Page 15 of First Blood
He’d been inside countless times and every time he was released he just came right back to this very spot and carried on as though nothing had happened. But as far as she knew the man didn’t sell to kids.
And he was also a member of the BBoys gang.
He turned his face fully upwards, towards her, his skin bathed in a jaundiced glow from the yellow light above.
She looked around at the dark, gloomy, depressing area.
‘You really choose this as your office?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s warm.’
‘I need something, Dundee. Information.’
He shook his head, looking to both ends of the underpass. His customers would start to arrive soon and it wouldn’t look good if he was talking to a known police officer.
‘You got the wrong guy. I ain’t no snitch.’
‘I don’t want that kind of information. I want an identity,’ she said, taking her phone from her pocket.
She scrolled down to the photo of the tattoo. ‘One of yours?’
Traditionally a swallow was linked to sailors: they would get a set of the birds inked on their chest. The story went that if he or she drowns the swallows will come down and lift the soul to the heavens.
In England, the swallow tattoo was often the symbol of working-class pride, fast fist, meaning these fists fly. The swallow tattoo used by the BBoys had a feather missing from its right wing.
Dundee shrugged.
‘Look closer,’ she said, thrusting the phone into his face.
‘Could be.’
She waited.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘But do you know how many of these have been inked over the years?’ He took another look. ‘But he’s a fucking pansy whoever he is.’
‘Why so?’ she asked.
He rolled his eyes. ‘Cos the more prominent place you get inked denotes your gang loyalty,’ he said, pointing to his own, smack bang in the middle of his forehead. ‘Shows you’re never gonna try and leave.’
‘Any names?’
‘Nah, way too many…’
‘How about now?’ she asked, showing him a photo of the dead man’s face. She’d hoped to avoid it, but she wasn’t going to get his identity any quicker and their victim needed a name.
‘He dead?’ Dundee asked, looking closer, but a hint of recognition passed over his features.
‘You know him, don’t you?’
He shook his head.
‘Dundee, you’re lying. Give me a name or I’ll have the squad car that brought me parked up for the next hour for your peak trading time.’
His eyes challenged her but she’d arrested him enough times for him to know she was good for it.
‘Luke Fenton and that’s all you’re getting; but I can tell you that swallow has got no place on that fucker’s neck. Shoulda been burned off with a red-hot poker.’
‘You mean he should have been thrown out of the gang?’ she asked, surprised. The BBoys weren’t normally so choosy. A soldier was a soldier.
