The door opened and closed.
‘Marni?’ It was a woman’s voice.
She opened her eyes to see Angie Burton holding out a cup to her. ‘Francis told me you wanted some coffee.’
She pushed herself up the pillows. ‘Thanks. Where is he?’
‘I’m sure he’ll be in to see you when he’s ready,’ she said. The apparently friendly smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.
The door opened again and Francis came back in.
‘Thanks, Angie,’ he said.
‘No problem. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.’ Now she was positively simpering and Marni knew the score. Well, Angie was welcome to him.
‘You all right, Marni? Do you need painkillers?’
‘I’m fine. What did Thierry want?’
‘Just to threaten me with grievous bodily harm if I put you in danger again.’
Marni snorted. ‘Ignore him. He’s all mouth.’
‘He was worried about you. Rightly so. What you did was idiotic.’
Marni pushed herself up against the pillows. ‘It got the Tattoo Thief arrested, didn’t it?’
‘And it almost got you killed.’
‘You know what, instead of being angry with me, you might just bloody thank me for doing your job.’
Francis bristled but didn’t say anything. He looked like someone had rammed a poker up his arse.
‘Fuck you,’ she said. ‘I’m tired and I think it’s time you left. And don’t bother coming back again.’
xvii
They’ve taken me away from Brighton. Squashed like a sardine in a crappy police van. Handcuffed all the way. That shit lawyer should have stopped it. A stinking prison in the middle of nowhere. Fucking get me out. The Collector has to get me out. My chest feels tight. I can’t breathe.
I’ll hurt anyone that lays a finger on me. Guard or prisoner.
This needs to end. GET ME OUT OF HERE.
Where is he? He said that he would protect me. His lawyer told me they would get things sorted, get me out. I can’t stay here, I won’t survive.
The Collector won’t let me down. He won’t.
This is Marni Mullins’ fault. My fingers itch for a knife. I want to slash her beautiful tattoo. Rip her back to pieces. Shred her skin with a blunt blade. Make her feel it. Hear her screaming as her warm blood runs all over my hands.
I’ll have my time with her. I’ll carve her into pieces. And that red-haired policeman. I’ll have them both.
It’s not over till it’s over.
Where’s the Collector? Where is he? Why doesn’t he come?
48
Marni
The doctor was young and good-looking, making Marni wonder if she’d reached that age where all public sector employees would start to look younger than her. But when he shone a small, bright light into her eyes and declared that he wanted her to stay under observation until the next morning, she didn’t warm to him at all.
‘Seriously?’ she said. ‘I feel fine.’
‘Headache?’
‘Apart from that.’
He peeled the bandage back slowly from her arm and Marni winced as she saw a long, raw cut in the flesh, puckered at regular intervals by tight black stitches. It cut right across the lower portion of her sleeve tattoo, slicing through the wing of the vengeful angel wrapped around her arm. It was Thierry’s work, the first of several he’d done for her – and looking at it brought back memories of falling in love. She wondered if she’d ever feel anything with the same intensity again. But with those memories came the memories of Paul that couldn’t be disentangled – the dark third side of the triangle – and the lengthening shadows of all that had followed.
The doctor sucked in his breath. ‘It’s a little red for my liking.’ He felt the skin on either side of the cut. ‘It’s hot. I think there’s an infection – but we’ve given you antibiotics, so it should calm down over the next twenty-four hours. I’ll send a nurse in with a clean dressing, and I’ll come back and see you in the morning.’
‘You can’t be persuaded to change your mind?’
‘It’s for your own good, Ms Mullins. You’ve had a shock so we want to monitor your blood sugar levels for a while, too. Please bear with us.’
When he’d gone, Marni looked at the cut. She flexed her wrist, feeling pain shooting up her arm. The cut looked deep in places. Thank God it had been on her left arm, rather than her right.
A nurse came in and bandaged it. Marni was patient until she left. It was time to put her plan into operation.
She got gingerly to her feet and the room swam, as the jack-hammer in her head responded to every move. Through an open door, she could see a bathroom. She took tentative steps towards it, clasping the doorframe gratefully when she reached it. She propped herself up at the basin for a few minutes before splashing her face with cold water. In the mirror, she looked pale and tired, and maybe a decade older. Her hair was a mess and the previous day’s eye makeup was smudged on her cheeks.
She wasn’t going to stay here. The killer was in custody and she needed to get home, have a bath and then sleep in her own bed. That was the only way she was going to start feeling better.
She went back into the bedroom and looked around for her clothes. They lay crumpled on a chair by the window. There were splashes of blood on her top and on her jeans but she didn’t care. They felt better than the short hospital gown, with its open back. Her bag was in the small cupboard by her bed, and a tub of painkillers stood on the nightstand. They were prescribed to her, so she dropped them into her bag and zipped it shut.
No one challenged her as she left the hospital, though every moment she expected someone to shout her name. The police protection had been called off now the Tattoo Thief was in custody, and no one had any reason to keep tabs on her. Down in the main lobby, she thought about calling Thierry to come and fetch her, but he would probably try and persuade her to stay here for another night. There was a taxi stand outside the front entrance. She checked that her purse still had money in it before joining the queue. She’d be home in minutes and, with the front door shut and locked behind her, the rest of the world could go to hell.
However, once she was sitting in the taxi, a shiver ran through her. She realised she didn’t want to go back to an empty house. Alex was at Thierry’s and Pepper was still at the vet’s.
‘Can you take me to Gardner Street instead, please?’
‘Sure,’ said the driver.
She would go to the studio and do some drawing. Drawing was the only way she’d be able to make sense of the emotional turmoil she was experiencing – the attack, what she’d seen at Stone Acre Farm, Pepper, Frank Sullivan, Thierry, the ever-present spectre of Paul . . . None of this was tied to her past but there was a lingering anxiety that always brought those events to the surface when she felt threatened.
The driver dropped her off outside the studio and she knew, the moment she opened the door, that it had been a mistake to come here. She had to peel crime scene tape away from the door – she wasn’t even sure she was supposed to be in here. The events of the previous evening flooded back and she was confronted with all the evidence of what had happened – Pepper’s blood, the massage bench lying on its side. Her desk was a chaotic mess and there were dark smudges of fingerprint powder on every surface.
But this was her space, and she wasn’t going to let what happened leave her cowering in a corner.
Wearily, she started cleaning up, sponging Pepper’s blood from the floor, doing her best not to breathe in the stink of it. She tugged the massage bench up to standing with her one good arm and wiped away the black fingerprint powder coating wherever she saw it. She couldn’t help but cry. Pepper’s bravery was touching, and she felt proud of herself, too. She’d been attacked before, but this time she didn’t fold and crumple. She’d used the skil
ls she’d made herself learn and she’d managed to save her own life. Maybe a few others, too, now that the Tattoo Thief was behind bars. While the police were trying to pin the blame on the wrong man, she’d done what had been needed to safeguard her community.
Clearing up took her a couple of hours and by the time she finished her head was throbbing again and there was no way that she’d be able to focus on drawing. Empty house or not, she was ready to go home and crawl into bed.
With fortuitous timing, her mobile chimed.
‘Yes?’
‘Marni, where the hell are you?’ It was Thierry.
‘At the studio.’
‘I’m at the hospital. They told me you checked yourself out.’
‘I did. I couldn’t stay there a minute longer.’
Thierry grunted. ‘Idiot.’
‘Did you call me just to insult me?’
‘I’m coming to get you. I’ll take you home.’
‘Thank you.’
He wasn’t always so bad.
She picked up her bag and some drawing supplies to take with her and checked that the back door was locked. Someone, at Francis’s behest she imagined, had sorted out a temporary padlock to make good the damage that had been done when Sam Kirby had kicked the door in. A more permanent fix could wait till later in the week.
She went out by the front and stood on the pavement to wait for Thierry. It was getting dark and the shops and cafés nearby were mostly closed. Halfway down Gardner Street, a pair of giant legs in red and white striped stockings stuck out above the street from the fascia of a comedy club – they always brought a smile to her face. She’d snapped up the tattoo studio here when she and Thierry had first broken up and she had to leave Tatouage Gris. Now she couldn’t imagine ever wanting to work anywhere else.
She watched for Thierry’s ancient Jag. At least it would be a comfortable ride home.
Headlights came up the road towards her but passed by. It wasn’t the Jag, just a white tradesman’s van, and so she carried on watching. Her headache had receded slightly out in the fresh air and she thought longingly about a warm bubble bath. She smiled. She felt proud of herself, good about the future. She’d proved something to herself and she would never forget it again. She wasn’t a victim.
I’m nobody’s victim any more.
Pain exploded in the back of her head and she staggered forward. An arm caught her. Something pressed against her mouth and, as she gasped for air, the world turned black.
49
Francis
The service wasn’t acting as a balm to Francis in the way he’d hoped it would. This was the first time he’d encountered a person so thoroughly evil up close. Of course, apprehending killers was the focus of his job, and had been since he’d first become a detective constable. But this time was different, a more personal adversary because he’d been in charge of the case, and on a scale of depravity he had never seen before. The revulsion he felt for all he’d seen at Stone Acre Farm and for the smile Sam Kirby flashed at him when he finished questioning her had left him feeling dirty.
He felt calmer for being inside St Catherine’s, as he always did, but none of the prayers or readings that evening spoke to him. They did nothing to quench the pain and even Father William’s sonorous voice offered no comfort. His question was always the same. How could such evil exist? A question humanity had asked throughout the ages, but one that God never chose to answer.
His thoughts drifted to his sister, then to his mother. His mother never held it against him when his work prevented him from visiting, but his sister had made her feelings quite clear. Of course, he felt guilty – he didn’t do half enough for either of them. He’d taken Robin to visit their mother just before coming to the service and it hadn’t gone well. His mother, almost completely blind and confined to a wheelchair, had cried for most of the time they spent with her. She wanted to know if they’d heard from their father, which of course they hadn’t. It had been years since he left, but he was still the focus of their mother’s thoughts in a way that was painful to witness.
Robin had reproached him for not visiting frequently enough, but each time he left his mother, alone in her own world, confined to her lonely room, he felt terrible. This afternoon had been no exception. His mother’s interest in the world beyond four walls had diminished, and Robin covered her own fear of this future with brusque irritation. His mother’s cheek, when he kissed her goodbye, was wet with tears. The future held nothing for her.
He let his eyes drop and bowed his head. Father William was reciting the final prayer, 2 Corinthians 13. Francis shifted his weight on his knees, sorry that the service was over so quickly.
As the small body of worshippers filed out, he sat back on his chair, contemplating the painted angels behind the crucifix. The church was silent apart from the noise of shuffling feet as the organist didn’t play at evensong. He bent forward to rest his head in his hands, praying for Robin and his mother, and for the strength he needed to do his job well, asking for forgiveness for the times he’d fallen prey to distractions and disillusionment. Father William gave his shoulder a quick squeeze as he walked back up the aisle towards the altar.
It was not the time for his phone to ring, so of course it did. Father William’s head whipped round, a look of silent reprimand plastered across his face. Francis switched it off immediately, but not before glancing at the number. Thierry Mullins. Ringing him to issue another threat? He put the phone back in his pocket and bent his head in silent prayer again.
Half an hour later, when he emerged from the church, it was overcast outside and much cooler than it had been earlier. St Catherine’s stood on the brow of the hill with its churchyard sloping down towards Dyke Road and, beyond it, North Street. Feeling less anxious, Francis strolled down the worn brickwork path, then ducked through the stone archway at the bottom that led onto Wykeham Terrace. He walked up the path to the front door of his father’s imposing Victorian gothic house. He’d always loved this house, though he’d spent scant time here as a child. The grey and white paintwork and crenellated eaves had made it virtually a castle in his youthful eyes. His father had left it empty more than a decade before, so moving into it when he wanted a place of his own had made sense – as a temporary measure. That had been three years ago and he hadn’t even started looking for an alternative.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket and switched it back on. He was thinking about what he had in the fridge for supper when a text message bounced in.
Marni missing – call me.
It was from Thierry, and had been sent two minutes after his phone had rung in the church. Another one followed.
Call me. This is serious.
Then another two, similarly worded.
Francis hit the button for Thierry’s number.
‘Thank God,’ said Thierry as they were connected. ‘She checked herself out of the hospital and went to the studio. I was going to pick her up but she’s not here.’
‘So maybe she got tired of waiting for you and set off on foot,’ said Francis. He tried to keep the anxious edge out of his voice.
It’s not over . . .
‘She’s not answering her phone. And she wasn’t waiting long – it only took me ten minutes to get here. I’ve been up and down the street. There’s no sign of her. She hasn’t had time to get home and, anyway, why leave when you’ve got a lift coming?’
‘What do you think has happened?’
‘How would I know?’ snapped Thierry. ‘Please, get a missing person’s report out on her.’
‘You’re not telling me everything, are you?’ There was something in Thierry’s voice that suggested he knew more than he was letting on.
‘I don’t think this has anything to do with it, but you should know, my twin brother is due to be released from prison round about this time. There’s bad blood between them.’
>
‘Your brother was the man she stabbed, right?’
‘She told you what happened?’
‘Only some. Are you suggesting that your brother might come here? To do what?’
‘No . . . I don’t know. I just need to know she’s safe.’
‘I’ll meet you at the studio.’
Ten minutes later, Francis drew up outside Marni’s studio on Gardner Street, not caring that he was parking on a yellow line. Thierry was waiting for him inside the front of the shop.
‘Was the door left open?’ said Francis, as he hurried in.
Thierry shook his head. ‘I’ve got a key. I used to work here with her sometimes.’
‘Any sign of where she might have gone?’
‘Nothing.’
Francis went through to the back. ‘She must have spent some time here – she’s cleared up all the mess from yesterday.’
‘Apparently, she left the hospital at about five o’clock.’
Francis checked his watch. It was nearly half past seven.
‘When did you last speak to her?’
‘At about seven. I was at the hospital and she was here. But she was gone by the time I got here.’
It didn’t make sense. The Tattoo Thief was behind bars. Marni shouldn’t have been in any danger. Francis wanted to believe that she’d just decided not to wait for Thierry. But then why wasn’t she answering her phone?
‘Your brother Paul is still in prison in France?’
‘Yes, as far as I know.’
‘But you’re not sure?’
‘My mother would know if he’s out.’
Thierry quickly dialled a number and then spoke rapidly in French. When he hung up, his face was relieved.
‘Paul’s still in prison. He’s due for parole but that hasn’t happened yet. That’s all my mother could tell me.’
So it wasn’t Paul. But that in itself hardly helped – Marni was still missing. Francis was scared. There were multiple possibilities. He got out his phone again.
The Tattoo Thief Page 26