The Tattoo Thief

by Alison Belsham

  Don’t waste time. Go!

  He skittered down the stairs as fast as he could, praying he wouldn’t give himself away. The creak of a step could be catastrophic and not necessarily for himself. The thought of Marni at the mercies of the madman responsible for the bloody tableaux above made his heart pound and strengthened his resolve. He’d never been in a situation like this before. The arrests he’d experienced had usually been carefully planned and involved full backup. God, he hoped that was what Rory had been doing on his mobile.

  He offered a silent benediction as he stood poised by the second door, crossed himself, then slipped into the room.

  All of it hit him at once – Marni on the cross, her back a bright red sheen, the cured tattoos on their wire frames, a man standing with his back to him, wielding a curved knife that dripped with blood.

  ‘Stop! Police!’

  The man turned and looked Francis up and down.

  Never had Francis felt more naked for want of a weapon. If only Thierry and Rory were with him. It had been a mistake to split up.

  ‘Frank, is that you?’ It was the voice of desperation, hoarse and cracked.

  ‘Yes, Marni.’

  ‘Oh sweet,’ said the man. ‘You know each other already. Well, Frank, I’m Steve. Remember? We met at Marni’s studio.’

  He lunged forward, the bloody blade in front of him. Francis had expected an attack like this and side-stepped to put one of the concrete plinths between them. Steve snarled and changed his course to catch Francis on the other side of the plinth. Francis charged with his shoulder low, barrelling into the stone column and sending it over. It glanced into Steve’s hip, but he was already moving away from it, so it fell harmlessly onto the concrete floor with a crack. The silver frame and its precious cargo bounced across the floor and hit the opposite wall.

  Marni was straining her neck to see what was happening.

  ‘Help me,’ she screamed.

  In a split-second decision, Francis ran to help Marni, rather than turning to confront Steve. He grabbed a second knife from a low table and quickly slashed through the cable attaching one ankle to the cross before Steve got too close. At least now he was armed. He straightened up and held the knife out in front of him, knees bent in a defensive stance.

  With a roar of anger, Steve launched himself again, coming at Francis almost sideways, leading with his left shoulder, while following through with the knife in his right hand. Francis stepped forward diagonally, ducking low to plunge at Steve’s centre of gravity. They clashed and sprawled together on the floor. Steve’s blade clattered from his hand but he was lashing out with his feet, landing heavy kicks in Francis’s stomach, aiming for his groin to incapacitate him. Francis swung his knife hand in a sweeping curve and ripped into Steve’s trouser leg, dragging the knife down as he pushed it in deep to achieve maximum damage. Steve gasped and shuffled backwards, moving out of reach. Francis had to pull the knife out of his calf or risk losing it.

  They were both panting heavily. Steve grabbed for his own blade and staggered to his feet. With wild eyes and flared nostrils, he bore down on his opponent, who was still lying winded on the floor.

  Gathering all his reserves, Francis rolled onto his front and pushed himself up to his hands and knees. Steve lunged at his back and Francis felt the scraping of the knife through his jacket. He twisted suddenly and sprang to his feet, facing Steve, who looked at him in dull confusion. Francis had a split second of grace before the next onslaught and he stepped forward, meaning that Steve wouldn’t have the space to stab him in the chest. It did, however, also mean that he’d be able to reach round to stab him in the back. Then he remembered the knife in his own hand.

  Use it. Use the damn thing.

  He wasn’t quick enough. Steve anticipated his action and brought one of his forearms down hard on the front of Francis’s shoulder. Francis’s blade clattered to the floor as he heard his collar bone snap. His right arm was now a dead weight and pain screamed from his shoulder down to his wrist. Steve grinned excitedly and followed up his advantage. He shoved Francis back against an empty concrete plinth and then pressed the blade of his knife to the base of the policeman’s throat.

  ‘Any last words?’

  Nothing was further from Francis’s mind than making a speech. He lunged forward and raised a knee to Steve’s groin. It wasn’t the hardest or most accurate of actions but it got the blade away from his throat. Steve yelped and staggered backwards, putting space between him and Francis as he tried to regroup. He looked down and slapped a hand over his blood-soaked chinos, pressing the earlier knife wound to staunch the bleeding. His face was grey and he glared at Francis with angry red-rimmed eyes.

  Francis picked up his knife clumsily with his left hand. He struggled to cut Marni’s other foot free. Then, with equal difficulty, he sliced through the ropes securing her wrists. Thank God the knife was as sharp as it was. Gasping, she dropped to the floor in a heap, barely conscious.

  ‘Don’t touch her,’ shrieked Steve. ‘She’s mine.’

  Francis looked round frantically. Neither of them would be safe until he’d shut Steve down. He switched the knife to his useless right hand, and pulled his mobile out of his pocket. He hit Rory’s speed dial, not taking his eyes off the other man. Engaged.

  Damn!

  He was taller than Steve, by a good three or four inches. That would mean he had a longer reach. Not that it would be worth much, now he was reduced to using his left hand. Furthermore, Steve was heavier than him, all brawn, and had a lower centre of gravity. How could he play for time until Thierry arrived? Surely he must have come back down by now.

  ‘Thierry?’ he yelled.

  Steve was on his feet again, moving in a slow curve across the room, coming closer and closer.

  If Francis went to him, it would leave Marni vulnerable. But if he stayed by Marni until Steve got to him, it put her within reach too. He inched forwards. Could he draw Steve away from Marni or would she be his prime target?

  She hadn’t moved since she’d dropped to the floor a minute ago. He couldn’t hear her breathing and he couldn’t risk turning round to see if her chest was rising and falling. The long cuts running down each side and across the top of her back were still bleeding – he could see blood spreading on the floor out of the corner of his eye. She urgently needed a medic.

  Only too late did he realise what Steve was up to. By calling for Thierry, Francis had given the game away that he wasn’t there alone. It had been a major error. Steve wasn’t making a run for it – he was ensuring that help couldn’t arrive. He slammed the door shut, turned the key in the lock, then shoved the key into his pocket.

  ‘Your arrival changes everything,’ said Steve. He stood with his back against the door, still breathing heavily. The leg that Francis had cut wasn’t bearing any of his weight and his trainer was soaked with blood. ‘Marni was going to be the only one who’d end up dead in here. But now you’ve got to die too.’

  Francis considered his options in less than a second.

  Get him away from the door. Get him down. Get the key. How much chance did he have of doing that?

  ‘Come on then, you bastard!’ It was a risky strategy that might see him dead. He had to hope that blood loss would dull Steve’s reaction times.

  But he was wrong.

  Steve came at him like a fury, blade flashing in the light. Francis stepped away, putting the first of the plinths between them. Steve feinted in one direction, Francis moved in the other. They circled the concrete stand until Francis lunged forward and gave it a hearty shove. It crashed to the floor, missing Steve’s good leg by a hair’s breadth.

  ‘Cheap shot,’ hissed Steve, retreating behind one of the sofas.

  Francis ran forward, planted one foot on the back of the sofa and launched himself through the air. He didn’t have a plan – but if he didn’t act, he and Marni wo
uld both be dead.

  Their bodies collided and crashed to the floor. Francis struggled to overpower Steve but as they rolled across the concrete, Steve hooked Francis’s right arm and yanked it back. A shooting pain ripped through Francis’s shoulder. His head spun and he slashed at Steve’s arm with his knife. Steve let go and used his superior weight to flip Francis onto his back. He straddled him, pinning him to the floor by placing his knees on Francis’s shoulders, further crushing the already broken collar bone.

  Francis writhed underneath him, trying to find a way out. His left hand flailed, failing to make contact with his opponent.

  There was a loud banging at the door and the sound of voices.

  Steve pushed down more heavily on Francis’s chest. He held his curved blade against Francis’s throat.

  ‘You only have yourself to blame,’ said Steve. ‘You broke the cardinal rule, coming here without backup.’

  The door handle rattled.

  ‘Boss, are you in there?’

  Francis tried to answer but Steve instantly replaced the blade with a forearm across his windpipe, crushing down. A strangled grunt was the best Francis could do.

  There was a heavy thud against the other side of the door.

  Steve fumbled with his knife, dropping it momentarily on Francis’s chest. At the same time, Francis felt his own knife being taken from his hand. He glanced up and saw Marni crouching behind Steve’s left shoulder, an index finger against her lips warning him to keep quiet. She was bone white, her face made pearly by a sheen of sweat, and her whole body was shaking, but the determination in her eyes gave Francis a moment’s hope.

  She held the knife up and steadied her position. At the same moment, sensing a change in the man underneath him, Steve twisted round to follow his gaze.

  ‘I never thought I’d have to do this again in my lifetime,’ said Marni.

  She didn’t hesitate. The blade ripped into Steve’s pectoral muscle, slicing down across his breast. He dived off Francis onto the floor to get away and Marni fell on his back, stabbing at him again. Steve turned to wrestle with her as Francis rolled into both their bodies. His intention was to push Marni off Steve before Steve could apply his blade to her. The three of them tangled on the blood-slick floor. Francis felt pain. Marni screamed. There was the sickening noise of a knife scraping bone.

  The door burst open and Rory and Thierry rushed across to them, pulling them apart, skidding in the blood as they did so. Thierry pulled Marni into his arms as Rory slammed Steve’s arm on the floor until he released his grip on his knife.

  His chest burning for breath, Francis looked down to see that the front of his white shirt was drenched in blood. He slumped back against the side of one of the sofas. Marni was motionless in Thierry’s arms, her eyes open, eyeballs rolled back. Steve clutched at his neck, blood spurting from between his fingers.

  ‘Boss?’ said Rory.

  ‘I’m alive,’ he gasped.

  59

  Marni

  Waking up in hospital was turning into a nasty habit. Marni blinked and looked around. She was in the same room as last time, except the view from the window was different. Thierry was holding her hand and he smiled gently as he realised she was awake.

  ‘Take me home?’ she said. It came out as a croak. Her throat felt as if she’d swallowed a pack of razor blades. Unwrapped.

  ‘Not a chance, babe. And no checking yourself out, either.’

  He held a plastic beaker to her lips. The water was tepid and stale but it tasted perfect. She took several greedy sips before he took it away.

  ‘Easy,’ he said.

  ‘How long have I been here?’

  ‘Two days. You were in a coma when they brought you in and you’d been stabbed. The tip of the knife caught your spleen and tore it.’

  His words made Marni aware that the whole of her torso felt tender. She gingerly lifted the sheet that was covering her, but she was in a hospital gown, so she couldn’t see the injury. Her back felt lacerated and her left arm was throbbing painfully.

  ‘They operated on you,’ said Thierry. ‘I think it was touch and go, thought they wouldn’t admit it to me.’

  Marni didn’t want to believe it, but his face was so serious. He looked scared. She closed her eyes.

  ‘Mum, how do you feel now?’

  She hadn’t noticed Alex sitting beyond him in the shadows.

  ‘Alex, come here.’

  He came forward to the bed and gave her the gentlest of hugs. She winced.

  ‘I feel like I need to sleep for a thousand years.’

  ‘So you won’t run away this time?’ said Thierry.

  She opened her eyes and shook her head. She smiled at them – seeing them together was a comforting presence, and feeling Alex’s hand warm on top of hers was the best thing in the world.

  ‘Mum, we were worried about you. No more of this part-time policing, right?’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘I’m hungry,’ said Alex. ‘But I want the full story from you when I get back.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Thierry. ‘Now you know your mum’s okay, you can get back to what’s important.’ He fished change out of his pocket. ‘I think there’s a vending machine by the lifts.’

  Marni watched Alex leave the room and then spoke.

  ‘There’s no way Alex can hear the full story.’

  Thierry nodded. ‘What do you remember?’

  ‘Being tied up. Steve and Frank fighting. There was so much blood.’ Her breath caught in her throat. ‘Is . . .?’

  ‘Francis is fine. Steve, not so much, but still alive. What is it with you and knives?’

  He was smiling at her the way he used to, before their marriage had blown up into a storm of angst and recriminations.

  Her eyelids were heavy and her whole body seemed to be one giant ache. She felt safe enough to let herself slip back into sleep’s warm embrace with a sigh.

  It was night outside when she woke up again. The room was in semi-darkness, with just a small pool of light at her side coming from the Anglepoise light on the nightstand. She felt cool. The sheet had been kicked down to the end of the bed and the hospital gown barely covered her. As she pulled herself up into a sitting position to straighten things out, a sharp, stabbing pain in her side made her gasp.

  At the same moment she became aware of a dark figure slumped in an armchair in the corner of the room – her cry had roused whoever it was from sleep.

  A moment’s panic swept through her.

  It couldn’t be . . .

  ‘Thierry?’

  The figure stood up and loomed at the end of her bed.

  ‘It’s me, Francis.’

  Relief washed through her. ‘Frank.’

  He came and sat in the chair that Thierry had left at the bedside.

  ‘Thierry said you’d woken up, but you were asleep again when I got here. I didn’t want to disturb you.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Since seven-ish.’ He looked down at his watch. ‘It’s just gone ten.’

  He took both of her hands in his.

  ‘You saved my life, Marni. If you hadn’t taken the knife from me and used it, Steven Harrington would have killed me.’

  Flashes of memory came back to Marni. ‘But you saved my life, too. He was about to cut the tattoo off my back when you arrived.’

  ‘We only just made it in time.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t thank me. I let you down. I should have realised you were still in danger.’

  ‘But how could you have known? Sam Kirby was in custody.’

  ‘And she basically told me the whole thing wasn’t over.’

  Marni shrugged. It hurt like hell.

  ‘Am I going to be charged?’ she said. She didn’t really wan
t to know the answer.

  Francis frowned. ‘With what?’

  ‘I stabbed Steve, didn’t I? What if he dies?’

  ‘Jesus, Marni, that was self-defence. Of course you’re not going to be charged. You’ll have to be a witness at his trial, but that’s all.’

  ‘He’ll go to trial?’

  ‘I spoke to his doctor before coming here. They’re confident he’ll recover so, yes, he’s going to trial. He’ll be charged with murder by Sam Kirby’s side – even if he didn’t kill the victims himself, he commissioned the crimes, which makes him every bit as guilty in the eyes of the law. They’ll both go away for a very long time.’

  ‘You solved the case.’

  ‘Of course. What would you expect?’

  They both laughed and then, quite unexpectedly, Francis raised one of her hands to his lips and kissed it. The laughter died in Marni’s throat, replaced by something more overpowering. Their eyes met.

  Francis said, ‘You know, there’s an old proverb, that if you save someone’s life, they belong to you. I don’t know where the proverb’s from . . .’

  ‘So, in this theory, we belong to each other?’

  He smiled at her. ‘Might be the case.’

  ‘Really?’ Marni said, pursing her lips. ‘You belong to me?’

  ‘And you to me.’

  ‘That’s nice.’ She leant back on the pillows and closed her eyes.

  ‘What are you thinking, Marni Mullins?’

  ‘I’m thinking about which part of your body I’m going to tattoo first.’

  Francis’s mouth fell open. ‘No, no, that’s not how it works.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Not.’

  ‘You’re mine. I get to tattoo you. I get to choose what.’