugged. ‘You what?’

‘The eight-pointed stars, tattooed on each collar bone,’ said John. ‘A sign of defiance. Medals that existed before the Russian revolution and used now to signify defiance to the Soviet regime.’

‘So this is a Russian?’

‘Yep. Prison tattoos mostly.’ John slid another photograph over. ‘Dagger with three drops of blood. That’s typical of a murderer, the drops of blood reflecting the number of killings he’s carried out. Could be that this fella was a hired assassin.’

‘He’s got a Swastika too,’ said Martin, looking more closely at the photo.

‘Doesn’t mean he’s a right-wing sympathiser or a Nazi. It’s used as a sign of rebellion to authority. Some prisons have had these tattoos forcibly removed from their inmates.’

‘And I suppose the SOS on his forearm doesn’t mean Save Our Souls either,’ said Martin.

‘Spasite Ot Syda. Save me from judgement. Amongst other things.’ John stopped. The next picture knocked the air from his lungs.

‘You all right?’ said Martin.

John looked slowly up at his colleague. ‘This Russian was part of the Porboski gang.’

Martin sat up in his seat, his face alert. ‘You sure?’

‘See that tattoo on the inside of the upper arm. A dollar sign and that elaborate letter, which looks like a squared-off “n”? The dollar sign means he’s a safe-cracker. That letter in Russian is a “P” and stands for the gang he’s affiliated to.’

‘Where did these photos come from? Have you got one of the face?’

John looked at the final photo. Another close-up of the chest. ‘No. Just the arms and torso.’

‘What are the Porboski gang doing back in the UK?’ said Martin.

‘No idea, but whatever it is, you know it’s not good.’ John took a moment to compose himself. The usual rush of guilt and anger swept over him. Images of his ex-partner, Neil, fought their way to the front of his mind. Images he usually managed to keep filed away in a drawer marked ‘too close to home to think about’, this time refused to be catalogued and archived so readily.

John could feel a dark cloud forming around him, waiting to smother him, to suck away the oxygen, leaving him gasping for breath. John’s hand closed in a fist as the mental battle threatened to erupt. He was a good fighter. He could see off the attack. It seemed like minutes, but John knew from past experience it was merely one or two seconds. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. Today’s battle won. John looked down at his clenched fist and unfurled his fingers. The photograph now crumpled and scrunched.

John eyed his partner of five years across the desk. Martin understood. He had seen this happen before. He knew the reasons. John looked for accusation in the other man’s eyes. There was none, although he felt sure his own screamed with guilt.

John stood up, gathering the photos together. ‘Where’s Brogan? We need to speak to CID. They seem to have found one of our Most Wanted. Just got to work out which one.’

CID couldn’t shed much light on the identity of the Russian. He had been found down by the docks in a disused warehouse.

‘Looks like he had been camping out. Used one of the old offices. Had a camp bed and camping stove. Nothing in the way of personal belongings,’ said the CID Officer, Carter. ‘Someone had tried to set fire to his stuff. Did a good job, mostly. There were a few charred remains left.’

‘Can I have a look at his clothing?’ said John. ‘And have you got a photograph of his face?’

Carter went off to collect the evidence bag.