‘Not guilty.’ This time he needed to say it louder to be heard over the gasps and whispers in the public gallery.
‘Do you find Samantha Kirby guilty or not guilty of the murder of Jem Walsh?’ Even the clerk had raised his voice.
‘Not guilty.’
Francis’s world had started spinning at the first ‘not guilty.’ The other verdicts were a blur. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, staring at the wooden rail in front him.
‘Do you find Samantha Kirby guilty or not guilty of the manslaughter of Giselle Connelly?’ This, as the judge had explained to the jury, was the diminished responsibility verdict.
‘Guilty,’ said the foreman.
The other two manslaughter charges also came in guilty, but none were salve to Francis’s pain. The proceedings went into slow motion as he counted slowly to ten to anchor his mind.
One. Two. Three.
The public gallery couldn’t contain its reactions. People gasped and one woman let out a shriek of unintended laughter.
Four. Five. Six. Seven.
Don Martin slammed his fist on the prosecution table. On the other side of the aisle, George Elphick had a grin as wide as a Cheshire cat.
Eight. Nine. Ten.
Tom Fitz was a blitz of fingers typing into his mobile phone.
Francis looked up at the judge. He could have been carved out of granite for all the emotion he showed.
Finally, he looked across the court at Sam Kirby.
Of course, she was looking straight at him. Her lips twisted into a sour smile. Then she started to move. With surprising speed and grace for a six-foot woman, she slipped to one side of the dock, cleverly dodging the slow reaction of the policewoman sitting behind her. She had the open floor of the courtroom to herself and she charged across it.
Francis realised her destination in an instant and stood up, ready to meet her head on. That was until he saw the look of murderous intent in her eye. He kicked his chair back and moved sideways into the aisle. Kirby adjusted her course. The dozy policewoman was finally running across the floor. The clerk and the judge were both shouting, ordering Kirby back to the dock. The public gallery gasped as one.
With a glint in her eye and baring her teeth, Sam Kirby launched herself at Francis. He turned his shoulder to her and moved to one side but she’d anticipated his feint. As her body crashed into his, she thrust an arm around his neck. Francis wrenched her arm off and pushed her back.
She glared at him, panting.
For three long seconds, nothing happened. No one moved. No one spoke.
Then, as the policewoman took hold of her, Sam Kirby hissed something that only Francis could hear.
‘I will make it my life’s work to find you and kill you.’
The words felt like soft bullets piercing his psyche. She spoke fast and before he could react or respond, she jerked her head back, then forward, smashing her forehead against his nose.
The policewoman yanked one of Kirby’s arms behind her back and snapped on a handcuff. Francis grabbed her other arm and held it until the second cuff was in place. Then he put a hand to his nose. It came away covered with blood.
‘Just try it and you’ll spend the rest of your life behind bars,’ he hissed at her, now tasting blood as it ran into his mouth.
Sam Kirby’s threat meant nothing to him – but the verdict could do real damage to his career and he’d been powerless to prevent it.
39
Friday, 25 August 2017
Marni
Marni could remember the days when Thierry’s studio had been her favourite place in the world. When she fell in love with Thierry, she’d fallen in love with tattoos. One of those loves had stood the test of time better than the other. But now, as she looked round his current studio, she just felt confused. A few days ago, she’d felt sure she wanted finally to cut the ties that bound them together. He was unreliable. Unfaithful. Uncaring.
When she looked at him, too often she saw Paul – and that was something she was never going to get past.
But Alex was in trouble and her every instinct was to turn to her husband. If Alex was charged and had to stand trial, it wasn’t something she could get through alone.
‘Hey, Marni.’ Noa’s deep rumble brought her back to the surface. ‘He’s not here. He’s gone to the cash and carry.’
He and Charlie were both working on clients and the sound of their tattoo machines soothed her.
‘That’s fine. Just came by to pick up some needles.’
She went over to Thierry’s station and was overcome by a wave of nostalgia as she cast an eye over the rows of inks and neat lines of equipment. Always so much tidier in his workspace than in his personal life.
Wait a minute.
She went closer to the rack where he kept his tattoo machines – half a dozen or so, more than he needed – and there among them were two of hers. The two that had gone missing from her studio.
‘Jesus Christ!’
‘You okay?’ said Charlie, looking up from the girl’s leg he was tattooing.
Marni picked up the two irons and looked around for the rest of the kit that had gone missing. It was there – the charger and the cable, the foot pedal. She shoved the whole lot into her bag and then grabbed the box of blister-packed tattoo needles she’d come for.
‘No. Yes. I’m fine, Charlie. Just . . . fuck Thierry.’
‘I’d rather leave that to you, babe.’
But Marni was already out of the door.
She set off up Preston Street in the direction of her own studio at a brisk march, but she only lasted twenty metres before she had to stop. She bent forward, resting her hands on her knees, hyperventilating. Because it was only with the wave of relief she felt at seeing her equipment that she realised the full extent to which she’d doubted her son. She’d actually believed that Alex had taken the tattoo equipment from her studio, burying the thought deep within her psyche so she didn’t have to confront it.
Only now she did. She’d doubted her son.
The pavement was crowded. Tourists and shoppers pushed past her, no one stopping to see if she was okay. She leaned back against a wall and fought to get her breathing under control.
If she’d believed Alex had taken the equipment, did it mean she’d believed he was capable of murder? She couldn’t imagine a worse betrayal of the person she loved most in the world. But now she was one hundred per cent certain of his innocence. One hundred per cent.
She started to run along the pavement, weaving through the people, buffeted by the sheer swell of them heading down towards the front. All oblivious of the mission Marni had set for herself.
She would prove her son was innocent if it killed her.
Ten minutes later, she was sitting in her studio with her head in her hands. She’d cancelled the appointment she’d had for midday, all thought of work abandoned. The police, as usual, were failing to do their job and her son’s freedom was on the line. It was time to step in and if Frank Sullivan didn’t like it, he could go to hell.
She scanned the Argus’s website for information on the case. Where should she start? Someone had tattooed these girls with poison ink. Why? There were no pictures of the tattoos in the paper. She needed to see them, and she knew exactly where to go.
When Rose Lewis came back from running lunchtime errands, Marni was waiting in the mortuary car park for her. She’d met Rose when she’d helped Francis on the Tattoo Thief case. That time, the police had asked her to look at the tattoos on the victims’ dead bodies and she hadn’t been keen. This time, she would be asking Rose if she could look at them, and she had a feeling that Rose wouldn’t be so keen to show her.
‘Hello, Marni,’ said Rose, when Marni fell into step with her as she walked across the baking tarmac. ‘What are you doing here?’
Ma
rni took a deep breath. ‘It might sound like a strange request, Rose, but I was wondering if I could see the tattoos on Tash Brady and Sally Ann Granger’s backs?’
Rose took a moment to unlock the door to the mortuary before answering.
‘Why?’
‘I’m sure you know Alex is being questioned about the deaths.’ Marni struggled to stop her voice from cracking. ‘He didn’t do it, Rose. I know that. I want to see those tattoos because they might give me a clue as to who did do them. I need to get Alex off the hook.’ She restrained herself from sharing her views on the crap job the police were doing.
Rose tilted her head to one side. ‘Okay, I understand, Marni, but it’s totally against regulations. I’m sorry, I couldn’t really show them to you without Francis’s say so. Does he know you’re here?’
‘Please. Those tattoos must have a meaning and that meaning might just lead us to the real killer.’
‘Us?’
‘Don’t you want to find out who did this?’
‘Of course I do. But Francis and his team are on the case.’ She paused, looking sheepish. ‘I’m sorry that he’s arrested your son, but he wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t have a good reason to.’
‘You’ve got a son, Rose, haven’t you?’ She left the implication of the words hanging in the air between them, but she held Rose’s eyes with her own.
Rose dropped her gaze, then capitulated. ‘Okay, let’s take a look at them,’ she said. ‘I can spare ten minutes for this, then I’ve got to get started on a PM scheduled for this afternoon.’
She led Marni into the mortuary and told her to wait in the vestibule while she took her bag upstairs to the office. Marni’s heart was pounding. The tattoos had to tell her something.
‘Right, come on then,’ said Rose, appearing at the bottom of the stairs in a white lab coat. She unlocked the inner door to the morgue and ushered Marni inside. The smell of chemicals and death made Marni wince. It reminded her of Sam Kirby’s barn, though it wasn’t nearly as powerful as the stench of Kirby’s skin-tanning operation.
‘Here,’ said Rose, handing Marni a pot of Vapor Rub and a white coat.
Marni knew the drill and rubbed the oily ointment along her top lip, while Rose pulled open a couple of the stainless-steel drawers in which the bodies were stored.
‘This is Tash Brady.’
Rose pulled on latex gloves, then gently turned the body so Marni would be able to see the tattoo on Tash’s back. Marni stood away while she did it – she didn’t think she could bear to see Tash’s face. She hadn’t known her very well, but she’d liked her, and Alex had been happy while he was with her.
‘Come and look,’ said Rose.
Marni stepped forward and stared down into the metal drawer. Tash’s skin looked grey and waxy but there were also mottled patches of purple-reddish skin on her back and buttocks.
‘What are those?’ said Marni, pointing to one.
‘Lividity,’ said Rose. ‘Where the blood pooled after she died. It’s normal – she was lying on her back and that’s where her blood settled. If you can’t see the tattoo properly, I’ve also got photos of it that the police took when she was still alive.’
‘Thanks,’ said Marni, turning her attention back to Tash’s back.
‘It’s Latin, right?’ said Marni, as she read the ornate script that stretched across the shoulder blades.
Rose nodded.
Alex had never learned Latin at school.
Marni studied the work. ‘The handwriting’s good enough – quite even in terms of the size and shape of the letters – but the tattoo isn’t well executed. It’s not professional work.’
Rose raised her eyebrows and Marni explained. ‘Look, at these points the needle was pressed in too hard and the tattoo’s gone too deep.’ She indicated some areas that were crusted with scabs. ‘She would have bled quite freely when it was done. But for these letters the touch was too light, not taking the ink deep enough into the dermis for a permanent fix.’ She pointed with her finger to a different part of the tattoo.
Marni scanned the rest of Tash’s back.
‘Has Frank’s team found out anything about the UV tattoos?’ she asked.
Rose’s head snapped up. ‘The what?’
Marni pointed to some faint scratches lower down Tash’s back. ‘These bits. She’s been tattooed with ultraviolet ink.’
Rose studied the area. ‘They just look like scratches. What makes you think they’re tattoos?’
‘Have you got a magnifying glass?’
Rose fetched one.
Marni peered through it at the marks on Tash’s back, then held it out to Rose. ‘Look closely, just there. You can see needle marks.’
Rosie studied the skin, then nodded. ‘I see them.’
‘And if we shine a UV lamp on them, you’ll see tattoos.’
Rose’s eyes widened and she took a deep breath. ‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘We missed that. Shit.’
‘UV lamp?’ said Marni.
‘Hold on.’ Rose stripped off her gloves and left the room.
Marni continued to study the marks on Tash’s back while she waited. Rose was back in less than a minute, with a small, hand-held UV lamp. She plugged it in at one of the side benches and unfurled its cable. It was just long enough to reach to the steel drawer containing Tash Brady’s body.
Marni found herself holding her breath as Rose switched off the room’s main lights, then switched on the UV lamp.
Luminous white lines, circles and dashes sprang to life across Tash’s back. It wasn’t writing.
‘What the hell is it?’ said Rose.
Marni shook her head, studying the marks from a variety of angles.
‘What about Sally Ann?’ she said.
Rose handed her the lamp and pulled open another drawer. She quickly put on gloves so she could turn Sally Ann’s body over. Marni shone the lamp on her to discover that she too had been tattooed with UV ink. The glowing markings on her back were similar but not identical to Tash’s.
‘What do they mean?’ said Marni. ‘A message?’
Rose nodded. ‘He’s telling us something but I’m damned if I know what.’
40
Friday, 25 August 2017
Francis
Francis left the court without speaking to anyone. Of course, he should have thanked Don Martin for prosecuting the case, but he couldn’t trust himself not to speak his mind. That they’d screwed up. He sat in his car in the car park and rested his forehead against the steering wheel. Then he lit a cigarette.
Damn!
If they couldn’t manage to put away a serial killer who’d admitted her crimes, what hope in hell did they have with the current case, where so far there wasn’t a scrap of evidence tying anyone to the scene?
His phone buzzed with messages and missed calls but for once he ignored it. He didn’t want to hear Rory moaning or some other member of the team asking a question that they already knew the answer to. A reminder chimed – he was supposed to be meeting Robin at their solicitor’s office for the reading of his mother’s will. Grief washed through him all over again. How could she be dead?
He threw the car into gear and backed out of his space. He was going to be late.
He was only ten minutes late, but earned himself a disapproving look from his sister as he was shown into the wood-panelled office of James Baines – who was both their solicitor and a cousin on their father’s side. Robin was drumming her fingers against the side of her chair and he thought she looked pale and so much older than when he’d seen her last. She’d been dreading their mother’s death for a long time and, as inevitable as it was, she was taking it badly.
He apologised to James, who he hadn’t seen for more than a year, despite the fact that they lived less than five miles from each other. James Baines was his sen
ior by ten years, the cousin he’d looked up to as an older brother in their childhood. But they’d seen less of each other as Francis had reached adulthood and though James worked as a solicitor in Brighton, their paths hadn’t crossed professionally. He’d put on weight, Francis noticed as they briefly shook hands. Then he sat down, avoiding Robin’s stony look.
Once his PA had sorted coffees, James Baines got down to business.
‘I’ve got your mother’s will here, and she named me as executor some years ago, when she made this will. I have no reason to believe that she’s made any other subsequent will.’ He looked at them questioningly, in case they knew otherwise.
Francis shook his head.
‘No,’ said Robin. ‘She told me she’d lodged her will with you, so go ahead.’
‘Do you already know the provisions?’
Both siblings shook their heads, and James unfurled a folded document that had been lying in front of him on his desk. He scanned the contents, as if checking all was as he expected it to be.
‘This will is dated the seventeenth of April 2014. The first paragraph states that it revokes all previous wills. The second paragraph appoints me as executor. Right, here are the provisions.’ He started to read aloud from the document. ‘“I hereby bequeath to my son Francis Frederick Sullivan a gift of my grandfather’s pocket watch.”’ James paused in the reading. ‘I have the watch here,’ he said, opening a drawer in his desk.
He pulled out a leather presentation case and handed it to Francis. Francis knew the watch well – it had lived in his mother’s bureau throughout his childhood, but he still opened the box to look at it. The eighteenth-century gold pocket watch had an ornate gold case and an engraved mother-of-pearl face. It had been passed down the male line of his mother’s family since it had been first purchased by a distant cousin in the early 1700s. It had been well cared for and still worked, as far as Francis could remember. He felt the heft of it in his hand like a direct link to his antecedents.
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Robin, smiling at him for the first time in weeks.
He passed it across the table for her to look at. Then he looked over at James. It seemed an odd thing to start with – just a small detail really.
Her Last Breath: The new crime thriller from the international bestseller (Sullivan and Mullins) Page 20