James Twining - The Black Sun

6th January – 3.04 a.m.

The stump was bloody and raw, with strips of muscle, nerve fibre and severed blood vessels hanging loose like wires, and the tip of the ulna peeking out from under the loose skin with a white smile.

‘Well, the wounds are certainly consistent with the manner in which the victim’s arm was removed…’ Dr Derrick O’Neal rotated the limb, examining it under a high-powered magnifying lens, the glare of the overhead halogen lamps making it appear waxy and fake, like something wrenched from a shop mannequin. ‘But the DNA tests will confirm whether it’s his. We should have the results in a few hours.’

He yawned, clearly still missing the warmth of the bed from which Turnbull had summoned him.

‘It’s remarkably well preserved. Where did you find it?’ O’Neal asked, looking up. He had a large, misshapen nose speckled with odd hairs. A thick, wiry beard covered the lower half of his face, and his small green eyes sheltered behind a large pair of black-framed glasses that he kept balanced on his forehead, only to have them slip to the bridge of his nose whenever he leant forward.

‘In someone’s freezer.’

‘That makes sense.’ He yawned again. ‘Strange thing to hang on to, though. Who did you say you worked for again?’

‘I didn’t, and it’s better you don’t know,’ Turnbull replied. ‘What can you tell me about this?’ Turnbull pointed at the loose, pale flesh of the inner arm. A livid red rectangle showed where a patch of skin had been cut out.

O’Neal’s glasses slid down his faces again as he bent for a closer look. ‘What was there?’

‘A tattoo.’

‘Strange shape. What sort of tattoo?’

‘The sort you get in a concentration camp.’

‘Oh!’ Turnbull could see that this last piece of information had finally jolted O’Neal awake.

‘I need to know what it said.’

O’Neal sucked air through his teeth.

‘Oh, that could be tricky. Very tricky. You see, it depends on the depth of the incision.’

‘In what way?’

‘The skin is made up of several layers…’ O’Neal reached for a pen and a paper to illustrate his point. ‘The epidermis, dermis and hypodermis. Typically, the ink on a tattoo is injected under the epidermis into the top layer of the dermis. It’s actually quite a delicate and skilful operation. It has to be deep enough to be permanent, but not too deep to scar the sensitive layers below.’

‘You think this was done delicately?’ Turnbull asked with a hollow laugh.

‘No,’ O’Neal conceded. ‘As far as I know, the Nazis employed two methods for tattooing. 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.