‘Where’s the car now?’

‘Back in the church car park. We ain’t that stupid.’

Archer points at the picture of Faulkner again. ‘Have you or Kevin sold blow, or any other drugs, to this man before?’

Tighe casts his eyes downward and nods his head.

She shows him the pictures of Billy Perrin, Noel Tipping and Stan Buxton. ‘Do you recognise these men?’

He shakes his head.

‘OK. Thank you, John. Make yourself comfortable. We can catch up later.’

‘Can’t I go home?’

‘Not quite yet.’

*

It’s past 1 a.m. when Archer and Quinn find the Range Rover parked out of the way at the rear of Our Lady and St Catherine of Siena Catholic Church on Bow Road. They pull on disposable gloves and begin to search through the interior of the vehicle. Apart from smelling of Furlong and Tighe’s weed, there is nothing inside that seems worthy of following up.

‘I’ll get Forensics to look over it,’ says Quinn.

Archer walks towards the entrance and looks across at the disused Victorian toilets presided over by a grubby statue of William Gladstone gesturing with a welcoming hand.

They cross the road and push open the tall, rusty steel gate entrance and flick on their torches. The beams light up the tiled steps that are caked with grime and carpeted with broken bottles, leaves, plastic packaging and cigarette boxes.

The steps are steep, slippery and made more treacherous by the detritus underfoot. Archer holds onto a greasy handrail and is grateful that she is still wearing the latex gloves.

As she descends her nose wrinkles at the pungent amalgam of weed, stale urine and shit.

‘Christ!’ says Quinn. ‘These toilets are beyond rundown but that doesn’t seem to stop some people doing their dirty business here.’

The interior is a ruin of broken cubicles, smashed tiles and shattered porcelain. Archer points her beam at a wall where the tiles have been completely removed.

She feels her pulse quicken.

Painted on the wall is a sprayed graffiti-art depiction of a chubby naked man with a benign smile and blond hair. On his head is a tilted gold crown of thorns.

‘Jesus! Is that Lewis Faulkner?’

They move closer. The likeness is unmistakable and the style matches the previous paintings.

‘That’s him,’ confirms Archer.

‘Shit! Does that mean he’s not our man after all?’

‘I don’t think we can rule that out yet. He’s wearing a crown of thorns and he’s smiling. Perhaps that is significant.’

‘Do you think he painted himself?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘He’s only painted the victims so far.’

‘Maybe this is a distraction.’

Quinn points his beam at the crotch area. ‘You’d think if you were going to paint yourself you’d be a bit more generous with the old man?’

‘Maybe that’s not important to him. Could you take some photos?’

‘Let’s do a selfie,’ says Quinn.

‘Let’s not.’

Chapter 28

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