The Tattoo Thief

by Alison Belsham

  xiii

  When my father used to get angry with me, I hated him for it. When I was young, it was my school work. As I got older, it was the decisions I made. When I started working for him at the family firm, I couldn’t do anything right. ‘You sent out the wrong order.’ ‘You used the wrong leather.’ ‘That colour you chose for that bag is disgusting.’ The more often it happened, the more my feelings of love turned into something else, hard-edged and bitter, until that was all that was left.

  Now the Collector’s angry with me. I had to tell him what happened and, over the phone, I could hear first the disappointment in his voice and then something with a harder edge. I could picture his frown, his sneer, and I wanted to disappear or turn back the clock. Of course, with the Collector, it’s different. He has a right to be angry with me. I’ve made mistakes that are unforgivable and now Jem Walsh died for nothing. His precious scalp is simply a piece of evidence with a number, instead of a beautiful work of art.

  Francis Sullivan is the name of the policeman who’s to blame. I watched his press conference on the television. I watched him trespassing on my property, contaminating the only place where I feel safe, and then running up the hill behind me. He’s ruining everything I’ve worked for.

  He’ll regret it, I’ll make certain of that.

  Seeing his car outside Marni Mullins’ house feeds my anger. What was she doing at Stone Acre with the police? Why’s he with her now?

  I’ll sit and wait until he leaves.

  But the lights have gone off downstairs and he still hasn’t left.

  I can hear laughter through an open window. Her laughter.

  I can wait.

  The lights have gone off upstairs.

  I have to wait. I have no choice. But my anger burns bright and soon I will have to act.

  40

  Francis

  Francis pulled the duvet cover over his face. Why did his bed smell different, perfumed? Still under the protection of the covers, he opened his eyes. He was in his boxer shorts. This wasn’t his bed. He didn’t recognise the sheets.

  Something thudded onto the end of the bed and scrabbled across the duvet. Francis sat up in a hurry and found himself face-to-face with Pepper. The dog barked excitedly and started to lick his cheek.

  It all flooded back. The vodka shots, the pasta, the red wine. Kissing Marni.

  Why had he thought drinking vodka was a good idea?

  He pushed Pepper away and checked his watch. Damn. He should be in the office by now and he would need to go home first for a change of clothes. Pepper renewed his attack and the pains in his head migrated to the back of his skull.

  He lay back down with a groan. Wine and vodka? It wasn’t like he’d never had a hangover before. Of course he had. But today wasn’t the day for one. It wasn’t even the week for one.

  ‘You awake, Frank?’

  He opened his eyes to see Marni drifting into the bedroom from the en suite. She was naked, coming towards the bed as if she had every intention of climbing back into it. There were parts of last night that seemed a blank, but surely if anything else had happened between them, he’d remember it? All he could think of was that long, lingering kiss. Nothing else.

  Marni sat down at the end of the bed, facing him, and he tried to look anywhere but at her breasts. He failed miserably. They were beautiful and they were causing significant stirrings under the duvet. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could think of anything to say, the doorbell rang.

  ‘At this hour?’ said Marni. She stood up and headed for the bedroom door where a couple of robes hung on a hook.

  Frank couldn’t take his eyes off her. Not because she was stark naked, though that was obviously reason enough. Not because he wanted to see where she was going. That was clear enough too. But because, when she turned her back to him, he saw her back piece for the first time. Of course, he knew she had a back piece by Iwao, but he’d never thought to ask to see it. Her tattoos were none of his business.

  Only this one was.

  He recognised it in an instant and his heart stood still.

  He’d seen it before. In the killer’s barn.

  Marni Mullins was a target.

  Marni Mullins was on the killer’s list.

  The tattoo on Marni’s back was in one of the images the Tattoo Thief had pinned up on the wall – the orange and gold koi carp twisting in the swirling blue and green waters of the pond, and the crying geisha in her scarlet kimono and black obi. Only in life, moving sinuously as Marni walked across the room, it was much more spectacular than the flat image he had seen.

  The killer was still at large and he wanted to take the tattoo off Marni’s back.

  ‘Marni . . .’

  ‘Just let me deal with whoever’s at the door. Then I’ll get us some coffee.’

  Francis fought to stay calm.

  She pulled on the tapestry robe she’d been wearing the evening before and he heard the stairs creaking as she went down.

  Recovering himself, he looked around the bedroom and saw his clothes in a crumpled heap near the window. Ignoring the pounding in his skull, he swung his legs from the bed to the floor and gingerly stood up. The room spun and then stabilised as he steadied himself with deep breathing. When he was able to, he went over to the pile of clothes and dug his mobile phone out of his trouser pocket.

  It took him three attempts to get his passcode right but then he was in. He pulled up the images he’d taken the day before at Stone Acre. Yes, he was right. The living tattoo he’d just seen on Marni’s back was on the killer’s list. No wonder she’d fainted when she’d seen the picture on the Tattoo Thief’s wall. How could he have been such an idiot not to realise? And why the hell hadn’t she told him? At the thought of Marni in danger, a wave of anxiety washed through him.

  He dialled Rory. She needed round-the-clock protection, from now on until they had the killer in custody. There was no answer.

  His brain was working in slow motion today. He bolted from the room, trying to remember frantically where the staircase was. Pepper started to bark and charged after him, weaving between his legs to make every step hazardous.

  ‘Marni! Marni, wait! Don’t answer the door.’

  He took the stairs two at a time, Pepper tumbling down under his feet.

  ‘It could be the killer . . .’

  But he was too late. Her hand was on the latch and she pulled open the door before the word ‘killer’ had left his lips.

  Thierry Mullins, clutching a bag of croissants and two takeaway coffees, was standing on the step. He looked them both up and down, registering the fact that Francis was only in his shorts. Then he looked Marni squarely in the eye.

  ‘Qu’est-ce qu’il fait ici, lui?’

  Pepper positioned himself in front of Francis, a low growl rumbling through his chest.

  41

  Marni

  Marni looked from one man to the other. Francis looked as if he’d seen a ghost. He was out of breath and staggered against the hall wall. What the hell was wrong with him? Thierry wore an expression of murderous intent, but Francis wasn’t afraid of him surely. Before anyone could speak, Alex pushed past his father into the hallway. Pepper rushed up to him, tail wagging and panting.

  ‘Hey, Mum,’ he said, planting a kiss on her cheek.

  God, this wasn’t embarrassing at all, to have your teenage son marching through a stand-off between your ex-husband and the man who’d just spent the night in your bed. She wanted to say ‘No, I didn’t sleep with him’, but that would hardly be appropriate.

  ‘Hi, darling,’ she said, hugging him. ‘How was your stay?’

  What else could she say?

  Alex stepped back and looked at her incredulously. Then he looked from Thierry to Francis and back to Marni.

  ‘Mum?’ In a single word, he asked ev
ery question she didn’t want to answer.

  No one spoke. It was awkward. Beyond awkward.

  Alex’s expression flitted between angry and confused. ‘Come on, Pepper. Let’s get the hell out of Dodge.’

  He dropped a bulging backpack onto the hall floor and took the coffee and the croissants from his father’s hands. A slavering Pepper followed him in the direction of the kitchen.

  Thierry was scowling at Francis with a look Marni knew all too well, his brows lowered, and he was biting his lip against the release of a string of French invective. Francis inched backwards into the darker recess of the hall, but she could see his cheeks were flaming.

  Thierry raised himself up to his full height so he could look down on Francis.

  ‘This is how you protect my wife from the Tattoo Thief? In her bed? Is that what you call close protection?’

  Finally he was getting a taste of his own medicine.

  ‘Ex-wife,’ said Marni. ‘Which means who I sleep with is none of your goddamn business.’

  But she regretted the words the moment they were out of her mouth. She knew Thierry’s temper. He’d always been a jealous man, and even though they were divorced, he clung to the contention that, as a Catholic, he would forever be her husband. When it suited him. She could literally hear him grinding his teeth.

  ‘You have a son to think of, too.’

  When he pushed past her into the hall, however, it was a step too far.

  ‘Thierry!’

  He was squaring up in front of Francis, his fists already clenched. Francis, in just his shorts, was at a distinct psychological disadvantage, let alone the physical disadvantage in terms of height and weight.

  ‘I suggest you leave my house now, or I’ll kick you out,’ said Thierry.

  ‘It’s not your house,’ said Marni, furious.

  She tugged on Thierry’s shoulder but he shook her off as if she were a minor irritation.

  Francis had raised his arms into a defensive position. He looked like a poster boy for the Queensberry Rules and Marni could see that it was never going to be an even fight. Thierry had always played dirty and he hated the police almost as much as she did.

  ‘Stop this now,’ she roared.

  ‘You’re not an occupant of the house and, as a police officer, I’m asking you to leave,’ said Francis, his tone sharp.

  Oh God, that was never going to work.

  Francis’s head snapped against the living room doorframe as Thierry’s fist glanced off the side of his nose and across his cheekbone. He slid to a sitting position, clutching his nose with both hands and gasping for breath. Marni watched in horror as blood trickled out from between his fingers.

  ‘Fantastic, Thierry. You’ve just assaulted a police officer. You’ll end up back in the nick.’

  Thierry was nursing his knuckles with his other hand and deigned to reply only with his infamous grunt. It was all too typical and reminded her why things could never work between them.

  ‘Alex,’ called Marni. ‘Can you bring some kitchen roll?’

  She knelt down beside Francis and gently pulled his hands away from his nose. It was bleeding copiously and a swelling had already started bulging out on one side of it.

  ‘I don’t think it’s broken,’ she said, taking a handful of tissues from Alex, who slunk out of the hall again as fast as he could. She gave them to Francis to staunch the flow. ‘You’re not going to arrest him, are you?’

  ‘Not if he gets out now,’ said Francis, his voice thick with blood and mucus.

  ‘Enjoy your breakfast,’ said Thierry, turning to leave.

  ‘Wait. There’s something I need to tell you.’

  Thierry ignored her and headed for the door.

  ‘Thierry, you’re on the killer’s list!’

  There was an edge of hysteria to her voice that made Thierry stop in his tracks.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  Francis stared at her, wide-eyed with shock.

  ‘The Tattoo Thief, Thierry. You’re one of his targets.’

  They sat side by side on the sofa. Francis still mopping blood from his nose, Thierry too stunned to speak until he’d downed the shot of whisky Marni placed in front of him.

  Alex came in silently with a tray of coffees. He conspicuously handed the cups to his parents and then just dumped Francis’s on the table with a clatter. The air was frigid.

  Marni shredded a couple of tissues nervously, waiting for the two men to gather their thoughts.

  Francis recovered first.

  ‘So let me get this straight. You saw a picture of your own tattoo and a picture of Thierry’s tattoo on the killer’s wall?’

  Marni nodded, biting her lip.

  ‘Which one is Thierry’s?’

  ‘The fall of Lucifer tattoo.’

  ‘So you’re both targets. That’s why you fainted, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you didn’t think to mention this fact to me? Even when I showed you the photos later in the evening?’ His words were clipped but there was no missing the underlying fury. ‘I can’t believe you kept it to yourself. There’s a very real, very skilled killer out there – and he’s coming after you.’

  Marni’s stomach clenched painfully. Why hadn’t she told him? Because she didn’t want to admit the truth to herself? Because she thought she could keep herself safe?

  Thierry groaned loudly. His hands were shaking.

  ‘Marni, why didn’t you tell me as soon as you knew? Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I . . .’ Marni didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Either one of us could have been killed in our beds.’

  She’d really fucked up.

  ‘Damn it, Marni, you were here on your own last night before I arrived,’ Francis continued. ‘What if it had been the killer at the door, rather than me?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have opened it. I knew it was you, because you phoned.’

  ‘I can’t handle this,’ said Thierry, heading off towards the kitchen.

  ‘Stay here,’ snapped Francis. ‘I need to talk to both of you. On a professional level. You need protection. Marni, make some more coffee while I get dressed.’

  Damn men. They all thought they could take over. This was her house and he had no right to issue orders. She needed a nicotine hit, so she lit a cigarette and went and stood outside the back door.

  ‘Tell me, what’s going on with him?’ said Thierry, following her out and leaning on the door jamb.

  ‘None of your business,’ she said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. ‘All you need to know is that you’re on the killer’s hit list, so please be careful.’

  ‘So sweet of you to care.’ He had recovered from the shock. Now he was just angry with her.

  ‘You’re Alex’s dad. I wouldn’t want to see him getting hurt if anything happened to you.’

  Thierry had left by the time Francis came back downstairs and it was hard to tell if he was relieved or annoyed. Marni poured them both fresh coffee.

  ‘Give me his home address and where he works – I’ll make sure there’s someone keeping an eye on him until this is over.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Marni. Then she cocked her head. ‘Same treatment for me? A policeman shadowing me?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  She frowned. ‘I have Pepper. I don’t need a bodyguard.’

  ‘You don’t get a choice.’

  ‘Will it be you?’

  ‘No, it won’t. I need to run the case, not trail around after witnesses.’

  ‘No personal protection then?’

  He was so easy to tease. His face went scarlet.

  ‘Look, what exactly happened last night?’

  ‘Oh, Frank, don’t you remember?’

  ‘I remember kissing you.’ He
looked like he’d sucked on a lemon.

  Really? It was that bad?

  ‘There’s no need for you to worry. Nothing else happened. You passed out after that and, believe it or not, I’m not in the habit of having sex with unconscious policemen. Or any policemen, come to that.’

  Frank stared at his feet, his cheeks blazing afresh. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. I’m sure it’s a relief to you. I could see how much you were panicking when Thierry thought we’d slept together.’ She finished her coffee in one gulp, determined to play it cool given his obvious regret about the whole thing. ‘Now, I know you’ve got a lot to do, so why don’t you run along and sort me out a big, strong bodyguard?’

  It was a shame they wouldn’t be repeating the exercise, because with Frank Sullivan’s soft drunken snoring in her ear, Marni had enjoyed her best night’s sleep in months.

  He gathered up his belongings and left without saying another word.

  As soon as the door shut behind him, Marni hammered a fist against the wall.

  ‘Damn you, Francis Sullivan!’

  42

  Rory

  Rory had spent most of the night at a police roadblock on Ditchling Road, stopping cars not so much in the hope of apprehending the killer, but to find out if anyone had seen anything unusual and to warn the local community to be on their guard. As the traffic died off in the small hours, he’d come back to the station to review CCTV findings and to draft a statement for Bradshaw to release to the press. It was hard work. Press releases were more Sullivan’s forte than his, but he hadn’t heard from him since before midnight. Finally, he’d managed to slope off home for a quick shower and a short kip but now he was back – and more determined than ever to track Sam Kirby down.

  He checked his phone for the umpteenth time and found that he’d missed a call from Francis on the drive in. No message. No text. He called back, but the door of the incident room swung open before there was an answer.

  ‘Hang up, Rory. I’m here.’

  It was Francis Sullivan, but not as he’d ever seen him before. His hair was tousled, his suit looked slept in and his nose was swollen and skewed off centre. As he came across the room, Rory could see the faint shadows of two black eyes starting to blossom.