Huber's Tattoo Read online

  Huber’s Tattoo

  QUENTIN SMITH

  Copyright © 2014 Quentin Smith

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,

  or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents

  Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in

  any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the

  publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with

  the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries

  concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  This book and the characters within are a work of fiction.

  Any resemblance to individuals either living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Matador

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  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299

  Fax: (+44) 116 279 2277

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  ISBN 978-1783067-145

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  Converted to eBook by EasyEPUB

  This book is for my parents, June and Charles,

  and my family, Dianne and Nicholas.

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Quote

  Several weeks before it all began

  Quote

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-One

  Sixty-Two

  Sixty-Three

  Sixty-Four

  Sixty-Five

  Sixty-Six

  Sixty-Seven

  Sixty-Eight

  Sixty-Nine

  Seventy

  Seventy-One

  Seventy-Two

  Seventy-Three

  Seventy-Four

  Seventy-Five

  Seventy-Six

  Seventy-Seven

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Also by the same author…

  About the Author

  Quentin Smith is a medical doctor and practising anaesthetist with a background of writing magazine articles of topical or historical interest, usually with a discernible medical flavour. He served as the editor of a national anaesthesia publication for several years before devoting more free time to the enjoyment and pursuit of writing fiction. He lives in Durham with his wife and son.

  Huber’s Tattoo is his second novel.

  www.quentinsmithbooks.com

  Quote

  Man with all his noble qualities... still bears in his bodily frame the indelible stamp of his lowly origin.

  Charles Darwin 1871

  Several weeks before it all began

  “I don’t expect you to spy on DCI Webber, not as such, I just want to hear about any… unusual behaviour.”

  “What sort of behaviour?”

  Superintendent Steven Bruce hesitated, looking down at his manicured hands, clasped together on the desk.

  “You’ll know it when you see it, Sergeant.”

  DS Natasha Keeler squirmed uncomfortably on the fabric covered office chair, intimidated by the Divisional Superintendent’s imposing frame behind his desk. The proud smile she had brought into the office quickly faded into an uncertain frown.

  “I applied to be assigned to DCI Webber because of his reputation and experience, sir, and I am very grateful to have been made up to Detective Sergeant so quickly, but I… er… feel very uncomfortable about this.”

  Bruce inhaled, deeply and slowly, then smiled, like a salesman.

  “Henry Webber is Scotland Yard’s most successful Inspector, a brilliant man with a fantastic record.” He paused.

  “Did you know that he’s an active member of Mensa – the organisation for people with exceptionally high IQs?”

  “No, sir.”

  Bruce leaned back in his creaking desk chair, studying Natasha’s fresh, lightly freckled face.

  “I don’t know if I can do this, sir,” she said apologetically.

  Bruce pressed the fingertips of each hand together meticulously in front of his face.

  “Look, I need someone to… to win his confidence and get to know him… to get inside his head.”

  “There must be more experienced officers for this, sir.”

  “There are, but Henry, er DCI Webber, is a very closed person.”

  Natasha sat back and sighed, folding her hands in her lap.

  “You want me to play the dumb blonde?”

  Bruce raised his eyebrows in a non-committal way.

  “I have every confidence in your abilities. That’s why you’re now our youngest Detective Sergeant, congratulations.” Bruce smiled. “Let’s keep it very informal, shall we? Anything… out of the ordinary, just give me a call, OK?”

  Quote

  It is from the midst of this putrid sewer that the greatest river of human industry springs up.

  Here it is that humanity achieves for itself both perfection and brutalization.

  Alexis de Tocqueville 1835

  One

  London, August 2011

  It should have been a straightforward murder case for any senior CID officer worthy of his stripes. After all, how could Senior Investigating Officer Henry Webber ever have known that the victim, a greying man in his late forties, neatly dressed in a blue, crushed velvet jacket with contrasting bow tie, found in Greenwich Park with a single gunshot wound to his forehead, would expose the Nazi blood that flowed unwillingly through his own veins.

  The unfortunate victim, discovered barely thirty yards away from the Greenwich Meridian beneath a towering old Turkey oak tree would ultimately reveal one of the best kept and darkest secrets of the twentieth century; something that would have made Charles Darwin turn in his grave; something that would change Henry’s life irrevocably.

  “Don’t you think he looks… different?” Henry Webber said, incli
ning his head slightly to one side as he studied the body’s pose against the gnarled trunk of the mighty tree through narrowed eyes.

  Henry stood over six feet tall and wore his tousled mane of dark brown hair long and bushy on his prominent head, though it was now stuffed into the constraints of a hooded forensic suit. His peacock-blue eyes darted about within a sharply-hewn face.

  “Do you mean the velvet jacket, the orange bow tie, or the hole in his head?” Natasha Keeler asked.

  Natasha’s elegant frame craned over the victim, studying him closely with her gloved hands clasped behind her slim waist, ensuring that she did not touch anything. Even in a bloated, pale blue forensic suit, Natasha managed to look alluring.

  “Watch where you stand, Sergeant, you’re straying off the CAP!” the duty crime scene manager said sharply, watching protectively over his crime scene as Natasha bobbed around the body. “Get back!”

  Natasha spun round to face him, embarrassed.

  “I’m sorry, it’s my first murder scene,” she said.

  “I know,” Henry said, leaning towards her discreetly. “We must all tread the exact same common approach path to the body, as described by the person who found it, to minimize forensic contamination of the scene, you see.”

  Natasha was Henry’s first female Sergeant, something he was still adjusting to, perhaps evoking within him the urge to shield her from CSM Danny Burman’s brusqueness. Together, they retreated to the edge of the taped cordon.

  Natasha glanced around at the feverish activity of the blue- suited SOCOs. One was crouched over a tripod, like a hunchback, diligently photographing and videoing the entire crime scene. Others brushed for trace evidence, searching every square inch around the body. Burman, still glaring malevolently at Natasha, turned and approached Henry.

  “The cordon is now enforced and the entire park is closed,” he said, his jowly, pock-marked cheeks wobbling like jelly behind the surgical face mask within his hooded suit. He turned back to face the body. “Looks like the shot was fired at close range.”

  “Yep,” Henry agreed. “Gunpowder and scorch marks clearly visible on his skin. Ballistics coming?”

  Burman nodded. Overhead, singing skylarks frolicked in an almost faultless blue sky as the spicy scent emanating from a nearby hedge of Honey Perfume roses freshened the crisp morning air. Trudging up slowly from the Naval College was the blue, forensic-suited figure of a short, dumpy person, gender indeterminate from such a distance, carrying an aluminium flight case that reflected the sunlight rhythmically with each laboured footstep.

  “DCI Webber?” said the man once he had arrived, his eyes flitting uncertainly from Burman’s pocked face to the wrinkled, textured skin that Henry wore. “Are you the SIO?”

  “That would be me,” Henry said extending a hand. The two men shook hands through double layers of squeaking latex gloves.

  “I’m Dr Longstaff, Home Office pathologist. We’ve not met before. May I?”

  Henry held his arms out wide in a welcoming gesture and nodded. Natasha backed away slightly as she watched Longstaff approach the body.

  “Why isn’t the forensic tent up yet?” Longstaff barked, his accusatory eyes seeking out the crime scene manager.

  “They’re coming,” Burman said, contrite.

  In contrast to his name, Longstaff was short and stocky with a round, marshmallow face that peered out from within the forensic hood.

  “I would hazard that, given the poor man’s great big beard and velvet jacket, we should have a good chance of finding some trace evidence left behind by his assailant. I believe passionately in Locard,” Longstaff said, without looking up.

  Natasha glanced at Henry.

  “Locard was a French forensic scientist who elegantly described the principle that everyone entering a crime scene will both leave something incriminating behind, and take something incriminating away with them. It is simply up to forensics to find that evidence,” Henry explained. “Which is why Burman doesn’t want you anywhere near the body,” he whispered in her ear.

  “What do we know?” Longstaff said, diligently taking samples for DNA analysis from the victim’s neck before combing the beard.

  Henry drew a deep breath, uncomfortable in the hot, plasticized paper suit.

  “He was found at six am by a passer-by walking a dog, slumped as you see him against the trunk of this oak. Presence of dew on clothing and beard suggests he has been here since yesterday evening, probably not earlier than eleven, though, as it rained before that and his clothing is not soaking wet through,” Henry replied, rubbing his nose through the mask.

  Longstaff nodded as he worked.

  “Very good, Inspector,” he said looking up at the tree. “My goodness, did you know that this is a Turkish and not an English oak? Give me a hand here, please.”

  Longstaff was trying to manoeuvre the body so that he could measure the temperature of the liver, a reliable way of determining core temperature in a recently dead body. Henry stepped forward and with his large muscular hands helped Longstaff and Burman to roll the body onto its back. The initial stiffness of rigor mortis was already setting in, making the body feel wooden beneath Henry’s hands as it turned over awkwardly, like a mannequin, arms and legs splayed at hideous angles. Bits of bark and grass dripped off the velvet jacket as a crusted mass of blood, hair and brain revealed a gaping hole at the rear of the victim’s head.

  “You are correct, Doctor: Quercus cerris is actually native to southern Europe and Asia, but also happens to be plentiful here at Greenwich,” Henry said. He glanced at the tree’s languid branches extending high above him.

  Longstaff said nothing, registering only unexpected surprise in his eyes, and inserted the thermometer through the victim’s skin, like pushing a skewer into a leg of pork.

  “Have you established his identity yet?” Longstaff asked.

  “No,” Henry said.

  “Here you go then,” Longstaff said triumphantly, as he produced a brown leather wallet from within the victim’s jacket.

  Natasha took it in her gloved hands and opened it, flicking through the compartments.

  “Sixty-odd pounds in cash, three credit cards, a return tube ticket for zones one and two, dated yesterday, and a driver’s licence. Professor Jeremy Haysbrook, forty-nine… no eight.”

  Henry shifted his weight to one leg, bending the other slightly at the knee.

  “So, it wasn’t a mugging. Professor of what?”

  Longstaff provided the answer as he held aloft a staff card found in another pocket.

  “London School of Economics.”

  It was nearing nine and the park was getting warmer. Flies began to buzz around the body, attracted by the ripe odours of death.

  “I think we should get the forensic tent up and lock down the scene now, don’t you?” Longstaff muttered irritably, flicking away a fly which had settled on his brow.

  “What do you think is different about him?” Natasha asked.

  “Don’t you see it?” Henry pointed towards the dead man. “Look at the size of his head.”

  Longstaff straightened and looked at the victim’s head. Burman, too, studied Professor Haysbrook’s broken skull. Natasha knitted her eyebrows.

  “It’s a pretty big head,” Burman grunted.

  “That is an above average-sized cranium all right,” Longstaff said, nodding in agreement, “Probably why he is a Professor at LSE.”

  “Was,” Henry said, turning away from the body and Longstaff’s hunched blue profile. He stroked his chin, thinking aloud. “He met someone here last night. Look how much closer to the Royal Observatory he is than the Naval College down below. They were probably walking through the park together. He could not have felt threatened, so he most likely either knew, or certainly trusted, his killer.”