EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-NINE
An avid reader of
thrillers, Amy Dorling pestered Jane Pelham to give her the direct telephone
number of the detectives where they were based at Tonbridge. Her manager saw no reason to withhold the
information and readily scribbled it out for her. As soon as Amy arrived home, she tried to
contact the police. She got the voice
mail and was asked to leave a message.
She realised, following a major robbery and murder in Tunbridge Wells,
that the pornographic video hoax would probably be low priority; so she set out
herself to make enquiries. She looked up
in the Yellow Pages, the BT Phone Book and the Thomson Local Directory, all the
tattoo shops within quite a wide radius of Tunbridge Wells. Each day, after her stint in the charity
shop, she set off to visit at least two tattoo shops. But everywhere she went she drew a blank.
‘I’m sorry. We’ve already had a visit
from the police and we couldn’t tell them anything. What’s your interest in this?’
She would then explain that she worked in one of the shops which had been
targeted for humiliation, and invariably the tattooist would shrug and say:
‘Still can’t help. Why not leave it to
the police?’
It irritated Amy. She had seen that
tattoo, the one with the union jack inside the swastika, and it rankled. She was determined to get to the bottom of
it. A week went by. A week of sleepless nights, tossing and
turning, thinking about her deceased husband’s mortification at her interfering
in police business; but she could please herself, now that he was gone.
And then, as they say in the murder mysteries, she got a break. She had been to visit a friend in Meopham one
Saturday morning, and was driving into Tonbridge via the Shipbourne Road. That was when
she spotted Gandalf’s Tattoo Studio and she slammed on the brakes. A blast from a car horn behind.
‘Idiot!’ snapped Amy, with a glance at the mirror. ‘Shouldn’t drive so close.’
She pulled in on a single yellow line, parking with two wheels up on the kerb,
and hurried excitedly into the tattoo studio.
As she entered the bell tinkled merrily and somewhat incongruously, she
thought, seeing as it was a veritable den of something bordering on the
macabre. No, not bordering, she decided,
but weird in a sad, almost dangerously believing way. The person who ran this establishment must
have a slight screw loose. When the
proprietor appeared in the doorway, it confirmed her belief. He had scruffy, shoulder length hair,
bordering a round, lobster pink face, dominated by an enormous bulbous nose,
and was wearing an old Harris Tweed jacket that looked as if it came from a
jumble sale. He looked her up and down
and decided she wasn’t a customer.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘I expect the police have already been round to question you,’ she began.
He frowned. ‘Why would they do that?’
‘You mean they haven’t been?’
He shook his head, still frowning deeply.
He hated anything to do with the law.
‘Of course,’ Amy continued, ‘they’ve probably done the same as I did, and
looked up the tattoo places in the local directories. And you’re not in
them. I just happened to drive past and
spotted you by accident.’
The proprietor tugged at his nose with a finger and thumb and stared
suspiciously at Amy. She shifted
uncomfortably under his gaze and coughed lightly before continuing, explaining
why she was there, telling him about the pornographic videos. After she had finished, he smiled pleasantly
before speaking.
‘So, instead of the law doing their job,
Miss Marples decides to solve the crime.’
Amy blushed. ‘Well, I suppose if the
police haven’t been round, it must mean they were using the same method as
me. Looking up tattoo places in the
directories. That doesn’t seem very
efficient to me.’
The proprietor pursed his lips before speaking.
‘They’re useless they are. Bloody
useless, pardon my French. And I could
have told them about the bloke with the union jack swastika. And now he’s got a flag of St. George with a
swastika on his other arm.’
Amy gasped excitedly. ‘That sounds like
the same young man.’
‘Undoubtedly it is.’
‘So he must live in Tonbridge.’
‘Not necessarily. I don’t think so.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Because the first time he come in here, he had a mate with him. And he called him...what was it? Like that Irish singer used to be in
Boyzone.’
Amy looked blank.
‘Ronan! That was it. He called him Ronan’
‘And you don’t know what the one with the swastika tattoo was called.’
The proprietor shrugged. ‘No idea. But this Ronan geezer says did he want to
come back to his place after, and the other bloke – the one with the Nazi
tattoo – says no, he was going to get the train back.’
Amy’s eyes lit up excitedly. ‘Back
where?’
‘No idea. He didn’t say.’
‘Oh.’
‘So what you gonna do now?’
‘I think,’ began Amy slowly, as an idea formed in her mind, ‘I might circulate
every charity shop in the district to be on the lookout for this young
man. As soon as they see anyone fitting
his description, they can ring the police.
Catch him and his friend red-handed.’
‘Bang to rights.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Bang to rights,’ repeated the proprietor.
‘Oh yes,’ laughed Amy. ‘Bang to
rights. If I’m going to deal with this,
I must remember to use the right expressions.’
*
‘What the hell have you come as?’ demanded Jack Mold as he surveyed his son
standing in front of the living room mirror.
‘I’m flying to Bangkok on Saturday,’ explained Ivor.
‘I know. But that’s not what I
asked. Look at you. What do
you look like?’
Jack Mold gestured at Ivor’s Hawaiian style shirt, the one he’d bought at BHS,
and exaggerated the size of his all too ample belly.
Ivor felt claustrophobic, could feel the pressure rising inside himself, as it
usually did when his father questioned him.
‘B-but it’s hot out there,’ he stammered.
His father sneered. ‘I know that. I was in the merchant navy. So I know all about them places. By all means get some casual clothes,
something light and comfortable. But not
something that looks like a bloody explosion in a Dulux factory. And those
shorts are much too short. If this woman
you’re planning on marrying sees those horrible white legs with those jelly
thighs, she’ll probably puke.’
Ivor could feel tears of disappointment pricking the back of his eyes. He moved hurriedly away from the mirror, going
towards the hall.
‘Where are you going?’
Ivor stopped, his heart heavy with disenchantment. ‘I’m going to change.’
Jack Mold chuckled loudly. ‘I’m only
joking, son. You look terrific. You really do. Very – um – colourful.’
Confusion spread across Ivor’s face.
Again, his father had somehow managed to wrong-foot him.
‘Come on. Get changed. You can buy me a
pint at the club.’
IN EPISODE 140
Vanessa’s discovers her new boyfriend has a big problem.