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think it
is
a tatt,’ he said eventually, ‘but it could be almost anything.’
    This was not the answer Bradshaw was hoping for. ‘What do you
think
it is?’
    Quinn looked again. ‘Well it could be a number, a letter or the shape of an animal or possibly the corner of an emblem of some sort.’
    ‘Bloody hell, Michael, I could have told
you
that.’
    ‘Well, I’d need a bit more time if I’m going to examine it properly and compare it.’
    ‘How much do you need?’ he asked.
    ‘I dunno,’ Quinn shrugged helplessly, ‘a while, possibly quite a while.’
    Bradshaw folded his arms. ‘I’m in no hurry.’
    ‘Look, I don’t mean this disrespectfully, but could you at least fuck off for a bit and come back later?’
    ‘No, Michael, I couldn’t.’
    ‘Christ,’ hissed Quinn, as if Bradshaw was standing there in full uniform and not a suit.
    ‘So if you want me gone, you’d better get a move on.’
    ‘Alright, alright.’ And Quinn did get a move on. He started dragging catalogues containing tattoo designs over to the bench and opening them near the photograph of the burned girl so he could compare the smudge to them.
    ‘Take your time, Michael,’ said Bradshaw, ‘but I’m expecting great things from you.’
    ‘Don’t hold your breath,’ said the flustered tattooist as he leafed through the catalogues. Bradshaw killed time looking at the myriad of designs on the tattoo parlour’s walls before deciding that none of them were remotely appealing to him.
    It took Michael Quinn some time before he felt confident enough to look up from the catalogues and share his findings with Bradshaw.
    ‘If it is a smudge from a tattoo then it could be just about anything but …’
    ‘But what?’ pressed Bradshaw.
    Quinn pointed to an area on the photograph just inside the portion of skin that had been virtually destroyed by the acid, ‘you can just make out what remains of a very faint line.’
    Bradshaw peered through the magnifying glass at the area Quinn was indicating. ‘So you can,’ he agreed, ‘just.’
    ‘That could be a line that moves outwards into an edge, ending here and joining up with this more pronounced line that’s still partially visible,’ said the tattooist and he pointed at the blue mark on the burned girl’s neck. ‘I think this mark you found might just be the curve of a sword or the outer edge of the wing tip of a bird.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘Take a look,’ said Quinn, and he slid the images he had found along the table so they were close to the photo of the burned girl. ‘These designs are very popular and small enough to go on your neck, ankle or an inner thigh. I’ve done a few of those.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘The positioning of the smudge would tally with a tatt at the base of the neck and to one side so it’s discreet. You can have it on show or not. Lasses like that.’
    Bradshaw surveyed the images closely then glanced back at the picture of the burned girl.
    ‘Maybe,’ he said uncertainly.
    ‘Hang on,’ said Michael and he peeled a transparent design away from a pile of images and placed it right next to the smudge. Bradshaw could now more easily compare this tattoo and the mark on the burned girl. ‘It’s not quite to scale but …’ Michael slid the image of a dove towards the smudge until its edge slotted into its corner. Now that it virtually overlapped, Bradshaw could tell the faded edge of the tattoo could easily be a match to the outer edge of the dove’s wing.
    ‘Bloody hell,’ said Bradshaw, ‘you might just be on to something there, Michael. How did you manage that?’
    ‘I just picked the dozen or so most popular designs and this one is the closest match.’
    ‘Well done.’
    ‘Aye, well, I’m glad you’re pleased and there’s a very simple way you can repay me.’
    ‘Go on,’ said Bradshaw assuming he wanted money for his time.
    ‘By telling no bugger about it.’
    ‘Have no fear, Michael,’ said Bradshaw, ‘my lips are