The Tattoo Thief

by Alison Belsham

  Rory scanned the room from the door at the back and then retreated into the corridor to try his phone again. The chief hadn’t answered his message, and there was no one else in the station with the authority to shut this down. He went back into the room.

  Francis had made some attempt to look less creased. He’d taken his suit jacket off and rolled up his shirtsleeves – not that his shirt looked much better – and he’d slicked his hair back with water. He tapped the microphone on the table in front of him to check whether it was switched on. An expectant hush fell among the excited journalists.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Francis, to test the microphone level.

  There were a few muttered replies.

  ‘My name is DI Francis Sullivan of the Major Incident Team, and my unit has been tasked with investigating the two murders that have taken place here. Evan Armstrong, a thirty-three-year old-man from Hove, was found dead in the Pavilion Gardens on Sunday, twenty-eighth May. Jem Walsh was discovered underneath the Palace Pier two days later. He had been decapitated.’

  ‘Are you working on a link between the murders?’ said a young woman in the front row.

  ‘I’ll take questions at the end of my statement,’ said Francis.

  ‘I’ve heard he’s taking tattoos from the bodies.’ It was Tom Fitz. If he hadn’t actually heard Marni’s speech at the wake, he certainly would have picked up the gist of it later. News like that would have become the main talking point across the city’s bars and pubs.

  ‘I realise that a number of rumours have been circulating since Evan’s funeral yesterday,’ continued Francis, ‘which is why I called you all in.’

  The door at the back of the room opened and Francis paused. Bradshaw stepped into the room, shut the door and came to stand next to Rory. He was wearing a pale yellow sweater and blue chinos, and he still had his golf shoes on his feet. His expression was furious but he didn’t speak.

  His appearance made Francis momentarily lose his stride. A whisper of impatience rolled through his audience as he paused to pick up the thread.

  ‘We have reason to believe that the individual responsible for the killings is indeed removing tattooed parts of his victims’ bodies and taking them away. As yet, we have no understanding for the motive behind this but we’re looking closely at who he’s chosen as victims and which tattoos he’s taken.’

  ‘Marni Mullins said something about the recent Blood and Ink exhibition,’ said Tom Fitz. ‘Is there a link between this and the killings?’

  ‘That is just speculation, and implying otherwise would be irresponsible. We have nothing concrete to suggest this is the case. However, it is one of the reasons for talking to you. We need to put out a warning to anyone with a tattoo, regardless of the artist who executed it, that they need to be careful. Avoid walking through the city alone after dark, keep your tattoos covered in public, watch out for each other.’

  As he stopped speaking, pandemonium broke out in the room. Everyone seemed to have a question at once, hands went up in the air, and towards the back, people were standing up and pushing forwards. Bradshaw started to make his way up the side of the room towards the podium.

  ‘I’ll take a handful of question,’ said Francis.

  ‘Do you have any suspects yet?’ said an out-of-towner.

  ‘Can I have your name and who you work for?’

  ‘Simon Epson, Telegraph.’

  Francis could see the slant that his article would take.

  ‘Do you have any suspects, Officer?’ repeated the journalist.

  ‘I’m sorry – I can’t discuss the operational aspects of the case with you at this time,’ said Francis.

  ‘In other words, you have no idea who this tattoo thief is?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Lizzie Appleton, Mirror. Apparently, you arrested the exhibition’s organiser, Ishikawa Iwao. Why was that?’

  ‘No one has been arrested in this case, Ms Appleton. Ishikawa Iwao is among a number of individuals who have been helping us with our enquiries.’

  As far as Rory was concerned, Ishikawa Iwao was most definitely still a person of interest.

  ‘Like Marni Mullins?’ said Appleton.

  ‘As I said, we’ve received help from several individuals but I can’t go into specific details with you.’

  ‘I think it’s time we wrapped this up, ladies and gentlemen.’ Bradshaw practically pushed Francis sideways and took over the mic. ‘Thank you for coming. Please report responsibly and don’t start a panic across the city. We want people to take sensible precautions, not live in fear.’

  There was a stampede for the door as the reporters realised they weren’t going to get any further titbits for their columns. Rory watched Francis, now white as a sheet, trying to make a swift exit before Bradshaw could collar him. At the door, the boss turned momentarily and glared at him, eyes like daggers. Rory waited a second, then made his own escape. The boss clearly knew it was him who had called Bradshaw.

  Climbing the stairs, Rory felt bad about what he’d done. Calling the press conference had been the right course of action, morally speaking. Quite possibly, Francis had saved someone’s life. And it had taken guts to go against a direct order. Rory sighed. He wouldn’t go so far as to say alerting Bradshaw had been the wrong thing to do. But it had left a bad taste in his mouth.

  Then he heard footsteps behind him, coming up fast. He knew it was Sullivan.

  ‘You bastard!’

  29

  Francis

  The fact that Rory had so evidently run straight to Bradshaw made Francis’s blood boil. The chief would have found out about the press conference, no matter what – but that didn’t mean the little shit had to spill the beans before the damn thing had even kicked off. It wasn’t surprising the case was getting nowhere fast – how was he supposed to work without the support of his team? The buzz in the incident room fell silent as he walked in, all eyes fixed upon him. Rory followed him in, with Bradshaw hot on his heels.

  ‘My office. Now. Both of you.’ Bradshaw’s voice was far louder than it needed to be and he didn’t wait for an answer.

  Francis looked at Rory, who shrugged.

  ‘If I’d kept quiet, I would have been in for a bollocking too.’

  It didn’t come close to an apology. And the fact was, Rory hadn’t done any harm to his career by making the call to Bradshaw.

  ‘So it would have been okay with you to let potential victims wander around unaware of what was happening?’ Francis said. ‘Makes me wonder how you sleep at night.’

  They followed Bradshaw up the stairs at a safe distance, Francis’s heart pounding in his chest as he took the steps two at a time. Whatever was coming his way, he probably deserved it. But at least he could look himself in the eye with the knowledge that he’d done the right thing.

  Walking into the chief’s office, there was a palpable chill in the air. Bradshaw had dropped into the chair behind his desk with a heavy sigh. Neither Francis nor Rory dared sit as they waited for the tirade that was coming. Bradshaw looked from one to the other, but it was on Francis that his eyes finally settled.

  ‘What in God’s name were you thinking?’

  Francis steeled himself. ‘I was thinking that we might save someone’s life. Sir.’

  ‘We discussed it. I forbade it.’

  It wasn’t a question, so Francis said nothing.

  Bradshaw turned his attention to Rory. ‘You did the right thing, calling me.’

  ‘I thought you needed to know what was happening,’ Rory replied, but his eyes were downcast.

  ‘Informing the public wasn’t your decision to take,’ said Bradshaw, redirecting his attention to Francis. ‘It’s probably caused widespread panic.’

  ‘Marni Mullins warned them at the wake,’ said Francis. ‘Rumours have been flying and people were already panicking.�
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  Rory rolled his eyes. It made Francis bristle with anger.

  ‘I stand by what I did,’ he continued. ‘Hopefully it’s saved a life.’

  Bradshaw was clearly unimpressed. ‘It didn’t cross your mind that the rumours alone would be enough to stop people from taking unnecessary risks?’

  ‘With all due respect, sir, I felt that we should be in control of the flow of information.’

  Bradshaw snorted. ‘All you’ve done is alert the killer – if it is indeed a single killer – to the fact that we’ve worked out what he’s doing. He’ll just go to ground and we’ll have less chance of catching him than before.’

  ‘I don’t agree, sir.’

  ‘Your wealth of experience tells you otherwise?’

  ‘My training tells me that serial killers are attention seekers. If – underlined heavily – these killings are linked in the way that we think they might be, the publicity will play right up to the Tattoo Thief’s ego. Rather than go to ground, it could draw him out. My plan is to flood the city centre with plain clothes and monitor the CCTV live. Hopefully we can catch him before he kills again.’

  ‘You mean, catch him in the act?’ Bradshaw shook his head. ‘That’s a high-risk strategy.’

  ‘Not in the act,’ said Francis. ‘Now everyone’s been warned, he won’t have the opportunity. People are alert and on the lookout. He’ll get desperate, he’ll take more risks and give himself away.’

  ‘I bloody hope so. You need to think of the crime stats. I’m under pressure from above to bring all crimes, especially violent crimes, down.’

  ‘Which we’ll do by flushing out the killer and arresting him.’

  Bradshaw clasped the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb and pursed his lips. ‘I don’t see that working,’ he continued. ‘Put out someone to act as bait and you might have a chance, but just taking away his opportunity to kill won’t help you catch him. I can’t do anything, Sullivan, other than take you off the case. Mackay, you’re acting officer in charge until I can get a new DI transferred.’

  ‘But, sir, the DI called the press conference with the best intentions.’

  It was way too little, too late, and Rory obviously knew it.

  ‘I don’t give a monkey’s brass balls – you’re in charge now and you’ll take instructions from me. Get that Japanese tattooist back in custody and get some forensic evidence that’ll hold up in court.’

  ‘There’s no reason to think it’s him.’

  ‘Shut up, Sullivan. Get out, both of you.’

  ‘You can’t do this, sir.’ Speaking through gritted teeth, Francis could hardly form the words.

  ‘I can do what I bloody well please, Sullivan. Mackay’s in charge.’

  The interview was over.

  Outside in the corridor, Francis gave full vent to his anger. ‘Damn, damn, damn!’

  He was off the case. Bradshaw and Mackay were barking up the wrong tree, which meant the killer would have the freedom to carry on unhindered. He punched the wall with a balled fist. An explosion of pain shot up his arm.

  ‘Damn it!’

  x

  I knew that once the project got going, I’d need to move fast. The Collector has given me a list of tattoos to gather in, and I need to harvest them all before the police get too clever. Once I have them, I can make a safe retreat – they’ll never know where to look for me. It’s the harvesting of the tattoos from the bodies that’s the most risky part of the operation.

  The Collector and his list. He has such an eye for beauty on the human body and he’s creating a private collection the likes of which will never have been seen. The taxidermy and the tattoos are just the start – I know he has other ideas. Last time we spoke, he was wondering if it was possible to take a person’s face. I said I thought it was entirely possible. If I complete this task, perhaps he’ll have more for me to do. I will have gained his trust. He needs to realise that I could be his right hand, that he can rely on me. He must know by now of my devotion to his cause. But the more successful I am, the more he’ll notice me. I need to snag his attention. And the way to achieve that is to do his bidding to the very best of my considerable ability. It’s time he showed some appreciation for what I’ve done so far, I think.

  I’m making good progress and tonight should net me another one, if my target behaves in character. I’ve watched him over the last few weeks, drinking in the Victory Inn on the corner of Duke Street and Middle Street. He stays in there with a group of friends till it closes, then they all go their separate ways. I’ve followed him three times. He takes the same route home, cutting through the Lanes to get to Old Steine and across to Kemptown. Only tonight, I’m not following him. I’m lying in wait for him.

  The Lanes suit my purposes admirably. The smaller ones are steeped in darkness and virtually deserted at this time. Dan Carter obviously feels that it’s safe enough to cut through them – you can still hear rowdy drunks laughing and catcalling on North Street. But that doesn’t mean they’ll hear you. Especially when a hand goes over your mouth from behind and smothers your face with an ether-soaked rag.

  I chose this spot with care. The alleyway is narrow, but just to the left of the doorway where I’m standing, there’s an iron gate which leads to an isolated yard. I’ve already dealt with the lock on the gate, so I can just pull Carter through it. The yard will give me somewhere to work, undisturbed, for several hours. All the equipment I need is already stashed there in a bag. Carter’s tattoo is large and even if I work fast, it’s still going to take a considerable time. But it will be beautiful when it’s done, probably the most beautiful one on the list, maybe apart from . . .

  I hear footsteps approaching. His. I’ve learned the cadence of his walk while I’ve been watching him. Everyone has a unique footfall, their own rhythm of putting one foot in front of the other. I shake ether onto the cloth in my left hand and brace myself against the doorframe behind me. The footsteps get louder, closer, and as they are virtually level with my hiding place, I step out into his path, jostling him hard with my shoulder against his torso. As he turns to remonstrate, I clamp the cloth over his nose and mouth from behind. He struggles but it only takes a few seconds after he’s inhaled to feel his body slump against mine. I drag him through the gate into my secret courtyard.

  Now he’s unconscious, the real work can begin. Time to come out and play, my beloved blades.

  ‘The vorpal blade went snicker-snack.’

  I love that poem. Sometimes it seems as if Lewis Carroll wrote it just for me. It so suits the work I do. My vorpal blade . . .

  What the hell? I can hear voices, close by. A couple, whispering sweet nothings to each other. And if I can hear their sweet nothings that means they’re too close. And they’re blocking my escape route.

  Damn it.

  Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.

  30

  Francis

  Francis loved St Catherine’s at night. He had a key to the church and in the small, silent hours when he couldn’t sleep, he would sometimes let himself in to spend an hour or two in quiet contemplation and prayer. Mindful of the church’s electricity bill, the small reading lights in the choir stalls were enough to cast a soft glow through the chancel, and Francis found the crowding shadows to be a comfort where others might not.

  But tonight, comfort was in short supply. Perhaps his prayers for success in his new job had been too self-centred and the altruism with which he’d thought he’d acted nothing more than a cover. Was the uncomfortable reality that he craved success and recognition for its own sake? His prayers had gone unanswered, because it was clear he was making a total screw-up of his first case. Being removed from command this early wasn’t something his career could easily survive. At best he’d be sidelined, or worse still there would be a drip feed of pressure for him to apply to another force or even find another career. What did a fai
led policeman do with his life? There weren’t many options after such a short-lived tenure.

  Rubbing his bruised fist, Francis gazed up at the crucifix to find Jesus looking sad and regretful.

  Fair enough. He’d been in thrall to his vanity, squandering his time on self-aggrandisement, looking for justice for the dead while ignoring the living who needed him more. He’d missed his last two visits to his mother and there couldn’t be much time left. He’d ignored a couple of calls from his sister and, while she might not admit that she needed him, he knew his presence in her life was one of her mainstays of support. These women were alive and they needed him. They didn’t ask for much, just that he be there, and these past two weeks he hadn’t been.

  He would visit his mother and phone his sister tomorrow. He dropped to his knees on the altar step and bowed his head in prayer. The smell of incense from an earlier service drifted through the chancel and he heard a door softly closing. He gave the slightest of nods when Father William joined him at the rail, then carried on praying. He took the priest’s arrival as a sign that God hadn’t abandoned him but had instead sent counsel – and he gave thanks.

  ‘I saw the light and I knew it was you,’ said Father William, when Francis returned to sit in the choir stalls.

  ‘God told you?’

  Father William laughed. ‘No. It’s only you and the verger who have keys, besides myself. And he wouldn’t miss a wink of sleep to give comfort to a dying nun.’

  Francis smiled. He knew the verger, a charming man who never let piety get in the way of afternoon tea with the parishioners.

  Father William put both his hands over the hand Francis was resting on the rail.

  ‘So tell me what brings you into the house of God at two in the morning?’ he said. ‘Maybe I can offer some more practical answers than him upstairs.’ He raised his eyes momentarily to the crucifix above them.

  Father William was a man of great wisdom and years of experience when it came to the workings of the human heart. If Francis’s own father had abandoned him, it could only have been to make way for Father William’s appearance in his life.