The Grave Tattoo

The civilian on the front desk directed her to the canteen, where she found Rigston tucking into a bacon roll. He got to his feet immediately and shook hands, wiping his fingers with a paper napkin first. ‘Can I get you something to eat? Early call-out, I missed breakfast,’ he said, gesturing apologetically at his plate.

‘Don’t mind me, I’m fine,’ River said, sliding into the seat opposite him. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt your meal, but this won’t take long. I thought you’d like to know that my preliminary investigations lead me to believe this body is well outside your remit.’

Rigston grinned, showing a row of even white teeth. ‘Thought as much,’ he said. ‘But I’m glad to have it formally confirmed all the same. Do you know how long he’s been in there?’

‘Hard to be precise at this stage. But, ballpark, I’d say somewhere between 1785 and 1815. That’s a very rough guesstimate,’ she added hastily. ‘Don’t hold me to it. I’ll have a better answer once we’ve completed the work-up.’

‘You’re giving him the full monte, then?’ Rigston looked mildly surprised.

‘All the bells and whistles. And the best of it is, I’ve got someone else to pay for it.’ As she spoke, she watched him eat. You could tell a lot about someone by the way they ate. Ewan Rigston took small bites, chewing carefully with his mouth closed before he swallowed. He paused between mouthfuls, considering his next point of attack. So, not the kind of man who charged at things like a bull at a gate. Measured, thoughtful, and maybe a little bit repressed, she thought.

‘How did you manage that?’

‘Northern TV’s going to film the whole process. They’re making a documentary series about my Pirate Peat.’

‘Good for you. Maybe I could get them to sponsor my armed robbery investigation,’ he added wryly. ‘But what’s with the “Pirate Peat”?’

‘They like a nice catchy tag. We found him in a bog, hence the “Peat” part. And his tattoos are typical of a sailor, so I let my fancy run away with me. Besides, it sounds better than Seaman Peat.’

‘You’re right about that. Good luck with it.’

‘Thanks. Would you like me to keep you posted?’

He nodded. ‘That would be great. In fact…’ He hesitated briefly, then said very quickly, ‘I don’t suppose you’d fancy meeting up for a drink?’

It wasn’t an idea that had so much as crossed River’s mind until that moment. But the more she thought about it, the more she liked it. She smiled. ‘Yes, actually, I think I would. And you can give me the benefit of your expertise.’

‘How so?’

‘Well…’ And she broke off with an embarrassed laugh. ‘I just realised I don’t know your first name.’

He laughed with her. ‘It’s Ewan. So does that mean I get to ask you where your name comes from?’

River winced. ‘Hippie parents.’

‘Must be hard to be taken seriously with a name like that. I have to admit I thought somebody was taking the piss.’

‘No kidding.’ She flashed him a smile that didn’t make it as far as her eyes. ‘But hey, it breaks the ice.’ The smile was gone. ‘And I do expect to be taken seriously.’

Her determination not to be discounted prompted the image of his daughter, the twelve-year-old Rigston saw less and less frequently as her own concerns had become more pressing than the need to see a father who hadn’t lived under the same roof for five years. Like Marnie, River Wilde had the air of someone with something to prove and an absolute determination to succeed. He reminded himself this woman wasn’t a child, no matter how young she seemed. She was accustomed to sights he hoped his daughter would never have to negotiate. ‘Naturally,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise.’ His expression was friendly and open. River felt herself relax again. ‘So why do you need the benefit of my expertise?’ he continued.

‘Because if he hadn’t been dead for such a long time, I think he definitely would be one for you. I won’t know for sure till we’ve done the full body X-ray and CAT scan, but, at this point, I’m inclined to think our Pirate Peat did not die from natural causes. I think somebody caved his head in.’

For Tenille, being left alone in Jane’s flat was almost worth the reason for the boon. Jane had come back cheerful from her meeting with the Hammer, but had said little about it except that she was convinced Tenille would have no more trouble with Geno. ‘Huh,’ Tenille snorted.

‘I understand why you might feel dubious,’ Jane had said. ‘But my gut feeling is that the Hammer doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean. Now, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go, Tenille. I’ve got a train to catch. I’m going to be away for a couple of weeks. You can hang out here for the rest of the day if you want, just close the door behind you when you leave, OK?’

‘Yeah, OK. Can I use your computer?’

Jane pondered for a second or two then nodded agreement. ‘But you have to go home tonight. I don’t want you holing up here indefinitely. Promise?’

Tenille had made a pretence of sulkiness, but she’d promised. She would check out the flat later and, if Geno was there, she’d simply come back to Jane’s. She had the key, and knowing Jane was gone, she had the freedom to treat the place as her own for a fortnight. One way or another, things would be sorted out by then, she told herself. No matter what Jane thought, she had no conviction that the Hammer would deal with Geno. He wasn’t the sort to take orders from any woman, never mind a middle-class white one.

Tenille waited patiently while Jane packed a bag with clothes and books, then as soon as she left, she headed into the study. She sat down and her finger hovered over the power switch. She felt too weird and too wired to go online. She’d taught herself over the past few years to think of herself as alone in the world, a single particle spinning through the constellations of other people’s lives. Since her mum had died, she hadn’t allowed herself to feel like she belonged anywhere. Sharon didn’t want her, she knew that. Her aunt was acting out of obligation, not love. Without her mum, Tenille was disconnected from the world, unstrung and free. She’d tried to make herself believe that was the best way to be, and mostly she succeeded. When first she’d been told that the Hammer was her real father, that self-contained part of herself had not wanted to believe it. She couldn’t have put words round it at the time, but it was something to do with not wanting that kind of connection with anyone because to be connected was somehow to render herself vulnerable.

What had made her feel almost comfortable with the idea was the recognition that, even if he was her father, the Hammer wanted nothing to do with her. He had never acknowledged her existence, far less any relationship between them. He had never done any of the things that even the most hopeless of absent fathers occasionally managed. Never turned up on Christmas Eve with an armful of badly wrapped, expensive but inappropriate presents. Never slipped in to the back row of a school nativity play. Never taken her to a movie or McDonald’s. The long and short of it was that he’d never shown the slightest interest in her.

And that made it all the more unlikely that he’d do anything to defend her from Geno. After all, what would it say about him if he did? It would be as good as shouting from the top of D Block that she was his daughter. He might suddenly decide he wanted to start doing the rest of the things that a father was supposed to do, like making sure she went to school and all that shit. Tenille really didn’t think she wanted that pressure in her life.

On the other hand, she sure as hell didn’t want Geno in her life either. And if the Hammer didn’t do something about it, she wasn’t sure how she was going to manage that. It wasn’t like she knew anybody who would weigh in against Geno, and she couldn’t afford to hire any of the local thugs to sort him out. She swore under her breath and turned on the computer, determined not to think any more about it.

I set this down as it was told to me, in the words of my friend:

I had sailed with Lieutenant Bligh before I signed on the Bounty and found him a man whose moods were impossible to predict. When all was going well with the voyage, he would be charm itself. I had reason to know this more than most, for on that first voyage he kept me close, often inviting me to dine with him in his cabin. But if anything chanced to go wrong on board ship, he was choleric and intemperate, always seeking around to cast the blame on another. Never was any occasion of blame laid at his own door. He was also jealous of his position, demanding as of right that respect which a captain needs must earn. Bligh squandered his opportunities to command the good opinion of the men by reason of his vitriol. Sailors are not known for their nicety of expression, but even below decks in the most vile conditions I have never heard language so foul as Bligh would pour out in his expressions of scorn and rage. But he was a fine navigator, and I knew that I could learn much at his side, and so I was willing to forgo my misgivings & to accompany him again, most particularly on such a long voyage.

10 (#ulink_a3baf2d3-f376-531f-9e39-3e72fc32d1aa)

The air even tasted different, Jane thought as she swung down the platform at Oxenholme. She caught sight of her father near the exit and waved cheerily. Allan Gresham raised his hand slightly in response, the small gesture of a modest man more at home on the fell with his Herdwick sheep than he would ever be where people congregated.

Jane dropped her bag and threw her arms around him, brushing a kiss against his rough cheek. ‘Thanks for coming, Dad,’ she said.

‘You can’t rely on the buses,’ he said, picking up her bag with a surprised grunt as he felt the weight. ‘What’ve you got in here? Gold bricks?’

‘I wish. It’s books, papers. A few clothes.’ Jane fell into step beside him as they made for his Land Rover in the car park.

Once they were clear of the station lights and their faces were obscured by early evening darkness, Allan cleared his throat. ‘You’re not in any kind of trouble, are you?’

‘Why would I be in trouble?’ Jane’s voice betrayed astonishment.

Allan hefted her bag into the back of the Land Rover and gave a helpless shrug, hands spread at his sides. ‘I don’t know. It’s just…It’s the middle of term. You’ve got a job to do. Students to teach. I didn’t think you could up sticks with no warning.’

‘I haven’t, Dad. This is official. Study leave. Something’s come up that I need to pursue right away, and my boss has given me a couple of weeks off.’

They climbed aboard and Allan started the engine. He raised his voice to be heard above the rhythmic grunt of the diesel. ‘I thought you did dead poets? How can that be urgent?’

‘It’s the body in the bog, Dad,’ Jane said.

He chuckled. ‘Fletcher Christian, eh? I wondered how long it would take you to convince yourself this was your man.’

‘It might not be him,’ Jane protested. ‘I never said it was. And chances are it’s got nothing to do with him or the Bounty. But it’s given me a peg to hang my theory on, and that’s good enough to buy me some time to look properly into something I turned up last summer.’

‘You’ve always had a talent for persuasion,’ Allan said, resigned echoes of old conflicts in his tone. ‘So if this is your man, how did he end up dead in a Cumberland bog?’

‘I haven’t a clue. And to be honest, that’s what interests me least. I’ll leave that to the historians.’

Her father nodded. ‘Any road, I’m glad there’s no trouble.’ He snatched a quick sidelong glance at her. ‘We cannot help worrying about you, all the way down there.’

It was, she knew, a coded way of asking about Jake. The familiar familial habit of talking about things without actually mentioning them. ‘I’m all right, Dad. What can’t be cured maun be endured. And I’m good at enduring.’