Deviance. London Psychic Book 3

by Penn, J. F.

  As Jamie put her helmet in the pannier, Magda wiped a tear from her cheek.

  "I keep thinking of Nick's body," she said. "Whoever it was cut his tattoos off. Maybe Milo too. What if they have O?"

  Jamie thought of how much of O's perfect body was inked, trying not to imagine her skin covered in blood.

  "We'll find her," Jamie said. "Show me the flat and then I can call someone. I still have friends in the police."

  Jamie followed Magda up the stairs of the terrace into a second-floor flat. The door opened into a large living and dining space, with one side separated into a tiny kitchen. There was a separate small bedroom and postage-stamp-size bathroom. Framed prints decorated the cream walls, all of sea creatures and dominated by octopi. There were several erotic Japanese prints, clear evidence of the inspiration for the intimacy of her tattoo.

  The flat was minimalist, in keeping with O's Japanese interest. A futon with white linen and a red pillow dominated the bedroom. It felt empty, and Jamie was sure that Magda was right. O had not slept here last night.

  "Do you know where she was going after her shift at the Kitchen?" Jamie asked. "When I left, she was still there."

  Magda shook her head. "She mentioned meeting someone to discuss a potential modeling contract, but it was in a coffee shop somewhere, nothing seedy. Her ink sets her apart and she has photographers flocking to take her picture these days."

  Jamie went to the window, looking out at the back of other houses in the area. She called Missinghall.

  "Al, it's Jamie. Have you got a minute?"

  "This murder case is crazy but of course, I'll help if I can."

  "It's about a MISPER, a friend of mine. Olivia Ivorson."

  There were sounds of typing as Missinghall searched for any notifications.

  "Another one in Southwark." His voice was grim. "It's not a great place to be at the moment, Jamie. When did she go missing?"

  "Sometime last night. After ten p.m."

  More sounds of typing.

  "She's a sex worker by the look of it. She's been cautioned before. Maybe she's out working?"

  "I know she isn't, Al. And I'm concerned because she's heavily tattooed."

  "It's not unusual these days, Jamie. You know that. Most of bloody London has ink now."

  Jamie saw O's perfect body in her mind, the alabaster skin claimed by the octopus that encircled her. Jamie shuddered at the thought of a blade drawn over that flesh.

  "You said yourself that Southwark isn't a great place to be right now."

  Missinghall sighed. "Look, everyone is focused on the Winchester Palace murder right now, but I'll see what I can do."

  "OK, thanks, Al. I'll keep looking this end and I'll text you with any updates."

  Jamie ended the call and turned to Magda. "I don't think we're going to get any help from the police at the moment. She's got form."

  Magda put her head in her hands, her shoulders slumped in defeat.

  "There might be another way," Jamie said. "I have a friend who might be able to help. Do you mind if I call him?"

  Magda looked up, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. "Please, anything you think. Maybe he can come over?"

  Jamie scrolled through her contacts for Blake's number. Her heart raced a little at the thought of his voice and of seeing him again. They had both been through a lot since the events surrounding the murder of psychiatrist Dr Christian Monro. Jamie had seen Blake at his weakest then, and she knew he still struggled to put the mental torture of what he had seen during that case behind him.

  Her own decision to leave the police and start a new life meant she had been busy, and they had both kept away from each other. But Jamie knew it was more to do with an instinctive desire not to be hurt. They were both vulnerable, and there was a spark between them that could devastate them both if they gave into it. She remembered the night she had gone to Blake's flat – the night Polly's body had disappeared. He had been high on tequila and she had wanted to lie down next to him, let him sink into her. But he was dangerous. His gift both frightened and intrigued her, but perhaps now it could help her new friends.

  She dialed his number.

  "Jamie?"

  Blake's voice was smooth, and Jamie couldn't help but smile. She had missed him and from his tone, he was pleased to hear from her.

  "Hi, Blake, how are you?"

  "Busy prepping for a new exhibition," he said, a smile in his voice. "You know the world of academia never stops its frenetic pace. How's your new business?"

  "Actually, that's why I'm calling. There's been a disappearance and I could use some help. Any chance you could come have a look?"

  There was a moment of silence, and Jamie could picture Blake's handsome face as he wrestled with the decision. The last time she had asked for his help, Blake had ended up drugged and tortured for his gift by men who intended to break his mind and send him into oblivion. She understood his hesitation.

  "Is it a murder?" Blake asked, and Jamie heard a note of trepidation in his voice. She turned away, hoping Magda hadn't heard the words.

  "I hope not," she said. "A friend has disappeared and the police investigation will be too slow for my liking. But I'm really worried. There have been other disappearances that haven't ended well round here lately. I could really use your help, Blake."

  "Where are you?" he asked.

  "Southwark," Jamie said, giving him the address.

  "I'll come over in the next hour," Blake said. "Extended lunch break."

  Blake arrived as Jamie made Magda a fourth cup of tea. O's flat had nothing stronger and Magda didn't even drink anymore. Reformed in so many senses of the word, Magda's strength had seemed boundless, but it was clear from her hunched shoulders and staring eyes how much O meant to her.

  The doorbell rang and Jamie went down to open it. Blake stood in the doorway, two coffees in his gloved hands, his blue eyes bright.

  "I figured you could use some," he said. Jamie stretched up to kiss his cheek, her lips brushing his stubble. He smelled of sandalwood soap and she wanted to lean in to him, feel his arms around her.

  "It's good to see you," she said, stepping away.

  "You too," Blake replied, and his eyes said all she needed to know.

  She took one of the coffees.

  "Come on up."

  They entered the flat and Magda got up to greet Blake. He indicated the coffee.

  "Sorry, I didn't know there was someone else here. Would you like my coffee?"

  Magda smiled weakly, worry breaking through her resolve. "If you can help with this," she said, shaking her head. "I'll get you all the coffee you need. What can I do to help?"

  Jamie knew Blake would be reluctant to talk about his unusual gift with someone he didn't really know.

  "To be honest, Magda," she said. "I think maybe you should go and have a rest. O might even show up at your studio for those photos. We'll be here a while."

  Magda nodded. "You're right. I should go." She handed over the keys. "Let me know if you find anything, or if you have any questions." She left the flat, her footsteps heavy on the stair, leaving Jamie and Blake alone.

  For a moment, the silence lay between them. There was so much to say and yet, none of it really mattered. Jamie knew the attraction between her and Blake was dangerous, and she needed his friendship more than anything. The balance was difficult to manage, but perhaps this time they could walk the tightrope.

  "So, what happened?" Blake asked.

  Jamie told him about O and the other disappearances in the area, as well as the murder from the night before.

  "We're worried about her," Jamie said. "Her tattoo makes her fit the profile of the other victims."

  Blake looked around the flat.

  "So you want to know where she might be?"

  "Anything you can help with really. Perhaps there's something in here that might give us some clues as to where she is."

  Chapter 10

  Blake looked around the small flat, traces of a woman
he didn't know yet in the furnishings and pictures on the walls. He usually read objects where the memories of those entwined with them were dead and gone, the civilizations they came from crumbled and fallen. But this woman, Olivia, might come home any minute and it made him anxious.

  The last time he had read a living person, it was the day of his father's death. He had seen demons consume the frail body and that had sent him over the edge into his own madness. But that's why he was here. He still owed Jamie for rescuing him from the delirium of the RAIN experiments. If she needed to know what was going on, then he had to help, even if it put his job in jeopardy.

  He looked at his watch. He could still get back within the hour if they were quick.

  While Jamie began to search the living room area, Blake walked through into O's bedroom and sat down on the futon, looking around the small bedroom for a sense of what O valued most, for what might give him insight into her life.

  He looked down to the side of the bed at a low table with a lamp on it. There was a jade greenstone pendant lying there, shaped in a Maori manaia design. With the head of a bird, a human body and the tail of a fish, the manaia was the messenger of the gods, representing spiritual power and a guide beyond the physical realm. The frayed leather cord tied around the neck of the bird indicated that O wore this often. Something about it called to Blake and he could almost feel the smooth stone in his palm.

  He took off his gloves and picked up the pendant with bare hands. The crisscross network of scars didn't prevent him from feeling the coolness of the jade and the contours fitted into his hand perfectly. His heart raced a little in a combination of fear at what might come but also exhilaration at glimpsing into another's world. He closed his eyes and let the visions come.

  The mists of memory swirled about him and Blake sensed many emotional threads tied around this one pendant, but there was one that was particularly strong. He let himself sink into that layer of consciousness and opened himself up to the sensation.

  He was weightless, floating in a blue-green ocean, experiencing a scuba dive as O had done one day when she had worn the pendant. Blake heard the rhythmic sound of her deep breathing through the regulator, watched the bubbles float away and, for a moment, he understood why people craved time underwater.

  He could feel O's calm, her almost meditative state as she finned above a rocky bottom. It was cool and he could feel the thickness of the wetsuit she wore. These were temperate waters, not a warm coral paradise. Mats of thick kelp covered the walls and rocks around, swaying in the surge. Wrasse in shades of purple and green darted in and away, curious of the diver, while blue two-spot demoiselles clustered in the shelter of the kelp.

  O leaned forward, tipping over to descend, exhaling to empty her lungs. Her buoyancy control was natural and her body relaxed, as if she were part of this aquatic realm, unhindered by the heaviness of the gear she wore. A hole in the rocks appeared as she descended and she finned towards it, heading into a sea cave.

  It was dark inside but Blake sensed no fear in her. She added a little air and then floated, neutrally buoyant.

  Blake felt another presence, something substantial, something powerful. His eyes adjusted to the dark and shapes appeared in the cave. There were boulders on the bottom, lumps of grey stone covered in soft coral, big-eye fish clustering at the edges of view. Something stirred in the shadows and then moved towards them in the water. O's excitement was palpable but she stayed motionless, waiting for it to come closer.

  The octopus ascended, its tentacles hanging below, curling slowly in the water. It was large and covered in nodules, its bulbous head as big as a watermelon. Its eyes were pools of black in the semi-darkness but Blake sensed an intelligence and a curiosity for the creature who entered its territory. It glided past towards the cave entrance and O turned to watch it silhouetted against the light, following slowly after. Its movement was mesmerizing, each tentacle a separate dexterous limb twisting in the blue.

  It swam out of the cave and O emerged after it, eyes fixed on its strange beauty. It was inescapably alien, a body with no backbone that could squeeze into the tiniest hole and yet, out here, it was glorious. Blake tried to fix the moment in his mind, the sun shining down through the water patterning on the octopus' skin as it turned in the water to examine the diver in the light. The second stretched on and Blake felt the connection, understood why O was so fascinated with the creature. It was wild and free in this wide ocean, something a human could never be.

  The sound of a boat engine rumbled through the water and the octopus shot away incredibly fast, all eight tentacles thrusting, turning its body into a torpedo that sped out of sight. Blake felt O's loss at its disappearance, the moment broken, perhaps never to be repeated. As the intensity of the experience dropped away, the mists of memory began to swirl about him and he reached for tendrils of pain associated with the pendant that were bound to another time and place.

  As he fixed on the new vision, it crystallized into a tattoo studio. O lay on her back, the pain intense as the tattoo artist inked a tentacle on the skin under her exposed breast. The man looked up, his brown skin marked with a full facial Maori moko.

  "Just say the word, O, and we can take a break."

  "I can do another ten minutes," she said, clenching her fists. "We've got to finish it. I'm moving to Europe as soon as we're done."

  "I'm going to miss my finest work," the man said, bending his head again. "But maybe I'll see you at the tattoo convention sometime. I've heard they have a good one in London."

  The buzz of the tattoo machine started again and Blake could feel the nuances of pain as it inked O's skin. There was a sense of being fully present in her body, a crossing over into a place where thought was secondary to physical sensation. It was an initiation of sorts, where pain represented the crossing of a threshold into a new world. Once crossed, there was no way to remove the mark.

  Blake understood now why O wanted to have the octopus on her skin. It represented camouflage and the ability to transform its body in movement. It was grace and intelligence and, ultimately, escape. It had marked her that day in the sea cave and now it would mark her skin until death parted them.

  That thought ripped Blake from the vision, for he felt no sense of O's end in the strings of memory. He didn't really understand what the visions meant or how they worked, but he had learned to trust his instinct. O was alive – at least for now.

  Blake pulled his hand from the pendant and sat for a moment, breathing deeply as he reoriented himself to the surroundings. He looked up at the Japanese octopus print on the wall and smiled. The vision he had seen was a privilege, a glimpse into a world he might never see with his own eyes. Sometimes his psychic ability was a curse, to be drowned in tequila until he could no longer feel. But this was a glimpse into something wonderful, and now he felt such a connection with O that he was determined to help Jamie find her.

  He stood up and went back into the living area. Jamie flicked through a pile of papers on a bookshelf and looked up as he came in.

  "Find anything?" she asked, then frowned. "Are you OK? You look pale."

  Blake held up the pendant. "I read this and at least now I understand her obsession with octopi. I had a brief tattoo experience, as well."

  Jamie raised her eyebrows. Blake knew she had been skeptical at first, doubting the veracity of his visions. But after the last two cases they had been involved in, she accepted what he discovered without need for further explanation.

  "Did you see anything that could help us find her?"

  Blake shook his head. "Nothing concrete, but I think it would make sense to connect with the tattoo community in London. Her ink had deep meaning for her and might bring us closer to finding out where she was last night. Her tattoo artist was Maori and I think I'd recognize him if I saw him again."

  Jamie shuffled through the papers on the desk. She held up a printed flier for the London Tattoo Convention and smiled.

  "This is a multi-day event and i
t went on late into last night. Maybe O was there? We could head over now and see what we can find out. Can you spare the time?"

  Blake thought of the caution that lay on his desk back at the British Museum, of Margaret's stern expression. He should get back and spend the rest of the day in research. But when he was with Jamie, his craving for alcohol lessened and surely the focus on finding O, a living woman, was more important that investigating those dead and gone.

  "I'll file the time under research," he said, with a smile.

  ***

  The Tobacco Dock was an early nineteenth-century warehouse of sturdy brick and ironwork that had once housed imported tobacco. It was in that part of East London described as 'up and coming,' still underdeveloped and affordable but on the edge of turning fashionable. It wouldn't be long before the artists had to move even further out of the city.

  "I've thought about getting a tattoo, you know," Jamie said as she and Blake entered the gates into the venue. "I can't decide what I'd want to have done though." She thought of Polly and how her daughter would have liked to help choose the design. There were so many possibilities. But in the end, Jamie knew that her own body carried the memory of her child, her own flesh and blood now turned to dust.

  "I'm considering it too," Blake said, pulling Jamie from her thoughts. "When I read O's pendant, I had a glimpse of what ink meant to her and why the octopus is her totem. I'm convinced there will be people here we can ask about her."

  The venue separated into several spaces around open courtyards overlooked by a second tier of rooms. There were booths hung with flash, tattoo art displaying the style of the artist from traditional naval styles to curly feminine floral motifs, Chinese dragons and darker tribal marks. A rock band played to a lively crowd, overlaying the sound of buzzing from the tattoo machines. There was sizzling from the barbeques and the smell of roasting meat, hot chips and coffee hung in the air.

  A generation ago, there would have been stereotype attendees to these type of events – fat and balding Hell's Angel types, gang members, sailors and prostitutes. A freak show of outcasts, considered deviant by decent people. But now the crowd was mixed, beautiful young women wandering amongst middle-aged rebels sipping Pinot Grigio, and, of course, a healthy dose of leather-clad men, from male model to grandfather. Some art was discreet, a single image on a patch of skin. But others had gone all in, art personified, their bodies a canvas of meaning.