The Tattoo Thief

by Alison Belsham

  Rick Glover

  Jason Leicester

  Ishikawa Iwao

  Gigi Leon

  Jonah Mason

  Polina Jankowski

  Vince Priest

  Bartosz Klem

  Petra Danielli

  Brewster Bones

  Supposedly the ten best tattoo artists in the world. Subjective nonsense to Marni’s mind, but she remembered how put out Thierry had been not to have been included, how he’d raged when he’d seen the poster. She read the list of names again.

  ‘Oh. My. God,’ she breathed, and picked up her phone.

  22

  Francis

  What could be so important?

  Francis replayed the voicemail in his head as he strode down George Street to reach the corner with St James’s Street. Marni Mullins had summoned him without telling him why – but the urgency in her voice had spoken volumes. What did she know? What had she discovered? He was supposed to be going to see Robin this evening, but that would have to wait until next week now. He felt a little guilty that the prospect of a meeting with Marni Mullins appealed significantly more than spending the evening with his sister.

  A homeless man reached out for his leg as he passed.

  ‘Spare a copper?’

  Francis looked at the man and could see instantly where the money would go. ‘I’ll buy you some food.’ There was a convenience store a couple of doors back.

  ‘Just give me the money.’ The man’s face was hostile.

  Regardless, Francis went into the shop and bought sandwiches, a couple of chocolate bars and a bottle of water. He squatted down to hand them over.

  ‘There’s a night shelter at St Peter’s church,’ he said. ‘They’ll be able to give you hot food and a bed.’

  The man took the sandwiches with mumbled thanks, his dark eyes like hollow shells.

  A hundred yards further on, Francis spotted the tapas bar Marni had mentioned in her message, and seconds later he was pulling open the door. It was warm and dim inside. Bare floorboards, exposed brickwork and chunky wooden furniture gave the restaurant a rustic feel. He peered further into the interior and found Marni sitting at a table near the back. There was a bottle of red wine open in front of her, and one of the two glasses on the table was half full.

  ‘Why here?’ he said, as he sat down. ‘Why didn’t you come to the station?’

  ‘I did,’ she said. ‘They wouldn’t tell me where you were.’

  This added up – Francis had been up at the morgue, and had only got back to John Street a few minutes before catching Marni’s message.

  ‘Who did you speak to? Rory?’

  Marni shook her head. ‘No. A woman. A prize bitch, actually. Acted like she owned you or something.’

  He wondered who it had been. Angie? She could be bit snooty at times, for sure.

  ‘And I needed a drink.’

  He looked at her, and she did indeed appear a little shaken by something.

  Marni poured wine into the second glass before he had a chance to stop her, but he left it untouched.

  Their eyes met. He wanted to hold her gaze but he looked away.

  ‘Tell me what you’ve got,’ he said, feeling flustered.

  ‘This,’ she said, touching something on the table that he hadn’t noticed when he first sat down.

  He picked up a glossy catalogue and held it at an angle so it was illuminated by the candle in the centre of the table. The front cover was a picture of a woman’s back, tattooed with a magnificent Chinese dragon, its bright jewel colours standing out from a plain black background. It looked familiar and then he realised it was the same brochure that Iwao had used to show them Jonah Mason’s work.

  ‘“The Alchemy of Blood and Ink”,’ he read out loud. ‘“Modern masters of an ancient art form.”’

  Marni nodded, her bright eyes reflecting the candle’s flame.

  ‘Why are you showing me this?’

  ‘It was an exhibition, last year, at the Saatchi Gallery. Look inside.’

  Perplexed, Francis flicked through the leaflet. Pictures of tattoos in different styles. He found the picture Iwao had shown them.

  ‘Jonah Mason. Evan Armstrong’s tattoo artist.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So?’

  She took the catalogue from him.

  ‘Look at this.’

  She flicked past a couple of pages and then pointed at another picture. It was a biomechanical design, very similar to the one on Giselle Connelly’s missing arm.

  ‘Bartosz Klem,’ Francis read out loud.

  ‘Yes. One of Thierry’s colleagues recognised his style when I showed them the picture. And this.’

  She turned to the next page, which displayed a series of highly ornate gothic lettering tattoos.

  ‘These are by Rick Glover, who works round the corner. I’m pretty sure he did that Belial lettering and the spider’s web,’ she said, then fell into an expectant silence.

  Francis took the booklet from her and studied the pictures.

  ‘And?’ he said after a couple of minutes.

  ‘Don’t you get it?’ said Marni impatiently. ‘You wanted to find a link between the murders. This is your link. All your victims had tattoos by artists in the Saatchi exhibition. An exhibition of the best tattooists in the world. Someone’s collecting.’

  ‘Link or coincidence?’

  Marni’s eyes widened and she downed the remaining wine in her glass. ‘You’re not bloody serious?’

  ‘Of course I am – I have to be.’ Francis’s hand formed a fist on the table. ‘Sure, those artists might have done the tattoos on Jem Walsh and the murdered woman, but that’s yet to be confirmed. And then so what if they were all in this exhibition? So were . . .’ He picked up the leaflet and flicked through the pages. ‘. . . at least half a dozen other tattoo artists and we don’t have bodies to account for those. At this point, you’ve brought me nothing.’

  ‘And what have you got?’

  Playing for time, Francis took a sip of his wine.

  ‘You’re drinking.’

  ‘I’m not on duty.’

  ‘But still working.’

  A young waiter approached their table warily. Marni reeled off a list of tapas dishes and he went away.

  Francis raised his eyebrows. ‘We’re eating?’

  ‘Helps to keep the body functioning.’

  He couldn’t help but like her. Nothing if not direct. Perfectly transparent about her likes and dislikes. What the hell had she been in prison for? He bit his tongue, on the verge of asking her. He hadn’t wanted to press Rory further on the subject in case it betrayed more interest in Marni than he’d like to admit to.

  ‘So your theory is that someone saw the exhibition and is now going around building his own collection? You think we have some sort of tattoo thief on our hands?’

  ‘Yes. That’s precisely it. A tattoo thief.’

  ‘There’s nothing to say there’s even a link between these three cases.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Can’t you see it? This is your link between the cases.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘You can take it or leave it, but you can’t deny it’s a link. And, I think, it’s the only link you’ve got so far.’

  ‘And so you believe there’ll be more victims and that they’ll have tattoos by these specific tattoo artists?’

  ‘If my theory’s right. And if you don’t catch the killer first.’

  ‘How long have you been a tattoo artist?’ he said.

  The waiter deposited a dish of olives in front of them and Marni popped one into her mouth.

  ‘Nineteen years.’ She carried on chewing.

  ‘You must have started very young.’

  ‘I became Thierry’s appren
tice when I was eighteen. He taught me virtually everything I know.’

  ‘How did you meet him?’

  Marni’s expression darkened. ‘I was working in France, just as a waitress over the summer, to get some sun. I went out a couple of times with his brother, then . . .’ Her words trailed off into uncomfortable silence.

  Francis didn’t want to pry – the scenario seemed pretty clear – so he moved back onto safer ground.

  ‘How many people do you think you’ve tattooed in those nineteen years?’

  She swallowed, eyes closed as she calculated. Then she shrugged.

  ‘Literally thousands.’

  Francis tore up a piece of bread, as the waiter rearranged their table to accommodate more tapas.

  ‘Seven more tattooists in the exhibition that your tattoo thief might want a piece of. That means our pool of potential victims is huge?’

  ‘Totally.’

  ‘I’m not sure how much this helps us.’

  ‘Us,’ said Marni, a satisfied grin slipping onto her lips as she took another mouthful of wine.

  ‘If it’s really even a theory . . .’

  ‘Yes, it’s a theory. These are my people under attack, my community. You need to take this seriously.’

  ‘One minute you want nothing to do with it. Now, you’re crusading.’

  ‘I don’t like seeing people die. People I might know.’

  Francis carried on poring over the exhibition brochure. He flicked back to the first page.

  ‘Look,’ he said, holding out the introduction for her to see.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The curator. It was your friend, Ishikawa Iwao.’

  ‘I know. I went to the opening.’

  Francis fell silent. He remembered the tattooed cat snarling at him. If Marni was right about this link, he and his team would certainly have their work cut out for them. But at least they’d have some clear direction to follow.

  ‘Eat,’ said Marni. ‘And then, Frank, tell me why you became a policeman.’

  ‘Francis,’ he said, through gritted teeth.

  If you tell me, Marni Mullins, what put you on the wrong side of the law.

  vii

  One, two, cut a tattoo

  Three, four, flay some more

  Five, six, my bloody fix

  Seven, eight, will not wait

  My work demands the keenest blades to enable absolute precision. I only ever sharpen them by hand using ceramic whetstones – never an electric sharpener – and I hum this little ditty to keep my rhythm. I can get a finish like a cut-throat razor, smooth-edged and vicious. I need to keep them keen, just in case I get the chance to use them. You never know when that might present itself, so I work on them regularly, whether I’ve used them or not. A dull blade will never be your friend.

  All my knives are laid out in the right order on one of my workbenches. The short cutting blades and the longer, curved flaying blades. My whetstones are set at just the right angle in a series of clamps on the edge of the bench, so I can quickly move from one to the next. I spend about an hour on each blade, humming my little songs, and I can just lose myself in the repetition.

  It’s therapeutic.

  Just like skin flaying.

  It was always my favourite part of the taxidermy process. Removing the skin in one perfect piece. It’s a challenge, and success is its own reward. I learned that from Ron. I learned everything about tanning and taxidermy that he could teach me. And some things about life. I soaked it all up like a sponge, till he had nothing left for me.

  As well as keeping his skin, I kept his clients. That’s how I came to know the Collector. He collects taxidermy, and me and Ron were the best in the business. His requests challenged us to the very limit of our abilities. But I always did my best work for him. Sometimes he watches me work. He’s fascinated by the processes involved. He is a very knowledgeable man. Very clever. It’s easy to admire a man like that, so it’s an honour when he spends time with me, to think that he’s interested in the things I show him.

  In this way, he’s so different to my father and to my brother. They never showed any interest in my work. Everything was about them. What they’d achieved. What they were planning. My ideas and opinions were brushed aside. Ron was better – he was interested in what I did, but that was because he was teaching me. He wanted to see what I had learned. The Collector, though, he admires my work. And I admire him. He has such an eye for beauty and such a great sense for what gives something its artistic merit. It’s a bond we share.

  I would do anything for the Collector. Anything at all.

  He only needs to ask . . .

  Ouch! I’ve cut my finger on the blade. A small globule of blood grows larger, then drips onto the wooden workbench. A stain that will need to be sanded away. Or maybe not.

  The smell of my own blood makes me realise how much I need to kill again. It’s time.

  23

  Rory

  Eight a.m. in Bradshaw’s office. Those had been the boss’s instructions, issued by text the previous evening. Rory was here. Bradshaw was here. But the boss was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘So how’s he doing?’

  Rory’s gaze was momentarily fixated on a blob of shaving foam clinging to one of Bradshaw’s ear lobes.

  ‘Rory?’

  ‘Sorry, sir. What?’

  ‘Working with Sullivan? You were going to keep me updated.’

  ‘He’s very bright, obviously.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘This case, cases . . . It’s complicated. We don’t know yet whether it’s one killer or multiple killers. We don’t have a link between them and . . .’

  ‘Go on.’

  Rory sighed. ‘I’m just not sure that someone with his relative inexperience is really right for this case.’

  Bradshaw mulled over his words for a moment. ‘Thank you for being so candid with me, Mackay.’

  Perfectly done. More fool the kid for being late.

  ‘Of course, that’s not to say, sir . . .’

  There was a knock and the door to Bradshaw’s office opened. Rory stopped talking and looked round to see Sullivan coming into the room. His suit was as neatly pressed as ever but he was anything but fresh-faced. He stared at Rory with bloodshot eyes that questioned the sudden break in the conversation.

  What had he been up to the night before?

  ‘Morning, sir. Sorry I’m late. Morning, Rory.’

  Bradshaw grunted his disapproval, checking his watch as the DI sat down.

  ‘Morning, boss,’ Rory replied.

  ‘I assume you’ve made some progress with the case,’ said Bradshaw, locking eyes with Francis.

  ‘Has Sergeant Mackay filled you in on where we’ve got to?’

  ‘No. Rory and I were discussing staffing levels for when Granger goes off on maternity leave.’

  The boss clearly didn’t believe it.

  ‘We’ve made some progress, sir,’ said Francis. ‘I ran a check with SCAS for any possible links to open cases elsewhere, and we’ve come up with a possible match.’

  Bradshaw nodded.

  ‘Last year, a woman’s body was found on a golf course with an arm missing. She turned out to be a trainee lawyer from Littlehampton called Giselle Connelly. Twenty-six years old, married . . .’

  Bradshaw interrupted. ‘What you’re telling me is that now instead of two unsolved murders we’ve got three? Not what I’d call progress. And this one’s not even on our patch.’

  ‘The golf course where she was found is. She . . .’

  ‘Exactly. This victim is a woman. The two victims here, who you have so far failed to link in any way, were both men. Serial killers, I would have thought you’d have known, Sullivan, don’t switch from killing one sex to the other in the middle of a spree. I’ve already
said, the facts simply don’t support a serial killer theory.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Francis, in a firmer tone that rather impressed Rory, ‘the woman had a sleeve tattoo on the arm that was taken. The missing limb has never been recovered.’

  ‘A tattoo of what?’

  ‘I’m not sure that the subject of the tattoos is relevant, but it was a biomechanical.’

  ‘A bio-what?’

  ‘Biomechanical, sir. It’s a tattoo that makes the wearer look like a cyborg, like there’s machinery under their skin.’

  The boss was starting to sound rather knowledgeable on the subject. Had he been spending more time with Marni Mullins?

  ‘Good God!’ Bradshaw rolled his eyes. ‘On a trainee solicitor?’

  ‘The point is that all of these victims – Evan Armstrong, Jem Walsh and now Giselle Connelly, who incidentally died several months before our two – all of them had tattoos that were missing when the bodies were found. Although we can’t expect to find the skin taken from Evan, whoever took the head and the arm from the other two would still need to dispose of the bones and the skull.’

  ‘I don’t buy any of this,’ said Bradshaw. ‘Your imagination has been working overtime, Sullivan. The tattoo stuff is a coincidence. The woman’s murder has nothing to suggest it has anything to do with the two recent killings, and frankly I don’t see anything pointing to a link between these two either.’ He pushed his chair back from his desk as if to signify the meeting was over. ‘You’ve got three distinct killings that aren’t linked and you can’t afford to spend any more time trying to put them together. It’s lost manpower that should be used considering each case on its own merits.’

  ‘But proving a link would give us the lead we need,’ said Sullivan.