‘It’s the basis of good police work. Leave no stone unturned. Check the details endlessly.’
‘Boring.’
‘But worth it when you pinpoint the one tiny detail that makes the case fall into place. It might be finding a single hair that matches the killer or the victim, it could be discovering a single CCTV frame that shows up someone’s alibi to be a lie – whatever it is, it gives you a rush.’
‘I get it. Like when I do a highly detailed tattoo. Hundreds of chrysanthemum petals, virtually all the same. But when the tattoo’s finished, it’s great to watch your client seeing it in the mirror for the first time.’
‘Assuming they like the results,’ he said with a half-smile.
His flash of humour took her by surprise. She hadn’t known him very long but this was the first time she’d seen him come anywhere close to making a joke at her expense.
‘Why are you always so serious?’ she said, thinking aloud.
‘What?’ He looked genuinely surprised.
‘You are. That was the first funny thing I’ve heard you say. And it wasn’t that funny.’
‘Right.’ But it was accompanied by a proper smile this time, a smile that Marni unexpectedly hoped to see again.
Whoa! That’s not somewhere you want to be going.
Marni stretched and looked at her watch. It was beyond midnight and she needed a cigarette. Because of Alex, she didn’t smoke in the house.
‘Just going outside for a fag. Want to stretch your legs?’
‘Sure.’
Out in the garden, she lit up and inhaled deeply, aware of Francis watching her.
‘Want one?’ She offered him the packet, then nearly dropped it in surprise when he reached out a hand towards it.
‘Haven’t had a fag since I was at school,’ he said, extracting one slowly.
‘You mean you’ve actually had one?’
‘Just the one,’ he said, grinning ruefully.
‘So you don’t really want one now.’
‘Something came over your face when you took that drag,’ he said. ‘Contentment. Relief. Pleasure. I want to see what it was. Call it research.’
Contentment and pleasure were clearly not what Francis Sullivan experienced when he inhaled on his second ever cigarette. During the inevitable coughing fit, he dropped the cigarette on the ground and had to bend double. For a moment Marni, as incapacitated with laughter as he was with coughing, thought he was going to be sick. Pepper, who’d joined them for the break, started barking and running round the small garden as if he’d seen a cat.
‘That good, was it?’ said Marni, finishing her own cigarette and stubbing it out in a small pot of sand by the edge of the patio.
Francis made a hacking noise as he tried to clear the smoke from his lungs.
‘Don’t let me have another one. Ever.’ His voice was rough and hoarse.
‘I won’t. It was a waste of a perfectly good cigarette.’
She was standing in front of him and, without thinking, she brushed his hair back from his forehead. Their eyes met as she let her hand linger at his temple.
What are you doing?
He seemed to lean towards her and Marni felt arousal spreading through her like wildfire. She wanted to kiss him. He looked as if he wanted to kiss her, as if he was about to kiss her. But a sudden sharp growl from Pepper brought them both back down to earth with a bump.
‘What is it, boy?’ said Marni.
‘Your dog’s jealous?’
Marni shook her head. At least Francis was acknowledging what had just almost happened.
‘Not usually. I don’t think it’s that. I think something spooked him. He was acting strangely earlier this evening.’
Francis looked around the small back garden.
‘What’s beyond the fence?’
‘There’s a small service alley for access from the road.’
‘I can’t see anything. Maybe he saw a fox or a cat.’
The spell broken, they went back into the house. Marni offered Francis coffee but he declined.
‘I’d better be going. I’ll pick you up first thing and we’ll track down James Diamond.’
Seeing him out of the front door, Marni was once again overcome by an urge to kiss him but held herself back.
What the hell was going on?
It took her longer than usual to fall asleep once he’d left. Not because of her usual rotation of night terrors, but because she couldn’t stop imagining what it would be like to kiss Frank Sullivan and where it might lead. She told herself it meant nothing. But she couldn’t get one image out of her mind. His unruly hair falling across his forehead and how completely natural it had felt to brush it aside.
xi
I can’t breathe.
I hear my father’s voice in my head, telling me I’ve made a mess of things. Over and over. I always make a mess of things. I always get things wrong. The Collector’s saying the same thing now, in my father’s voice. This can’t have happened. It can’t be happening.
I’m fighting for a single breath.
The process. I have to keep my mind on the process. To stop myself from going mad. I’ll keep it there until I’m ready to think about things. And about what I need to do next.
The process.
But everything is ruined. Everything is FUCKED UP.
I take a clean knife and make a swift cut to my forearm. Blood erupts over the spider’s web of scars. This is the only way I can calm myself. The pain soothes me and my anger slips away.
I bandage myself up, then I’m ready to get on with my work.
The skin in my hands is the scalp with the spider’s web tattoo. It’s slippery at this stage, a little rubbery, and my fingers glide across the surface as I move it around the board to inspect it, inch by inch. I love the feel of it under my fingertips, soft and pliant, wet. I should be wearing gloves – it’s just come out of a vat of sharpening agents. The hair and fat that cling to it are partially dissolved and its own stink is masked by the strong smells of the sodium sulphide and sodium hydroxide. Later, I’ll pay the price for not wearing gloves. My hands will be red and sore, the skin will be dry and cracked. But I deserve the pain.
My task for tonight is to clean the skin, to clear away any hair that’s left and remove any grease so it’s ready for tanning. A lot of the hair is already gone but there is always a slight fuzz clinging to the surface at the end of the liming process. I remove it by ‘scudding’ – scraping it with a blunted knife. It’s a delicate operation. There’s a huge risk of grazing or nicking the skin, which could ruin the whole piece. Concentration is everything. I can’t let it wander for a moment, which is why I find the process so therapeutic. No other thoughts intrude, so it will give me time to calm down.
I try to lose myself in the process but my mind won’t settle.
I can hear that woman screaming, over and over. ‘He’s dead,’ she kept shouting. ‘He’s dead.’ He wasn’t dead then, not by a long shot, and I watched from a doorway a little way up the street as the police and ambulance arrived. I saw them carry him out with an oxygen mask over his face and blood on their scrubs. He’s not dead and that might be good for me, or it might be bad.
Damn! Damn! Damn!
That should never have happened. I despise that couple. Prepared to fuck in the streets like animals, so overcome with lust and alcohol. They stank of it.
No! Is that a small graze on the skin? I need to focus my mind on what I’m doing or I’ll ruin the job.
I can’t tell the Collector what happened. Not yet. I know I must. I know it will be in the newspapers that a fresh attack by the Tattoo Thief has been foiled. That’s what they’ve started to call me in the press. The Tattoo Thief. The whole city is living in fear of my knife. But I’m nearly done. Just a few more names on my list and then I’ll sink away
into obscurity again, having made my mark and provided the Collector with his heart’s desire.
It’s a good thing Dan Carter is still alive, on balance. I think it’s safe to assume that he didn’t have any useful information to give to the police. And once he’s out of hospital, I can take a second shot at him.
His name is still on my list.
35
Marni
It didn’t take long to realise that the reason Francis Sullivan had invited her along on the trip to Guildford was for her car. He arrived at her house on foot the next morning and explained that his car belonged to the force and that he’d be breaking rules if he used it for such an irregular outing.
‘Just as well I haven’t lent mine to Alex then, isn’t it?’ she said, grabbing her keys off the kitchen counter.
Francis didn’t seem to appreciate her left-hand-drive Citroën Deux Chevaux or her scrappy driving style. Either way, he was a bad passenger. They’d hardly pulled out of Great College Street when Marni noticed his white-knuckled grip on the edge of his seat. The engine was noisy and the suspension close to non-existent, but Marni had brought the car back from France with her when she and Thierry had moved to England. The memories of driving it down tree-lined country roads, with Thierry singing along to the radio and a picnic on the back seat, were the only happy memories of France she had, and she was determined to drive it for as long as she could.
‘This car is on its last legs,’ said Francis. ‘Are you sure it’s safe?’
‘Perfectly,’ said Marni. She changed the subject with a grin. ‘Last night was good, wasn’t it?’
Francis’s head whipped round to look at her.
‘Finding the tattoo artist, remember?’ Did he think she was referring to the almost-kiss?
Francis stared out of the window, but she could see his cheeks were burning.
It was raining heavily in Guildford when they arrived, and when they located the tattoo studio ten minutes later, Marni was less than thrilled to see a double yellow line outside it.
‘We’ll find a car park,’ said Francis, as she was about to park illegally.
‘You’re police. Surely you can sanction parking on a double yellow for the sake of a murder investigation.’
Francis swiped a glance across at her. ‘No. Being in the police doesn’t mean you get to break the law at will.’
‘Parking on a yellow line?’
‘I might get away with it in an emergency. But this isn’t an emergency, Marni.’
‘I think it is. There’s a killer on the loose.’
Francis ignored her, pointing to the entrance of a high-rise car park. Marni grumpily pulled into a space. A ten-minute walk through the rain, which could have been avoided if he hadn’t been such a stiff. Most of the policemen she’d ever come across wouldn’t have thought twice about parking on a double yellow.
She was even more annoyed when they discovered the tattoo parlour wasn’t open yet. They stood glumly in the rain, peering in through the windows. It was a nice-looking place, with all the tattooing gear neatly lined up in ordered rows. Marni never trusted an untidy studio. An untidy tattooist might be sloppy about hygiene, too.
Francis banged on the glass door and then rang a bell next to it several times.
‘Try phoning,’ said Marni. There was a phone number stencilled on the door glass.
As he dialled, a door opened on the left-hand side of the shopfront and a man’s head appeared in the gap. He’d obviously just woken up. The hand that held the door open was tattooed with Polynesian banding.
‘Man, we’re shut. Come back in the afternoon.’ He had an Australian accent.
‘Are you James Diamond?’ said Marni.
‘Sure am.’
‘I’m Marni Mullins.’ She stepped towards him.
He opened the door wider to reveal that he was just wearing a T-shirt and boxer shorts. His arms and legs were covered with black ink.
‘I know your work – great stuff. Hi.’
‘And this is DI Francis Sullivan.’
Francis stepped forward.
‘I’m investigating the recent murders in Brighton,’ he said.
Diamond’s eyes widened. ‘The Tattoo Thief?’
‘Yes. Can we come in and talk to you for a minute?’
‘Listen, mate, I’ve got nothing to do with any of that.’
‘You’re not a suspect,’ said Marni quickly. ‘We just want to ask you about a picture from the convention. We’re trying to identify someone.’
Diamond breathed an audible sigh of relief. ‘Sure. Let me get dressed and we can talk in the studio.’
He reappeared at the shop door two minutes later in jeans and a fresh T-shirt. They followed him inside and Marni looked round. It was easy to guess Diamond’s speciality – it was like stepping into a 1950s tiki lounge, with rattan furniture and Pacific Island decor on the walls. Polynesian masks stared down at them, and there was a flash gallery of tribal designs along one end of the shop.
They showed him the picture and he stared thoughtfully at it for a couple of minutes.
Marni watched Francis, who was looking round the studio with more interest than she would have credited him for. She wondered if he was starting to get it. Maybe, with a little bit more time, she could persuade him to get a tattoo himself. She wondered what he would choose if he ever did.
‘Yeah, I remember this one. A bit weird actually.’
‘How so?’ said Francis.
‘Twitchy, not at all talkative while I was tattooing.’
‘What did you tattoo?’ said Marni.
‘It was a symbol I’d never seen before. Brought it in, hand-drawn on a scrap of paper. I don’t know what its significance was.’
‘Do you keep records?’
James shook his head. ‘Not for walk-ups at a convention. You just do the tattoo and take the cash.’
‘So no name?’ said Francis.
Diamond thought for a minute. ‘Sam. Sam Kirby or Corby, I think. Mentioned living out of town on Ditchling Road, on a farm . . .’ He tailed off with a shrug.
Francis was almost bursting with excitement as they walked back to the car park.
‘Finally. Finally, we’ve got ourselves a decent lead.’
‘You really think this could be our man?’
‘God knows.’ He glanced upwards apologetically. ‘It’s probably not his real name, if he was planning to do a runner from the start. And Ditchling Road goes for miles. He might have moved. It might not even be the guy we’re looking for – so if we do find him, he could have rock solid alibis. But at least the case is moving and we’ve got something to do.’
He pulled his mobile out of his pocket.
‘Angie, can you check a name for me against addresses in Ditchling Road . . .’
A shiver ran up Marni’s spine. The game was afoot and she’d be damned if they’d let this killer strike against her community again.
36
Marni
Ditchling Road originated in the city centre and ran north for eight miles to the village of Ditchling. Beyond the city’s edge, it climbed steeply into the rolling countryside of the South Downs, where Victorian villas were replaced with fields and farmhouses.
As they drove back from Guildford, Angie Burton called Francis back.
‘No, don’t mention it to Rory. This is strictly off the books.’
Marni strained to hear what Angie was saying on the other end of the line, but she couldn’t make it out.
‘But you got something? Good. Right. Thanks, Angie, I’ll owe you a favour . . . All right, a drink then.’
‘Got an address?’ said Marni.
‘Yes. You’d better take me back to the station. I can’t turn up looking for a suspect with a civilian in tow.’
‘But we can go straight down
Ditchling Road on the way back to Brighton.’
‘Marni, it wouldn’t be professional. If you were on the scene it could jeopardise the case. And if we ran into the killer . . . No way. It’s not an option. I’m not putting you in danger.’
‘I’ll stay in the car. But you can’t waste time. What if Diamond actually does know Sam Kirby or Corby and phones him a warning? He could get away.’
‘Kirby,’ said Francis. ‘Angie found an address for a Sam Kirby.’
He went quiet for a moment, then he twisted in his seat to face her. She gave him a sideways glance.
‘All right, we’ll give the property a drive by, check out the lie of the land. If it looks like there might be someone at the address, I’ll call Rory to bring backup so we can make an arrest. But whatever happens, you’ll stay in the car.’
‘I’ll stay in the car.’
For sure. She would definitely stay in the car.
They drove back from Guildford choosing a different route that brought them to the village of Ditchling. The road that lay between them was Ditchling Road, winding across the farmlands and heathlands of the South Downs.
‘What’s the house number?’ said Marni, as they left Ditchling village behind them.
Francis laughed. ‘They don’t have house numbers out here. It’s a farm. Stone Acre Farm we’re looking for.’
The houses became sparser as they climbed toward the Ditchling Beacon, the third highest point on the Downs. The road wound its way up the wooded slope until they came out at the peak. The long descent into Brighton lay ahead of them, and Marni could see a number of farmhouses set back from the road on either side.
They passed a couple of houses that didn’t seem to have names, but certainly didn’t look as if they qualified as farms. The next was an obvious farmyard and had a sign – High Croft Farm.
‘Pull in here,’ said Francis. ‘I’m going to ask where Stone Acre Farm is.’
The Tattoo Thief Page 19