‘Only you’re killing people to do it. In Japan, they wait for them to die naturally.’
‘Art is more important than people. I’ve known that since I was a child. The human body is nature’s ultimate work of art, and when we adorn it with our own works, its beauty is magnified. Art must endure through time in a way that people never can. And art is pure and true, while people lie, brag and fornicate. I’m keeping what’s important, discarding what doesn’t matter. I’m creating the ultimate art collection. Surely you understand that, Marni? You’re a great artist yourself.’
Pretentious crap, she wanted to shout, but she knew she had to humour him.
‘And if you kill me, no one else will benefit from my art.’
‘Another advantage of your death. My tattoo will become a more rare and precious object.’
‘You’re wrong, Steve. And what you’re doing is wrong.’
She felt the force of his blow before she saw it coming. He smashed a bunched fist into the side of her head. Stars exploded in front of her eyes.
Steve walked away from her. Blood roared in her ears. She couldn’t hear what he was doing. Time was running out. Deep breaths. Slowly, not quickly. Don’t hyperventilate. Pain radiated out in waves from where his fist had hit her. She bit down hard on her lip to counter it, tasting blood in her mouth.
This couldn’t be the end. She had so much more living to do. She wasn’t going to let this bastard have his way. Somehow, she’d get out of this. Somehow.
‘I’m sorry if I hurt you, Marni.’ He was coming back to her. ‘This will soothe you.’
He pressed something soft against the side of her face, a cool caress.
‘Wh-what is that?’
‘This?’ He smoothed it against her cheek. ‘This is Evan’s tattoo, Evan’s skin.’
Marni recoiled. It felt like the softest chamois leather.
‘Sam did a good job with this one. She was so talented and now it’s all going to waste.’
Marni felt physically sick. Her mouth flooded with saliva. As she breathed in, she caught the scent of the human leather, strong and piggy. She retched and acid vomit burned the back of her throat. She gritted her teeth and pressed her lips together tightly, determined to remain calm.
‘Your skin will be even softer when I’ve finished preserving it,’ he said. ‘So soft, so beautiful.’
His other hand was on her back again and she could feel his fingers tracing the shapes in her tattoo.
‘Oh Marni, it’s hard for me to decide if I want you or if I want your tattoo more. You’re special to me, and you’re a creator of art. My other victims carried art on their bodies but nothing in their minds. However, you, you’re the embodiment of art itself. A creator and a living work of great beauty. But if I let you live, you’ll betray me. So much as I want you – and I do want you very much – it’s only the artwork on your body that I can trust.’ He grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her head back so that he could look her straight in the eyes. ‘That means, my darling, you’re going to have to die.’
56
Francis
Despite a major dent along the passenger side of the car, Francis barely moderated his speed as they cut a swathe through the narrow, sharp-cornered lanes of the village of East Preston. In the back, Thierry nursed his lip in silence, while Rory studied the map on his mobile to work out the quickest route to Gorse Avenue.
‘Left onto Vicarage Lane.’ The tyres screeched as Francis took the corner too fast. ‘Right onto Fairlands . . . left at Sea Road . . .’
A couple of young mothers chatting on the pavement with their pushchairs were left open-mouthed as the car sped through, blue light still flashing, and on Sea Road Francis had to slam the brakes on to narrowly avoid hitting a cat.
‘Jesus,’ muttered Thierry.
Finally, they came to Gorse Avenue.
‘Kill the light,’ said Rory. ‘Slow down.’
Lined on either side by large houses, Gorse Avenue went nowhere. It was a wealthy cul-de-sac of extensions, conservatories, tennis courts and outdoor pools. The houses on the south side of the road fronted onto the beach and it was easy to picture the gin-and-Jags lifestyle of the local residents.
‘I thought we were looking for a business address,’ said Francis.
Rory shrugged. ‘Probably some entrepreneur who runs his company from home.’
After the intensity of the drive across from Brighton, their slow, silent progress through privilege felt surreal. They didn’t meet another car and there were no pedestrians along the side of the road, or people in their gardens.
‘That’s it,’ said Rory, ‘on the right.’
He pointed to a sprawling contemporary structure that looked completely out of keeping with the Edwardian villas and art deco lodges they’d been driving past. Clad in corrugated steel, with sharp angles and curving buttresses, the building seemed to have no windows at all – at least not on the road side. Francis pulled the car up on the verge in front of the house next door. He didn’t want to lose the element of surprise by turning into the drive.
‘How are we going to handle it, boss?’
Francis sighed and rubbed his face with his hands.
‘Depends if anyone’s home. We don’t have a warrant, so we need to play it by the book. Thierry, you wait here.’
‘I’ll be damned if I do. I’m coming with you.’
‘No. This is police business.’
‘Marni’s my wife. And she needs insulin.’
‘Ex-wife.’ What was it with these two? It wasn’t the first time that Francis wondered why they’d divorced.
Francis got out of the car. Rory and Thierry did the same. Thierry had the little pouch containing Marni’s insulin-injecting kit in one hand.
‘All right. No fireworks, no histrionics.’ Francis was looking at Thierry when he said this. ‘Look for the van, then follow my lead.’
They walked along the road – there was no pavement, just neatly mowed grass verges – and into the driveway. A pale blue Aston Martin was parked conspicuously in front of the house.
‘He does alright for himself, then,’ murmured Rory.
There was no sign of the van, but there was a garage off to one side. Its door was closed. Francis pointed towards it and they changed direction.
Rory tried the main garage door. ‘Locked.’
Francis skirted round the side. A footpath led to a side door, the top half of which was glass. He peered into the garage. Beyond a stripped-down Harley, he could see a small white van. It looked the same as the one on the CCTV footage, but seeing it from the side meant he couldn’t make out the plates to confirm it.
Rory came behind him. ‘That’s definitely it. Must be.’
‘Right, time to question Mr . . . what’s the owner’s name?’ said Francis.
‘Harrington. Steven Harrington,’ said Rory. He was tapping into his mobile. ‘Comes up on Google as the owner of Algorithmics, the company that hired the white van.’
They walked in silence back around the house, towards the front door. A small silver name plaque stated ‘Algorithmics’. Underneath it there was an intercom button. Francis pressed it.
‘We’re sorry. There is no one working here today.’ The voice was female, robotic. ‘Please call the telephone number below to talk to someone.’
Francis glanced down. There was a number embossed in the metal fascia of the intercom.
‘Shall I call it?’ said Rory.
‘No. Wait here, in case someone comes. I’ll have a quick recce. And call for some backup, fast.’
Francis set off around the house again, Thierry following silently at his shoulder. As they progressed down the side of the building, the garden came into view – an unadorned lawn leading down to the sandy beach some fifteen metres away. There was an empty concrete terrace at ground lev
el that didn’t look like it was ever used – there was no furniture on it. However, there was a larger terrace at first-floor level, though this only boasted a solitary chair facing out to sea. The back of the house, in contrast to the front, was all glass and no metal. It put Francis in mind of a vast aquarium. Goldfish-bowl living taken to the extreme but, of course, there was no one around here to see in through the vast windows. He wondered if it was a private beach or whether members of the public could settle with their picnics and spend an hour or two watching how the rich passed their Sunday afternoons.
He looked through the windows. The ground floor was given over entirely to a single open-plan office. There were banks of computer screens arranged in semicircles across a line of desks but only one, high-tech, ergonomic office chair. Did only one person work for Algorithmics, generating the cash income for such a lavish lifestyle?
‘Thierry, try all the doors on ground level. If you find one open, come and get me. Don’t go in.’
Francis started to climb the steel staircase which gave access to the first-floor balcony. Each footfall made a soft clang on the metal, so he moved slowly to minimise it, not wanting to give his presence away in case there was someone in the house. The one chair on the balcony was perfect for sunrises or sunsets, no doubt. But it was the view inside the house that took Francis’s breath away.
He put his hands up to the glass window to cut out the glare of the early-morning sun and stared in breathlessly. He wouldn’t even know how to describe it. An art installation? A tableau? There were stuffed animals. Rank upon rank of them. Not in glass cases like the ones he’d seen at the Natural History Museum as a child, but out in the open. A battle had been staged, animal against animal, fighting with scaled-down human weapons, wearing miniature human clothing. The Roundheads versus the Cavaliers. Dogs against cats. A rabbit taking on a mongoose. Foxes fighting snakes. Big cats wrestling. Animals were wounded, skewered, decapitated. Tooth and claw ran red with blood. Animal body parts were strewn across the carnage.
It was both extraordinary and twisted, and indicated strongly that a very warped mind had created such a scene. Francis’s heart pounded and he tasted fear. Not for himself. But cold terror at the thought that Marni might be somewhere here, at the mercy of whatever creature had created this for his entertainment.
‘Putain!’ Thierry gasped as he came up beside Francis.
Francis put a finger to his lips, then tried the handle of the glass door that led onto the balcony. It opened and, without a moment’s thought, he stepped inside. Thierry followed.
The room had a fusty smell, like old fur coats, and dust motes drifted across the floor. But he had a sense, a strong sense, that they weren’t alone in the house. There was a faint smell of coffee, and somewhere, an open window was causing a draught. Without bending down, Francis used each foot to lever off the opposite shoe. They passed through the room and came to a landing with a staircase in either direction.
‘You go upstairs, I’ll go down,’ he whispered to Thierry. ‘Shout if you need help.’
Thierry nodded. ‘We’ve got to find her. She needs insulin, desperately by now.’
He cautiously set off to check the next floor.
In his stockinged feet, Francis made no sound as he moved down the stairs. And for the first time in his career as a police officer, he wished he had a gun.
57
Marni
Marni took a deep breath.
‘There is a way of having both, Steve,’ she said. She made her voice a little breathy. She wanted to throw up. She couldn’t believe what she was contemplating but her survival instinct was stronger than any revulsion she felt.
‘What do you mean?’ His eyes narrowed.
‘Like you said, my tattoo’s a living work of art. Keep me alive and you can see it every day. You can touch it and it’ll be warm. You can watch it move when I move. Imagine having a living exhibit in your gallery.’
Steve didn’t say anything. He was obviously considering the possibility and his breathing got faster. He caressed her back again, this time letting one of his hands stray round to the side of her naked breast.
Marni bit down hard on her lip to stop herself from retching.
‘I could keep you down here in a cage. My own little zoo exhibit. I like the idea.’
‘Yes,’ said Marni, that single word a struggle to spit out.
‘I could make love to you every day.’
Daily rape. Was it really a better option than death?
‘It’s a very clever idea, my dear. We could try it for a few days, couldn’t we, to see how it would work.’
He sighed, pressing himself up against her back. Marni felt one of his hands exploring between her legs, and she jolted, smashing her hip against the wood of the cross. Steve withdrew his hand and slapped her hard on one buttock.
‘It would never work,’ he said, his voice hissing, ‘because you wouldn’t be a willing participant. I would have to watch you like a hawk. You would be always looking for your chance to get away. Hardly the pretty picture you just tried to paint.’
‘But if you let me live, I would owe you so much . . .’
‘A pity fuck? Don’t take me for a fool, Marni.’
He stepped back from her and walked away.
‘And it would deprive me of using this on your downy skin.’
She heard him picking up something and coming back. She didn’t need to see it to know what it was, but he was going to show her.
The silver blade glinted and flashed as he twisted it in the light, holding it up just inches from her face. The cutting edge curved back from the hilt and was engraved with complex watermark patterns. Marni had never seen a knife like it before.
‘Sam taught me all about knives – about the best blades for cutting and the best blades for flaying. They’re two quite different processes, you know, and require different tools. I’ll tell you about how I’m going to do it.’
Marni shut her eyes tight, wishing she could do the same with her ears.
‘First I’ll make a perimeter cut around the expanse of skin I want to take. So in your case, right around the edge of your gorgeous back piece. I’ll just use a short, straight blade for that. Then I’ll swap and use this one.’ He thrust it under her nose.
Keep him talking.
‘But do you know the full curing process?’ Marni’s flesh crawled. It was an impossible conversation, even though it might somehow save her life. ‘Tell me about Sam and what you learned from her.’
‘Sam is a gifted taxidermist. I’ve been buying pieces from her for years – I collect stuffed animals.’
Marni thought of the old taxidermy shop near Preston Park. She used to go and stare in its window sometimes, before it closed down.
‘But she wanted to expand her range of skills, and we soon discovered we had a shared interest in skin. She showed me how she cured animal skins and we started to talk about whether you could cure human skin. Idle chatter at first, but gradually I began to understand it was something she would be willing to do. When I put it to her that I wanted to collect some tattoos, she was more than willing.’
Marni’s tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She couldn’t say a word.
‘Sadly, now she’s been arrested, I’ll have to finish the job myself.’ He teased the tip of the blade against the wood of the cross. It left a small white scratch in the varnish. ‘Once I’ve flayed the tattoo from your back, I’ll soak it in saline solution and then the succession of chemicals that will break down the proteins in your skin and flush out the grease.’
A wave of nausea left Marni reeling. She was lightheaded and her blood sugar was now dangerously low. If she passed out, there was a very real chance that she’d never come round again.
Steve was droning on but she couldn’t concentrate on what he was saying. ‘. . . changes the pH . . . a blun
t tool for scraping hair . . . made Sam teach me just in case . . .’ Darkness cloaked her vision but she was determined not to succumb. She bit her cheek and gasped with the pain.
‘But the most important thing she taught me was how to sharpen a knife properly. It’s critical to use the sharpest blade. This one is like a diamond.’
He took hold of one of her cold, limp hands and held it steady against the wood of the cross. Before she realised what was happening, he’d made a slash across her palm with the knife, the blade long gone before she felt the sting.
‘See?’ he said. ‘Sharper than a scalpel. More precise.’
Marni sobbed. She couldn’t help herself. Hot blood ran down her arm.
Steve watched it entranced. Then he stepped forward, pushed his tongue out beyond his bottom lip and licked the blood away.
‘Oh Marni,’ he said. His voice was thick with arousal. ‘I think it’s time for my fun to begin.’
58
Francis
The house was unnaturally still and silent. Rory was waiting at the front for backup and Thierry was somewhere on the upper floors. Francis felt as if he was entirely alone, with only the faint hum of the air conditioning to accompany his silent progress. He went down a flight of stairs to investigate the office level, heart pounding.
Most of the monitors were off, but there was one left on, softly glowing, showing CCTV feeds from the outside of the house. He could see Rory on the front drive, speaking into his mobile. At the far end of the office area, there were several doors. Two of them were locked, but one was fractionally ajar, so he pressed his ear to the space and listened. As he did, a woman’s sharp scream rent the air from beyond the doorway.
Marni!
He couldn’t be sure it was her, but whoever it was needed help. He pushed the door open to find himself at the top of another flight of stairs. He could hear the woman moaning and then. above it, the sound of a man’s voice, though he couldn’t decipher the words. He paused. He needed a plan, but without any idea of what lay below, that was difficult. Looking down the stairs, he could see another half-open door at the bottom. That at least would afford him some cover, and he might be able to see what was going on before making himself known.
The Tattoo Thief Page 29