The Tattoo Thief

by Alison Belsham

  ‘Rory, put out an ATL on Marni Mullins. Missing from her studio on Gardner Street since around seven.’ He listened for a moment, frowning. ‘Yes, I do think she might be in danger. Now just do it.’

  It’s not over . . .

  50

  Marni

  Did she dare open her eyes? Was she back in the hospital? She was on a cold, hard surface. She was lying on the floor, on her side, and a moment’s impulse from her brain to her limbs told her she couldn’t move. Panic, and a rush of adrenalin. She tried to bring her right hand to her face but she couldn’t. It was secured to her other hand at the wrist, behind her back. She was tied up and a moment’s experimentation revealed that her ankles were also bound together.

  She screamed for help. Nothing emerged from her throat but a dry rasp.

  She opened her eyes. It made no difference – her world was black. She must be blindfolded. She rubbed the side of her face against the top of one arm and felt a strip of fabric bound round her head, but she couldn’t shift it enough to see underneath. No chink of light slipped beneath the blindfold. She opened her eyes against the fabric but there was nothing.

  The night terrors times a thousand.

  She shut her eyes more tightly. She thought she heard a baby crying – Luke. Alex appeared in the distance. He was running away from her, taking Luke, and she was powerless to follow them. She bit her cheek and the pain made her snap out of it.

  She listened. The silence became its own sound, hissing in the dark and ringing in her ears, a persistent earworm that pulsed with the rhythm of her blood in her veins. The only way to banish it was to concentrate on the sound of her own breathing. She needed to move. She rolled from her side onto her back, crushing her arms, then onto her other side. The floor was cold. The hip and shoulder on which she’d been lying ached.

  Marni bent her legs up towards her body and shifted her weight, struggling into a sitting position. Now she could lean forwards and rest her head on her knees. She took a few deep breaths and felt better. She could think more clearly. Maybe if she shuffled around on her haunches, she would be able to work out where the door was.

  This thought shocked her – how quickly had she normalised the situation she was in? Where the hell was she? Who had done this to her? Fear was like a cold shower of needles piercing her skin. Her enemy wasn’t the darkness or the silence. It was the person who’d put her here.

  That could be only one person. Paul.

  No. That couldn’t be.

  She started to scream for help again and this time her voice rang out loud and clear. She yelled for a minute, then stopped, listening, hoping she would hear someone coming. But what if it was Paul? She regretted making a noise.

  If it wasn’t him, who the hell else would do this to her. Why?

  It was cold. It was dark. She desperately needed water. She was alone. Before very long she’d need insulin and food, in the right order. And she was scared. She knew only too well what he was capable of.

  For the next hour, she shuffled round and mapped out the confines of her captivity. It was a large room, and she bumped into various items of furniture, one or two of which were chairs, but there were also other pieces she couldn’t identify. On one wall, she felt a doorframe and a door. With this discovery, she pushed herself up onto her knees and, by pressing one shoulder against the door handle, was able to manoeuvre herself up to standing. She turned around and felt for the handle with her hands. She pushed it down and tried pulling, then pushing the door. It didn’t move. It was locked.

  Disappointment flooded through her. Her bladder released. Hot urine rushed down her legs and soaked into her jeans, the stink of it assaulting her nostrils.

  She sank back down to the floor and started to cry.

  51

  Rory

  The boss flew into the incident room, his usual pallor exaggerated, his breath rasping from running up the stairs.

  ‘Nothing?’ he said to Rory.

  Rory shook his head. ‘The ATL’s only been out a short while.’

  ‘CCTV?’

  ‘Just getting to it.’

  ‘Come on, Rory. You know as well as I do, if we don’t find her soon our chances of finding her diminish fast.’

  Rory knew that and more. Like the fact that the more time that passed, the more likely it was she’d show up dead. That even if they found something on the CCTV, it would only tell them where she was then – not where she was now. Things the boss didn’t need to hear, given the state he was in already.

  ‘Angie,’ said Francis, ‘I got this list of numbers from Thierry Mullins – friends, family, people she might have called. Run through it and see if any of them have any idea of her whereabouts.’

  Angie took the list back to her desk and started to work the phone.

  ‘What about the kid?’ said Rory. ‘He might know something.’

  ‘Thierry’s gone back to his flat to ask him. He’ll let us know.’

  ‘Her sister doesn’t know anything,’ said Burton, starting to dial the next number on her list.

  Rory got the CCTV feed for Gardner Street up on his screen. Francis studied the footage over his shoulder. Unfortunately, the camera angle meant that the entrance to Celestial Tattoo was just out of shot.

  ‘Goddamn it – this won’t show us anything.’

  ‘Let’s take a look,’ said Rory, staying calm. ‘If she left on foot, we’ll see her coming down the road this way or, if she went the other way, she’ll show up on one of the other cameras when she turns the corner into North Road.’

  Rory set the footage in motion. He started it at seven, exactly the time when Thierry had called Marni from the hospital. There were a few people walking up and down the road, but most of the shops and pavement cafés were closed by then. Vehicles came down the road intermittently – it was a narrow, one-way street, too narrow for parking, which at least gave them a clear view of the pavements and doorways.

  Francis fidgeted behind him.

  They watched it several times, scanning the pedestrians for Marni, but there was no sign of her walking. As Rory had expected, the footage yielded nothing useful.

  ‘What about North Road? Can you load the film that covers its junction with Gardner Street?’ asked the boss.

  They ran through the new footage for another half hour, desperately trying to see her.

  ‘It’s like she’s vanished into thin air,’ said Francis.

  ‘Could she have left by the back door?’

  ‘No, it was padlocked from the inside. She came out at the front. Start all over again, Rory, and take down all the vehicle licence plates.’

  A couple of hours passed, though it felt far longer.

  Francis paced the incident room, barking questions at the team and talking to Thierry on the phone. Alex knew nothing, nor did anyone else Thierry had called.

  ‘Talk to me, Rory.’

  ‘Nothing yet, boss. The first three cars – I’ve checked them on the database. They’re all local, no obvious connection.’

  The golden hour had passed long ago and if Marni had been abducted, her chances of survival were growing slimmer with every passing minute.

  ‘Boss?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘This one,’ Rory said, pointing at a small white van. ‘It’s coming up as registered to a hire company.’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  As Francis led the way out, he almost ran straight into a uniformed officer coming in.

  ‘Inspector Sullivan?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This has just been handed in at the desk.’ He held up a large red shoulder bag. ‘A man found it after pub closing in an alleyway off Gardner Street. It appears to belong to the missing woman, Marni Mullins.’

  Francis didn’t need the information – he recognised the bag immediately.


  As the officer handed it over to him, the sound of a mobile phone ringing came from inside. Francis dropped it onto the nearest desk and rummaged through it for the phone. Thierry’s name showed on the screen, and Francis pressed answer.

  ‘Marni? No, who’s this?’ came his panicked voice, struck with a moment of hope.

  ‘Francis. Her bag’s just been handed in. Found in Gardner Street.’

  ‘Merde, merde!’

  ‘We’ve got a lead. A hired van drove up the road at around about the time she went missing. The car hire office is in Cannon Place. It opens at six a.m. – meet us there.’

  He was about to hang up when Thierry said, ‘Wait.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Is her medication in the bag?’

  ‘Medication?’ Francis pulled the two sides of the bag wide open so he could see inside.

  ‘She’s diabetic. She needs insulin shots.’

  ‘I had no idea she was diabetic.’

  ‘You don’t really know her very well at all, do you?’

  At the bottom of the bag, Francis could see a small clear pouch containing medical paraphernalia. He pulled it out. ‘What happens if she misses it?’

  ‘If she doesn’t control her blood sugar levels, for even a few hours, she’ll fall into a coma.’

  52

  Francis

  Rory worked the phone as Francis drove. ‘No answer, boss. They’re not open yet.’

  ‘Keep trying.’

  It was no distance and the streets were empty. Francis hit the accelerator and flipped his blue lights.

  ‘I need details on who rented the following van from you . . .’ Rory had finally got an answer and reeled off the registration number. ‘Police. We suspect it might have been used in a crime.’ He was silent and then hung up the call with a string of expletives. ‘Fucking data protection. Need a warrant. The guy’s obviously been watching too many crime dramas.’

  ‘He’s bloody right, of course,’ said Francis. ‘Hopefully seeing a warrant card will be enough to convince him.’

  He was driving too fast down Old Steine and then failed to give way as he should have at the roundabout. Marni’s bag, with her medication inside, slid from one side of the back seat to the other. An angry Vauxhall driver sounded his horn as Francis sped away up Kings Road and along the front.

  ‘Anything from Hollins yet?’ Francis had called him out to question the owners of the other vehicles they’d seen on the CCTV, though he doubted it would yield anything of use.

  ‘No, boss. He only left home ten minutes ago and he’s got further to go than us.’

  ‘Shit! I can’t help wondering . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘All that it’s not over stuff.’

  ‘But Kirby’s locked up. We’ve found nothing to suggest an accomplice. I don’t see how it can be connected.’

  Francis shook his head. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling, Rory.’

  The white regency splendour of the Grand Hotel passed in a blur, and the brakes shrieked as Francis made the sharp right into Cannon Place. The car hire office was located at the top end of the road. Francis screeched to a halt, half blocking the entrance to the small yard in which the hire cars were parked. They jumped out of the car and ran to the office door, becoming aware of the sounds of an altercation inside.

  ‘Putain! Tell me now who’s got a white van out on hire from you,’ came Thierry’s unmistakeable tone from inside.

  ‘I can’t.’ The second voice sounded strangled.

  As Francis and Rory entered the office, they could see why. Thierry had hold of a young man by the two sides of his shirt collar and was practically dragging him across the chest-height counter.

  Rory heaved him off and strong-armed him back against the opposite wall. The young man rested against the counter on his side, panting. His name badge announced him as Amit.

  Francis got out his warrant card and held it out for the young man to read.

  ‘Jesus, that was fast. I only just called you,’ Amit gasped.

  Francis exchanged a glance with Rory. ‘We called you.’

  ‘I just dialled nine nine nine for help: this guy came in and started threatening me.’

  ‘Just get the damn information,’ shouted Thierry.

  ‘I can’t just give out information to you, sir,’ said Amit, less afraid now he realised he had the backup of two police officers.

  ‘Shut it,’ said Rory to Thierry. ‘Leave it to us.’

  Francis turned back to Amit. ‘I need to know who hired this van.’ He passed across a slip of paper with the registration details written on it. ‘We have reason to believe it may have been used in an abduction yesterday evening.’

  Amit stared at the paper, looking unsure as to what he was supposed to do.

  Francis flashed his warrant card again. ‘This is an emergency. A woman’s life might be in danger.’

  There was a brief scuffle and Thierry broke away from Rory. He came and stood by the counter next to Francis. ‘My wife’s life might be in danger.’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry,’ said Amit. ‘I was following the company rules.’

  Francis gave Thierry a warning look. ‘That’s okay. Now, please, give us the information.’

  Amit turned to his computer and typed in the details. ‘Got it. It’s hired out to an IT company called Algorithmics. They’ve had it for a couple of weeks.’

  ‘Got an address?’ said Rory.

  Outside the office, a police siren sounded loudly and seconds later two uniformed PCs rushed in.

  ‘Right, what’s going on? Are you the one that called in?’ The older of the pair addressed Amit, while glaring at Francis, Thierry and Rory.

  Francis pulled out his warrant card for the third time. ‘DI Sullivan.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said the cop. ‘We got a call to come out here. Threatening behaviour.’

  ‘We’ve got it covered. Thanks for turning out but it’s sorted.’

  ‘Right, guv.’

  The two uniforms backed out.

  Amit handed a printout to Francis. ‘That’s the address for the company.’

  Francis read it out loud. ‘Gorse Avenue, East Preston. Where the hell is that?’

  ‘East Preston? Out Littlehampton way,’ said Rory.

  ‘Let’s go,’ grunted Thierry.

  ‘Thank you, Amit,’ said Francis, as they headed for the door.

  ‘I hope you save the lady,’ Amit called after them.

  As Francis got back into the driving seat, he heard the passenger door opening behind him. He looked round to see Thierry climbing into the back seat. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  ‘I’m coming too.’

  ‘No. No way. This is a police matter.’

  ‘I’m not getting out. Now drive.’

  ‘Three’s better than two,’ said Rory. ‘Who knows what we’ll find there?’

  ‘That’s exactly what worries me,’ said Francis, gunning the car into gear.

  ‘Along the front, then the A259,’ said Rory. ‘Blue light?’

  ‘Blue light,’ said Francis. ‘And seat belts.’

  He put his foot down on the accelerator and offered up a silent prayer. A plea. He would bargain anything to see Marni safe.

  53

  Marni

  Had she slept or had she just been drifting in some sort of fugue state? It was hard to say and it didn’t matter. Marni was awake now, the hard floor digging into her, a heavy blanket of cold air making it difficult to move. She stank and her jeans were tight and clammy and damp. She felt sick, but hungry at the same time, though fear killed her appetite the moment she became aware of it.

  She struggled to sit up and was immediately dizzy, yellow spots floating in front of her bound eyes. Her sense of time and place had lost their
anchors and she had no way of working out how long she’d been here. She didn’t even know if it was day or night, but she needed food and water and, even more urgently, insulin.

  She took a deep breath and shouted for help at the top of her lungs, making it last for as long as she could. Breathe and repeat. Breathe and repeat – until she felt light-headed again and had to lie down.

  Her mind started to slip away and her thoughts spun out of control. Should she start gnawing at her own arm, like a rat in a trap? Could she eat her hair, bite into her cheek? The danger of slipping into a coma was seductive and she fought against it. But then she couldn’t remember what the danger was, why she was fighting. Surely it would be easier to slip away?

  A sudden noise, as sharp as the crack of gunfire after all the hours of silence, dragged her back to consciousness. It was a door opening. A light went on and at the bottom of her blindfold she could make out a thin, pale line.

  ‘Help me,’ she croaked.

  Footsteps came towards her.

  ‘Help me. I need water. I need food.’

  She struggled to sit up. A hand on her shoulder made her start. It pushed her back down to the floor.

  ‘Shhhhhhhhh.’

  She tried to push back against it, but she didn’t have the strength.

  An arm cradled her head. Then the rim of a plastic bottle was pressed to her lips. She drank gratefully. Cold, cold water. It was painful to swallow but so welcome she almost sobbed with gratitude. She drank her fill but still the bottle was pressed against her lips, so she drank more.

  But why didn’t the person untie her or undo her blindfold?

  She turned her head away from the water and heard the bottle being placed on the floor.

  ‘I’m diabetic. I need food. I need insulin.’

  The supporting arm lowered her back to the floor and footsteps receded.

  Whose arm? Whose footsteps? It felt strange to be attended to by someone so completely anonymous, with intentions unknown. Could it have been Paul?

  ‘Why don’t you untie me? Why don’t you help me?’