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DNA.
    We knew from the Dorset cops that this corpse’s head and hands were in bad shape. But as soon as we walked into the mortuary, I knew we weren’t going to need Stella to identify this particular corpse. The colours were faded, the shapes contorted because the skin was stretched and torn. But the tattoos were unmistakable.
    The dragon I’d seen on the night of the fire still covered his torso, its tail snaking down his naked groin to taper to an end on his left thigh. The flame of its breath was dulled now, but we could still see it clearly crossing the right side of his chest, climbing up to his shoulder. One arm was torn off halfway down, but the top half of the samurai remained. On the other arm, the woman looked like she’d gained weight and needed an appointment with the hairdresser.
    I reckoned we didn’t need to bother Martina. I could ID Jack Farrell on the spot. It looked like I’d been wrong again.
    All the same, I did ask the pathologist to take samples for DNA testing. I wanted to compare it with Katie’s DNA and with the DNA we’d gotfrom the clothes and the note left on the beach.
    Like they say, it’s best to use a long spoon when you sup with the devil.

CHAPTER NINE
    N OT EVERYBODY THOUGHT I was doing the right thing about the DNA. I’d barely walked through the door the next morning when my boss was on my case. ‘What’s the point?’ he said, face red as a baboon’s backside. ‘We know it’s Farrell. Right age, height, build. The tattoos, for Christ’s sake. If ever there was an open-and-shut case, this is it. Andy, it was you that ID’d him. But that’s not good enough for you, is it? No, now you want DNA tests. Do you have any idea how much it costs to even try to get DNA from a badly burned body?’
    I shrugged. ‘It’s Jack Farrell. Better safe than sorry.’
    He ran his hand across his stubble scalp. ‘They tell me they have to use something called SNIPS. It costs an arm and a leg, and most times it doesn’t even bloody work. And in this case it won’t prove anything either way. So what if the DNA doesn’t match? It doesn’t mean that bodyisn’t Jack Farrell. All it means is that Martina Farrell was putting it about a bit.’ He threw his hands in the air. ‘It doesn’t even prove that. For all we know, they could have had fertility treatment. The only DNA comparison worth a toss is with the clothes on the beach. And the letter.’
    He had a point, but I wasn’t about to admit it. ‘So, what? You want me to cancel the tests?’
    ‘No. I already did that, Andy.’ He pointed his finger at me. ‘You have got to stop running the show like it’s your personal bloody empire. I carry the can for you when things go tits-up. The least you can do is run stuff past me.’ He sighed. ‘I know it’s boring, but we’ve got budgets, Andy.’
    ‘You’re right,’ I said. He looked shocked, then pleased. But I couldn’t help myself. I had to burst his balloon. ‘It is boring.’ God, I missed Stella. She’d have done the tests and worried about the budget afterwards.
    All day, people were dropping in to congratulate us. Like we’d had something to do with Jack Farrell not being our problem any more. Like it was a result. Nobody seemed to want to think about the fact that even if Farrellwas dead, his rackets were all still alive and well. Alive and well and being run by people with half his brains and a tiny fraction of his street smarts.
    To my mind, that spelled trouble. Farrell’s empire had worked because the emperor ran it with a rod of iron. I once read that Nero had said something like, ‘Let them hate as long as they fear,’ and that was how Jack Farrell did business. I didn’t think either Danny Chu or Fancy Riley could hold a candle to their dear departed boss in the fear stakes. Things were going to start falling apart very soon. And then it was all going to be very messy on our patch.
    Ben got it, though. ‘They’ll be fighting over the spoils like dogs