The Tattoo Thief

by Alison Belsham

  ‘Thierry?’

  All she could hear was white noise. Then bar noise.

  ‘Marni?’ His French accent changed the sound of her name.

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Marni! I’m in the bar with the guys. Come and join us. Charlie and Noa want to say hi.’

  Charlie and Noa were Thierry’s colleagues at Tatouage Gris, Brighton’s only all-French tattoo studio. She could hear their voices in the background, as well as women’s laughter. Tattoo groupies, no doubt, in town for the convention. Thierry was mad if he thought she’d be interested in joining them.

  ‘No. You come here – I need to talk to you.’ Suddenly she was desperate to see him and in the same instant she hated herself for it. He was an addiction she just couldn’t seem to kick.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I’ve had a really bad day.’

  She heard Thierry sigh.

  ‘Thierry, I found a body.’ Her voice was an octave higher than usual. ‘I’m scared . . .’

  ‘Whoa, slow down. What are you talking about? Did you call the police?’

  ‘Of course. But I need to discuss something with you.’

  ‘No. I’m tired, chérie, and I’m not interested in dead people.’

  ‘Thierry, come on. What if it was someone we knew? What if it was Alex?’

  ‘It wasn’t. I spoke to him an hour ago. He was feeding Pepper. You’re out of dog food.’

  Pepper. Her bulldog.

  ‘Come on, Thierry. Please.’

  Thierry made the vocal equivalent of the Gallic shrug, a nonchalant grunt that she used to love. ‘If this is a plot to seduce me . . .’

  ‘For fuck’s sake.’ She hung up on him and went inside.

  ‘Mum!’ Alex came into the hall and greeted her with a hug. ‘How was your day?’

  Marni squared her shoulders and smiled. ‘Great. Did some good work on one of my regulars and a couple of walk-ups. Yours?’

  Alex shrugged. ‘Revision. Boring.’

  A bowl of pasta and a glass of wine later, and Marni sank down onto the sofa to catch the news. Alex wanted to watch football but she had the remote. In retrospect, she wished she’d given in to him straight away.

  . . . police are appealing for the anonymous caller who alerted them to a dead body found in Brighton Pavilion Gardens to come forward to help with their inquiries. The man, found in a rubbish container, has yet to be identified . . .

  ‘Okay, Alex, let’s see if they’ve scored yet.’ She tossed him the remote, trying to hide the sudden tremble in her hands.

  ‘No, wait – there’s been a murder, right in Brighton. Nothing ever happens here.’

  But Marni didn’t want to hear more. ‘You’ll miss a goal,’ she said.

  With few facts to report, the news moved quickly on to another story and Alex flipped channels. They hadn’t missed a goal and it turned out to be a dull match.

  Alex grew restless. ‘How was the show today?’

  ‘It was good. Your father does a great job there – Brighton’s always the best of the conventions.’

  ‘Mum, do you think you’d ever get back together with Dad?’

  Marni swallowed a gulp of wine the wrong way. She shook her head as she coughed. ‘Where did that come from?’

  ‘You still get on when you’re together.’

  ‘Sure.’ It all seemed so simple to someone his age.

  ‘And I know Dad would want it.’

  Would he? Or was he having too much fun as a single man in a profession that afforded ample opportunities for flirtation? Marni sighed. ‘The problem with your father isn’t that he doesn’t like the idea of being married. He’s just not very good at the practical side of it.’

  ‘No one’s perfect, Mum. Not even you.’

  Marni Mullins didn’t dream. She couldn’t afford to – dreams were too painful. She lay awake, eyes wide open in the black void. She’d long since given up on sleep but her mind wandered, untethered and unfocused. Alex’s words rang in her ears.

  Nothing ever happens here.

  Only now something had happened and she was being drawn into it. A man was dead. And there was something about him tugging at the dark recesses of her mind. Something familiar. But what was the link? If he was a local man, who had been tattooed locally, she might know him. But that was hardly likely. Thousands of people in Brighton had tattoos. And even if Thierry had tattooed him, what of it? Did that implicate him in some way?

  Marni snapped on the bedside light, blinding herself. She squeezed her eyes shut and fought back against the sob rising in her chest. There couldn’t be a connection. It was just her mind in freefall between wakefulness and sleep. She sat up and the room spun. Bile burned at the back of her throat.

  She ran to the bathroom, dry heaving, and bent over the toilet bowl with gritted teeth. Saliva flooded her mouth and she took deep breaths to counter the feeling, finally bringing herself under control. She slumped down onto the floor, her eyes watering. She blinked. There was blood spattered across the white tiles. In the distance, she heard the harsh grating of metal doors clanging shut. She saw brick walls painted institutional grey. Her belly and breasts were tight and taut in the last stages of pregnancy. Footsteps in the corridor, her blood running cold, an explosion of pain. She was crouching, bleeding and cramping, crying for help. Receiving only another kick in the gut . . .

  She opened her eyes and the blood was gone. The dead body and the Saint Sebastian tattoo had triggered her. She needed to know, one way or the other, whether the tattoo on the murdered man was by Thierry. Hopefully not and then she could forget the whole thing.

  Back in her bedroom, she looked for her phone and Googled the number for the Brighton Crimestoppers line.

  It rang. And rang. And rang.

  Marni waited. She didn’t know why. It was twenty to three in the morning and there would be no one there to take her call.

  Finally, she gave up. She tossed her phone aside and lay back, waiting for the fears to come crowding in.

  5

  Rory

  The rancid stench of death assaulted Rory’s nostrils before he’d even made it through the morgue doors. Within seconds the smell became a taste in his mouth. He started to cough and made a beeline for where he knew Rose Lewis kept the Vicks VapoRub. At the same time, his ears were hit by a barrage of choral music playing at high volume. Rose Lewis’s morgue definitely wasn’t the place for a hangover – he knew that from past experience.

  ‘Morning,’ shouted Rose over the noise. She was bent over the body of a naked man, a scalpel in her hand.

  Rory nodded at her as he slicked translucent gel across his top lip to counter the rotten apple smell of the embalming fluid and the sharp vinegar tang of formaldehyde.

  ‘Membra Jesu Nostri,’ said Francis, who’d followed Rory in and was now waiting for him to finish with the Vicks.

  Rory didn’t have a clue what he was going on about.

  ‘Damn, you’re good, Sullivan,’ said Rose, crossing over to her sound system and turning the volume down. ‘Composer?’

  ‘Buxtehude.’

  ‘Of course. It’s particularly suitable for work. The libretto details the individual body parts of the suffering Jesus. But you know that already.’

  Rory handed Francis the pot of gel without commenting. The intellectuals, showing off to each other. It seemed to be a game they liked to play, seeing who could be the smartest. But it didn’t solve cases and if Sullivan thought he’d be impressed by it, he’d need to think again.

  Truth be told, the morgue wasn’t Rory’s favourite place, so he tried to minimise his time there. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Rose – she was always perfectly polite to him, if maybe a little patronising – but her self-assurance in the harsh glare of the polar white surroundings made him feel belittled at times. Of course,
the work she did was valuable, but DNA evidence and blood spatters weren’t everything, just part of the bigger picture. There was a growing tendency to view science as the whole case, instead of what it really was – a support tool to solid police work.

  He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and followed the boss over to Rose’s work station.

  This was the only body on view, but the steel drawers that lined one wall held plenty more. Rose and her team worked their way diligently through them, piecing together the stories of their lives, prising secrets from their blood, flesh, bones and teeth. He wondered what she’d be able to tell them about dumpster man.

  The body that lay in front of her on the autopsy table was partially covered by a white rubber sheet. Flat on his back, there was a cut from his sternum to his pubis, and Rose had started to remove his organs for further investigation. Rory studied the cadaver. The facial features were indistinct. The rats had stripped away the skin and flesh unevenly – part of one lip was missing, his nose had been chewed and both cheeks were mauled. A section of his torso had been similarly savaged. On the rest of his body, the skin was grey. Rory had seen enough recovered bodies over the years not to be fazed but he stole a sidelong glance at Francis. It wouldn’t quite be fair to say he was rattled – in fact, he looked interested. But there was a tightness to his jawline that hadn’t been there earlier.

  Rose would have already photographed and measured the body. She would also have scraped the detritus from under the man’s fingernails and logged each of his wounds and his tattoos in her taped report, pausing the music to record each detail. Right now, she was examining the inside of his mouth with gloved fingers. And next – the final indignity of an unexplained death – she would investigate his anus for signs of recent sex or sexual assault.

  The two policemen watched her in silence until she finally switched off her dictaphone and looked up at them.

  ‘Conclusions, Rose?’ said Francis.

  She killed the music. Thank God for that. It had been getting on his nerves.

  ‘Conclusion one: I’m going to be in trouble with Mike for working on a bank holiday Monday.’

  Francis shrugged. ‘If I had my way, killers would only strike nine to five, Monday to Friday.’

  Rose laughed.

  ‘Just think of the overtime,’ said Rory. ‘How’s Laurie?’

  ‘True enough. Brownie points to you, Rory, for asking. He’s good. Just started big school and loving it.’

  ‘And this?’ Francis nodded at the body to pull them back on track.

  Rose flipped back to being business-like in a second.

  ‘Right, here’s what I’ve got so far. My estimate of the time of death is twenty-four to forty-eight hours ago but I can’t tell you for sure if he was dead or alive when he was deposited in the dumpster. I assume your team will be checking when those bins were last emptied.’

  ‘Hollins is on it,’ said Rory.

  ‘And the CCTV on New Road?’

  ‘Hitchins,’ said Francis.

  ‘The Tweedles,’ said Rose. ‘Stay on their case – they can be a bit slow.’

  ‘Don’t I know it,’ muttered Rory.

  Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee, as Hitchins and Hollins were known around the station. They bore an uncanny resemblance to each other, both with unruly brown hair and physiques that were one doughnut on the wrong side of fitness.

  Rose looked at Francis and then at Rory.

  ‘You lucked out having this one as your number two, Francis.’

  Francis nodded but stayed silent.

  He can’t even bring himself to agree? thought Rory.

  ‘Rory’s one of our most experienced,’ continued Rose. ‘He knows what he’s doing, so use his knowledge.’

  The boss frowned. Rory suppressed a smirk – it wasn’t exactly a vote of confidence in Sullivan from Rose.

  ‘I’m sure Rory will let me know if I’m ever doing anything wrong,’ said the boss. There was an edge to his voice.

  Rory sniffed. He suddenly felt as uncomfortable with the turn the conversation was taking as Francis evidently did. Rose was stirring, and Rory had to ask himself why. What was her agenda?

  ‘He wasn’t killed outright by the blow to his head,’ she said, thankfully turning her attention back to the body.

  ‘Are you certain of that?’ said Francis. He peered at the partially shaved cranium. Rose turned the head slightly to one side so they could both see the bloody indent in the skull.

  ‘Absolutely. That wound wouldn’t have been fatal. It did fracture his skull and it would have rendered him unconscious. Might have resulted in lasting brain damage.’

  ‘So what did kill him?’ said Rory.

  ‘It was a combination of factors,’ said Rose. Her voice rang with confidence in her findings. ‘After he’d been hit, he was unconscious. My guess is that he was still alive when abandoned. There was significant blood loss and that, coupled with prolonged exposure, is what killed him.’

  ‘Blood loss from his head? The wound doesn’t look that big,’ said Francis.

  ‘Some from the head, but mainly from this wound here.’ She indicated the large bloody area of exposed flesh on the man’s shoulder and torso.

  ‘I thought that was rats, post mortem,’ said Rory.

  ‘Not entirely. This is where it gets interesting, why I called you both in so quickly.’

  Rory studied the bloody pulp.

  ‘Take a closer look,’ urged Rose. She turned to the bench behind her and picked up a magnifying glass. She gave it to Francis. ‘See? There are cut marks. As far as I can make out, they were made with a short, extremely sharp blade.’

  Francis bent down and examined the area with a gloved hand. ‘I see what you mean.’

  He handed the magnifying glass to Rory and stepped back. Rory examined the wound. Rose was right. There were unmistakeable cuts to the flesh that couldn’t have been made by animals.

  ‘Jesus!’

  He noticed the boss wincing at his choice of words. Trust his luck to get stuck with a God-botherer for a DI.

  ‘Do you think these were done before or after the blow to the head?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m only guessing at this point, but probably after,’ said Rose. ‘There’s a level of precision that suggests the victim wasn’t struggling at the time. But the cuts aren’t deep. They weren’t intended to kill. It looks more like someone deliberately cut skin and flesh away from his body. But it’s hard to be sure. There are as many bite marks as cuts.’

  Rory continued to examine the exposed flesh. ‘The cuts all seem to be around the edges of the wound.’

  ‘The perpendicular cuts, yes,’ said Rose. ‘But here and here in the centre there appear to be some cuts horizontal to the dermis.’

  Rory blinked and looked again. He could just see, amid the torn and dirty pulp that the flesh had become, several small, straight lines cutting deeper into the substrate. His stomach muscles clenched and he had to clamp his jaw shut for a couple of moments, until the feeling of nausea passed.

  ‘Let me see,’ said Francis.

  Rory handed him the magnifying glass with relief.

  ‘What does that mean?’ he said, peering through it.

  ‘It means, Francis, that your victim was flayed. Most probably, judging from the blood lost from his body, while he was still alive.’

  6

  Francis

  Black jeans, black T-shirts, shaved heads or dreadlocks. Bare. Tattooed. Skin. Gallons of ink embedded in living flesh flowed past Francis and eddied around him so quickly he couldn’t make out what the images were. Dark black, smudgy blue or brightly coloured flashes. What the hell was he doing at a tattoo convention on a bank holiday Monday? He’d sent a grumbling Mackay back to the scene of the crime to conduct another fingertip search of the area, looking for pieces of flesh that might have
been cut from the body. He, meanwhile, was here to track down the mysterious caller. They’d linked the phone that made the call to a local tattoo artist. Her website told them she was at the convention, and the chances were that she’d have more information. He wanted to find out why the woman had been so evasive.

  Francis felt painfully self-conscious the moment he stepped into the main hall of the Brighton Conference Centre. He must have been the only person in the building without a tattoo – and certainly the only person wearing a suit.

  Taking a deep but reluctant breath, he moved forward into the throng.

  People swarmed by him, bumping and pushing, treading on his toes, craning their necks to see into the booths. Then there was the noise. Each booth emitted heavy metal loud enough to drown out that of their neighbours.

  And above it all, he could hear a constant high-pitched electrical whine. He couldn’t locate the source until his eyes came to rest on a man’s naked back. A woman was tattooing him – the noise was the collective drone of the tattoo guns. Blood oozed from the black lines she inscribed. Francis could taste its copper taint in the air and felt repulsed.

  The hall was airless and far too warm. He pushed his way to the end of the aisle, desperate to find an open space. He’d never understood the appeal of getting a tattoo, and en masse like this, he understood it even less. Surely all these people had looked better before they’d permanently marked their bodies. There was something tribal about it all. But what tribe, what meaning?

  ‘Excuse me?’

  He caught a passing man by the shoulder. The youth turned his head to look at Francis. There was a blue spider’s web tattooed across the top left-hand side of his forehead, disappearing beneath his hairline.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I need to find a tattoo artist called Marni Mullins.’

  The boy pulled a folded piece of paper from the back pocket of his jeans. It was a schematic of the convention hall with the booths numbered. He turned it over and consulted the list of tattoo artists on the other side.