‘The focus of my attention.’
Francis felt a tap on his shoulder and spun round.
Marni Mullins wore her fury like a weapon.
‘You’re filming us? You shouldn’t even be here. You never even met Evan Armstrong when he was alive.’
‘Did you?’
She looked taken aback and her mouth worked for a moment before she found her answer.
‘He was one of Thierry’s clients and friends with Charlie and Noa for a while. We have a right to be here. You don’t.’
‘I was under the impression Thierry wasn’t that keen on him, over the unpaid bill,’ said Francis. ‘In any case, we do have a right to be here. We’re trying to track down his killer.’
‘Here, at a memorial service? Have some respect.’
‘These are the people Evan knew.’
‘Apart from you and your men,’ she snorted.
‘I thought we were on the same side, Marni.’
‘What side are you on, Francis?’
‘Justice. The right side.’
The words seemed to imply something he hadn’t meant them to. Marni narrowed her eyes momentarily, then turned on her heel and stomped back to where Thierry stood talking to Evan Armstrong’s sister.
Francis watched her go, wishing he hadn’t come over to the car and drawn attention to their presence. He still felt stung by her anger and shocked by her aggression. But as she spoke urgently to Thierry, he could see a certain vulnerability to her that he hadn’t appreciated up to now. There was darkness in her past, he knew that for certain. But what of the present? Did she hold the key to the case?
ix
I’m at the funeral. Everyone who knew poor Evan Armstrong is here. And, looking around, it appears quite a number who didn’t. The police are here in number. After all, who else wears AirWear-soled shoes with a suit? They’re looking for me, obviously, but they don’t really know what – or who – to look for. I feel a little sorry for them.
But while they’re not watching me, I get to watch them. There seems to be an interesting dynamic at play here. The older one that I assumed was in charge isn’t. He’s clearly taking direction from the much younger one. Oh yes, the redhead might look fresh out of school, but he’s got smart dripping off him like sweat off a pig. Not to be underestimated.
Still, he’s whistling in the wind when it comes to finding out whodunit.
The family look devastated and I feel proud that it’s all my doing. This whole gathering is a result of my work. I’m the cause of all the tears streaming down that poor woman’s face, the tremor in her husband’s hand as he reaches out to support her. My sharp blade has scarred their hearts as thoroughly as it carved Evan’s flesh. This pain is their appreciation of my work. I wish Ron was here to see what I’ve done, what I’m doing. And in a strange way, I wish my father was here too. Certainly, he’d be shocked, but it would make him realise that I do have some talent after all. The thought of him leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, so instead I turn my attention to the people that are here.
The great and the good of the skin community, all in one place at one time. Pretending to forget about their petty jealousies and back-stabbings. Pretending to be sad because someone most of them hardly knew has died. And all the little groupies, sobbing into their black hankies as if they mean it. When in fact it’s just an excuse for a piss-up at the pub afterwards.
Not Marni Mullins though. There are no tears on her cheeks as she sweeps past me to leave the chapel. She’s beautiful but her body vibrates with suppressed anger. I wonder who she’s angry with, and why. I’ll see.
There’s a lot you can find out by lurking at a funeral. Some people are genuinely raw, emotionally flayed. Others are performing, fulfilling what’s expected of them. Interactions are intensified and, with the addition of alcohol at the wake . . .
I watch and I learn.
Marni Mullins is talking to the young policeman. He’s blushing. It’s hardly a friendly exchange. She’s still angry when she walks away, but he just looks regretful. What does he have to regret when it comes to Marni Mullins? His eyes follow her around like a puppy dog.
Be still my beating heart. The Collector is here.
27
Marni
The wake was held at the Heart and Hand as, apparently, it had been Evan’s favourite watering hole. It was hardly big enough to accommodate the number of people that came from the service, and drinkers quickly spilled out onto the street corner. The irony of the pub being the setting for Thierry’s alibi for Evan’s murder didn’t escape Marni. Francis had told her about the girl with the mermaid tattoo and she had no doubt that the bitch would be here today. She sucked in a breath and bit on her lower lip. That wasn’t really fair. She and Thierry had been apart for years, so why should it matter to her who he slept around with? The problem was, it did seem to matter.
Freed from the solemnity of the church, the wake took on more of a party atmosphere. With drinks in their hands, Evan’s friends from the tattooing community were catching up and exchanging gossip. New tattoos were shown off and either complimented or mocked, and stories swapped from recent conventions. The girls who had been so conspicuously crying were now laughing just as loudly, and Marni felt a little sorry for Evan’s family who sat huddled in a corner.
She looked around the crowded bar, frowning as she wondered whether Thierry would be with the mermaid girl or the studio’s new apprentice. She didn’t have to wait long – she spotted him huddled in the corner whispering in his junior’s ear. She turned away, bile rising.
‘She is over eighteen,’ said a voice in her ear. ‘Just.’
Noa materialised at her side and tilted his hand up and down to ask her if she wanted another drink.
Why the hell not. She hadn’t come by car and she wasn’t tattooing this afternoon, so she might as well have another. She wasn’t sure she could face an hour or two here without having the sharp edges softened slightly.
‘Sure. Thanks.’
As she waited for Noa to return, Iwao came up to her.
‘Did you know him?’ she asked.
‘Evan? No. But I spoke to Jonah Mason about what had happened and he asked me to represent him here.’
‘He’s in California?’
‘Yes. I’ve passed on his condolences to Evan’s parents. Jonah feels terrible that his tattoo could be the cause of Evan’s death. He’s thinking of putting up a reward for information that leads to the killer.’
‘Seriously? But it’s not his fault that some psycho decided to hack that tattoo off Evan’s body. The guy could have taken any one of his other tattoos.’
Iwao pursed his lips. ‘Not if your theory about the exhibition is right, Marni. It would suggest that this killer is being very specific over which tattoos he takes. And from that we can assume he’s being specific in his choice of victims, too.’
Over Iwao’s shoulder, she could see Francis Sullivan approaching them.
‘Damn! I can’t believe the police are still here. It’s so disrespectful.’
Iwao glanced back and grimaced.
‘He’s just doing his job, Marni. But you’ll forgive me if I don’t hang around.’
He ducked away swiftly and, at the same time, Noa arrived with her glass of wine. He took the empty from her and put it on the bar.
‘There, my darling. Now tell me how you’ve been.’
She kissed him on the cheek.
‘Give me a minute, Noa. I just want to send this bloody policeman packing.’
Francis Sullivan was hovering in her peripheral vision and it was irritating the hell out of her. In his drab suit, he looked completely out of place among the tattooing fraternity. He could have taken off his jacket and tie. What a stiff.
‘You’ve got a nerve,’ she said, turning to him.
‘We all want this killer caught, don�
�t we, Marni?’ he said.
He wasn’t even holding a drink or trying to blend in.
‘Some things are sacred.’
Francis looked around the crowded bar, at the people tucking into sausage rolls and downing pints, but made no comment.
Marni took a large mouthful of wine. She was starting to regret the help she’d given him so far. He seemed far too willing to just pin the crime on anyone with a tattoo, rather than turning up any real evidence. That was what the police were supposed to do, wasn’t it? Dig up the evidence that would lead them to the killer. Not pick the killer and then start looking for the evidence.
‘How many of the tattooists from Iwao’s exhibition are here?’
Marni swallowed her wine.
‘Iwao’s here,’ she said. ‘He’s representing Jonah Mason, who’s in California. Rick Glover’s here, but none of the others, I don’t think.’
‘He did Jem Walsh’s spider tattoo, right?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Can you introduce me to him?’
Marni felt anger flushing her cheeks.
‘So you can arrest him tomorrow? That seems to be how this works.’
Francis sighed. ‘Marni, we look at everyone who might be linked to the case and then we try to eliminate them from the enquiry.’
‘In other words, you want me to introduce you, so you can check out his alibi for the night Jem died. No fucking way, Frank.’
‘Listen, love, you need to get down off your high horse for more than five minutes at a time. There’s a killer out there, targeting your community.’
‘You’re right,’ she said quietly. ‘I don’t want anyone else to die. But by not sharing the information you have, you’re putting us all at risk. Please, at least put out an official warning.’
‘It could have an impact on the killer’s behaviour.’
‘It could save lives.’
Talking to him was like talking to a brick wall.
‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I have other people to speak to.’
But as Marni made her way across the bar, blood roared in her ears and her heart rate soared. This wasn’t right and she wasn’t going to stand by idly and wait for the next person to die.
‘Noa, grab me that chair, would you?’ She pointed at the chair currently occupied by Thierry’s apprentice.
‘Sure thing. Excuse me,’ said Noa, gripping the back of the chair and unceremoniously tilting the girl into Thierry’s lap. Her skirt was so short Marni could practically see her knickers. The girl scowled, but Thierry laughed and snaked an arm around her waist. Seeing that fuelled Marni’s anger to further heights.
‘Where do you want it?’ asked Noa.
‘Right here by the bar, that’s fine.’
Marni climbed up onto the chair and looked around the noisy pub. Looking for something to grab people’s attention, she picked up a fork and banged it on the side of her glass.
‘Quiet for a moment, quiet,’ shouted Noa in his rumbling bass tones. ‘Marni’s got something to say.’
Heads turned towards her, and Marni noticed Sharon and Dave Armstrong giving her puzzled looks.
‘Hi, hello,’ said Marni, as the general hubbub in the bar settled down. ‘I think most of you know me, but for those who don’t, my name’s Marni Mullins, of Celestial Tattoo. I have to admit that I didn’t really know Evan, but I’m here today because I know a lot of people who did. And I’ve got something really important to say to you all – and I want you to spread this around to all your friends who aren’t here today.’
She reached down to the bar behind to put down the wine glass and the fork. A sea of faces looked up at her expectantly. At the back, Francis Sullivan’s face showed intense disappointment. His sergeant was standing next to him, looking outraged.
‘Marni, please don’t do this,’ said Francis. He continued to speak but his words were drowned out by a flurry of excited murmurs.
‘Listen up,’ said Marni. ‘The police believe that the man who killed Evan might also have been responsible for two more murders. Tattoos were missing from those bodies, and the tattoos that have been taken have one thing in common. They were done by tattoo artists who featured in the recent Alchemy of Blood and Ink exhibition.’ Marni spotted Rick Glover looking shocked at the back of the room. ‘There’s a very good chance that a serial killer might be targeting people with works by the tattoo artists involved, namely Ishikawa Iwao, Jonah Mason, Bartosz Klem, Brewster Bones, Polina Jankowski, Rick Glover, Gigi Leon, Jason Leicester, Vince Priest and Petra Danielli. I want to warn you because the police won’t. If you have a tattoo by any of these artists, take extra care when you’re out at night. Don’t go out on your own. I’m scared and you should be, too.’
She took a sip of wine and caught her breath as people took in the list of names. Most people were shaking their heads, but one or two talked in hushed, urgent tones, indicating a tattoo here and there by someone on the list. She saw one of her clients, Dan Carter, downing a near-full pint of beer with fear flashing in his eyes. Frank Sullivan and Rory Mackay, however, were nowhere to be seen. No doubt they’d scurried back to the nick to work out what to do now their closely guarded secret was out.
‘Evan Armstrong and Jem Walsh were both killed here in Brighton within the last couple of weeks,’ she continued.
‘Jem Walsh?’ said a girl standing near Marni’s chair. ‘Jem’s dead?’
‘No way,’ said someone else, as a flurry of gasps spread through the crowd – obviously, despite the coverage in the local press, quite a few of the mourners hadn’t heard about it. The door slammed as someone rushed outside.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Marni.
The girl slumped against the man next to her, who just managed to prevent her slipping to the floor.
‘What’s going on? What are the police doing about it?’ someone called from the back.
People started firing questions at Marni and pandemonium broke out. Thierry helped her down from the chair. Her job was done.
‘Why the hell did you do that?’ he said. ‘You’ll have Sullivan on your case now.’
‘It’s his own bloody fault. Hopefully, I’ve saved someone’s life. And if Frank doesn’t like it, he knows what he can do with it.’
‘You shouldn’t have done that. He’ll just take it out on the rest of us, poking his nose in where he’s not wanted.’ He hadn’t let go of her hand from when he helped her off the chair. ‘I wish you’d never got involved with this, Marni. It worries me.’
She pulled away from him and he frowned.
What was Thierry’s problem with the investigation – and with her? So many mixed messages. His temper flared whenever the subject was raised, but other times he seemed more concerned for her. What was going on?
Did she really want to know?
28
Rory
Rory wouldn’t have believed it possible for the boss to come into work looking any worse than he had the previous morning. However, he was wrong. Francis was in early but his suit was rumpled and his hair unwashed. When Rory arrived, the boss was already at his desk with a super-sized black coffee, poring over pages of notes in front of him.
‘You okay?’ said Rory, trying to edge close enough to see what he was working on.
Francis looked up, noticing him for the first time. ‘Do we know where Bradshaw is today?’
‘Not around. He’s got a high-level strategy meeting with a couple of DSs.’
‘Do you know where?’
‘Hollingbury Park.’
His golf course of choice.
‘Good.’ He went back to studying his notes.
Rory waited for further explanation but the boss ignored him. Fine. He had plenty of his own work to be getting on with. But five minutes later, before he’d even properly started on anything, the boss called
him back into his office.
‘Rory, I’ve been up most of the night, wrestling with my conscience. I want to do right by my job, but that’s not the only consideration.’
Rory squirmed in the chair. Where was this going?
‘People are panicking and rumours are flying round after Marni’s little announcement. If the killer strikes again and we’ve done nothing, we’ll have blood on our hands. We need to take control and calm things down.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m calling a press conference.’
‘But the chief explicitly forbade it. You go against his word and he’ll string you up for it.’
Francis shrugged. ‘I realise that – but I won’t let another person die just because I was too weak to speak out. Our theory’s been leaked anyway. Marni saw to that. But we need to make it official – she’s right, people need to know and protect themselves.’
Jesus. This was going to cause an earthquake.
‘I’ll understand if you want to step back from this, Rory. You’ve got a family, so you can’t risk your job.’
‘But you’ll be risking yours.’
‘That can’t be helped.’
Of course, Sullivan was right. They had a duty to act if they could potentially save someone’s life. But what Francis was proposing to do went against a direct order from a superior. That could get him not only kicked off the case, but out of the force if Bradshaw went to town on it. Down in the stairwell, out of sight and earshot of the incident room, Rory pulled his mobile out of his pocket.
He dialled Bradshaw’s number.
Press conferences were always held in the largest ground floor room at the John Street police station, but even that wasn’t big enough to accommodate the unprecedented number of journalists that had crowded in, clutching a variety of tech devices and stubby pencils to record the official version of events. Two murders in the space of a week was big news – it effectively doubled the number of killings in the city for the year so far. As the grim details had started to leak out, which they always did, the local journos had been joined by a number of hacks from the nationals.
The Tattoo Thief Page 15