The Tattoo Thief Read online

  He dropped it into a plastic evidence bag. If the receipts weren’t too wet, they might yield useful information.

  Together, Rory and Francis contemplated the body.

  ‘Tattoos,’ said Rory.

  ‘These ones are intact,’ said Rose, following his train of thought.

  ‘Yeah, but it means he’ll more than likely be on our database. Some of them look gang-related.’

  Tattoos meant criminal connections in Rory’s book. Maybe he’d been guilty of the same thought process himself up until recently – but now he wasn’t so sure. The thorough checks they’d run on Evan Armstrong had turned up nothing.

  ‘I’ll take his prints back at the morgue,’ said Rose. ‘This is an unstable scene and I want to get him out of here as fast as we can process him.’

  ‘Was he killed here or just dumped?’ said Francis.

  ‘Too early to say. Decapitation means a shitload of blood, wherever it happens, unless it was done post mortem.’

  ‘Was it?’

  Rose shone a small hand-held torch right into the stump. She was silent for a moment. Francis suddenly became aware of the sound of the waves tugging at the shingle beneath his feet. He had to take a half step back to keep his footing. Everything was unstable. You could think you’d got a handle on your life, but there was always an undertow . . .

  ‘No. Our boy was decapitated while still very much alive – it’s obvious he’s lost a lot of blood, which wouldn’t have happened if he’d been dead when his head was removed.’

  12

  Thierry

  If he never saw another policeman for the rest of his life, it would be a lifetime too soon. Thierry Mullins muttered to himself as he strode down John Street away from the police station. Merde! He nearly ploughed into an old woman with a shopping trolley as he turned the corner into Edward Street, but he was far too angry to stop and apologise. He was on a mission and if there was going to be any apologising done it would be coming in the opposite direction. His bloody ex-wife. Putain! While you always lose the good ones, somehow you never manage to escape from your mistakes.

  Sixteen hours in a cell. He glanced at his watch, newly returned to him by the desk sergeant on duty. No phone call, no access to a lawyer. But then he wasn’t under arrest so why should he need a lawyer? That’s what they’d said. But he knew his damned rights, and his had been infringed. Fucking flics.

  The smell of hot pastry drifting out of a takeaway shop made him pause. They had virtually starved him. The curling sandwiches of stale white bread filled with stinking tuna that he’d been offered at various points throughout the night weren’t remotely edible. Each time he’d pushed the paper plate away across the table. He’d been running these last twenty-four hours on their shit coffee and nothing else.

  Then the duty sergeant had come into the interview room, when they knew they would have to release him or charge him anyway, and told him that they’d been able to verify his alibi. They’d found a girl called Lisa with a mermaid tattoo, who’d admitted under some duress that she had indeed brought a man back to her flat from the pub on Saturday night and that he’d been there with her until approximately nine a.m. the next morning. The sergeant seemed to find it hugely funny that she didn’t remember his name either.

  Thierry came out of the shop with a sausage roll. It was now almost lunchtime and he’d wasted a whole morning. He’d missed two appointments at the studio, which was money he could ill afford to lose. Hopefully, for the clients, Charlie or Noa had picked up the slack, but that still didn’t help him.

  Edward Street became the Eastern Road, and as he passed Brighton College, he wondered if that jumped-up little git of a DI had spent his formative years inside its redbrick buildings. He crossed the road and turned into College Place and then turned again into Great College Street. Marni’s house – or to be more accurate, his house – was halfway down on the right-hand side. He banged on the door, resisting the urge to peer through the window. He should never have relinquished his front door keys, though at the time it seemed like the right thing to do. Now Marni had the house and Alex, while he lived alone in a miserable one-bedroom flat that had mildew in the bathroom.

  He glared furiously at the front door that used to be his own and his anger flared as he was kept waiting. It was only when he shouted and kicked the bottom panel with his foot that the door finally opened.

  Marni blinked up at him, a wave of panic passing across her features. She stepped back, slightly stunned.

  ‘Marni?’ His anger evaporated for a moment as the old instinct to protect her kicked in. It had been his default mode for so many years.

  ‘Thierry.’ She tried to close the door in his face.

  ‘Wait, will you?’ He stuck a foot into the narrowing gap.

  ‘You scared me.’

  ‘And you got me pulled in by the police.’ He could guess what had scared her. When was she going to leave the past behind? ‘Let me in.’

  He pushed against the door and they tussled for a moment. Thierry prevailed and pushed past her into the hall. He stood panting for a few seconds.

  ‘Tell me what frightened you, Marni.’

  ‘Nothing. I’m just on edge. All this . . . it’s bringing up the past.’

  He’d been right. She turned to face him. She looked tired. He knew that look – it meant she wasn’t sleeping and she probably wasn’t eating properly. She wasn’t coping on her own. But did this mean she needed him around? And was he prepared to make that commitment again?

  ‘You know Paul’s still in prison. There’s nothing to worry about.’ His tone softened slightly.

  ‘He may be locked up, but he always has ways of getting to me.’

  This wasn’t why he’d come to see her and he didn’t want to dig into things best left forgotten. ‘You shouldn’t have got yourself mixed up in this, Marni. I can’t afford more run-ins with the police.’

  She sighed. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘They kept me up all night.’

  She looked shocked. ‘Wine?’

  It was the least she could do. ‘What’s open?’ he asked.

  ‘A Côtes de Blaye.’

  Thierry wrinkled his nose. It wasn’t one of his favourites.

  ‘After an apology,’ he said, tilting his head to one side.

  ‘For?’

  ‘Merde! I’ve just spent sixteen hours in a police station because of you.’

  ‘They’ve only just let you out?’

  ‘Oui. Thanks for your concern.’

  Marni shrugged. ‘How would I have known they were still holding you?’

  ‘They seem to think that because that man who was killed once owed me money, I might have been the killer.’ He sighed. ‘Why did you have to tell them the tattoo on his leg was one of mine?’

  ‘Come on, Thierry.’ Marni shook her head defiantly. ‘I made one anonymous call to the police. Jesus, I found a dead body. Do you think I should have ignored it?’

  ‘Sure. Someone else would have seen it.’

  He followed her to the kitchen. Their kitchen, that he had designed, and that he and Charlie had built together. Those had been the best days of their marriage. They’d left their troubles behind in France and started a new life in Brighton. Marni’s wounds had begun to slowly heal as she tended to her baby son, and for a short time, Thierry had thought the future would be easy.

  Marni uncorked a half-full bottle of red and split it between two glasses.

  ‘Remember,’ she said, handing him a glass, ‘I have to set an example to our son. You might feel that it’s okay to run away from your responsibilities but someone round here has to be the adult.’

  ‘What responsibilities?’

  Marni rolled her eyes. ‘Providing for your son, for a start,’ she said.

  Thierry grunted. This old complaint. He’d heard it t
oo often. He had nothing more to say.

  ‘Drink your wine and get out, Thierry. I’m too tired for this shit.’

  He sniffed the glass.

  ‘It’s off. The wine is off,’ he said with a shrug. ‘And stop obsessing about Paul. You need some sleep.’

  Marni’s look was as sharp as the Sabatier knives he’d left behind in the kitchen drawer.

  ‘He sent me a letter.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘A couple of months ago.’

  She hadn’t said anything to him at the time. The realisation stung.

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘I didn’t open it.’

  The look of fear had returned to her features, and suddenly he wanted to make things okay for her. ‘You know it means nothing, babe. He’s playing with you. He’s locked away and he can’t get to you.’

  ‘The letter got to me,’ she said.

  He raised a hand in supplication.

  ‘Do you have it still? Can I see it?’

  ‘I threw it away.’

  He could tell she was lying but he was too tired to fight with her.

  ‘Okay. I go now.’

  As he retreated down the hall, Alex appeared on the stairs. He was still in his pyjamas and his eyes were heavy with sleep.

  Merde.

  ‘Dad? What are you doing here?’

  ‘Your father’s just leaving,’ said Marni.

  She caught up with Thierry and propelled him towards the front door.

  ‘Leave me alone, Thierry. Don’t come back. You remind me of Paul too much.’

  If there were words in her arsenal that could truly wound him, these were they. If she was still thinking that way, things could never be right between them. He felt a lump form in his throat and he turned away so she wouldn’t see his face.

  Marni opened the door and pushed him onto the front step.

  ‘Who’s Paul?’ he heard Alex saying from the stairs.

  The door slammed and he was on his own.

  iv

  It’s a process. Skinning. Curing. Soaking. Liming. Fleshing. De-liming. Bating. Pickling. Degreasing. Tanning. Neutralising. Fatliquoring. Samming. Settling out. Drying. Every step is important to produce the softest, most pliable leather.

  People don’t think of human skin as leather, but you have to understand it results in a most pleasing product. Especially tattooed skin. It always surprises me that they don’t tattoo animals before killing them for their hide. The results would be unique and beautiful.

  This scalp, with its twisted spider’s web, will make the most extraordinary piece. Scalping is an incredibly delicate operation. You need to work slowly, so you don’t tear the skin. It’s very fragile before it’s been tanned. But at the same time, you need to work fast. Warm skin is flexible, giving – but cold skin becomes stiff, making the work hard. It took me two hours to gently separate the boy’s scalp from his cranium, cutting and peeling back a centimetre at a time.

  Now it’s soaking in brine to preserve it. This is merely the first stage of its journey from skin to leather. The salt draws the moisture and kills the bacteria. The detached scalp writhes under the surface of the water like a fat koi carp.

  I have a special job. It’s a privilege, really. The Collector allows me to prepare these skins for him because he recognises that I have a unique talent.

  Which my own DAMNED FATHER never did.

  Why did I think of that all of a sudden? I can’t let my father into my head while I’m working. When he’s inside my mind, my hands shake. I lose my focus. And the more I try to banish him, the more he makes his presence felt – undermining, belittling, confirming the worst truths about myself.

  I close my eyes and take a series of deep breaths. I refocus my thoughts on the Collector.

  The Collector has made up for the failings of my real father. The man who let me down so many times, so often. Where my father saw me as a failure, the Collector sees the good in me. He’s given me purpose in my work. Smoothing the skin. Softening it. Stroking it. Transforming it into something so much more beautiful than when it was alive. I get to peel it off a living creature and transform it into a work of art. Art is more important than life.

  My job is very therapeutic.

  13

  Francis

  Francis knew he was at the right place when he saw the sign along the top of the shop front. ‘Celestial Tattoo’ in black cursive writing across an explosion of red and pink chrysanthemums, just like the one Marni Mullins had been tattooing on the girl at the convention. So this was her home turf. He stared through the windows at the darkened shop. He could make out a small counter, with a row of mismatched chairs to one side. The walls were covered with tattoo designs, as you’d expect. Behind the counter there was a shelf holding rows of candles, a few books and a variety of other objects he couldn’t quite make out in the semi-darkness.

  Despite an ‘Open’ sign hanging on the back of the door, the place looked distinctly shut. Francis tucked his battered document case under one arm and put his hands up against the glass for a better view inside. There was a door at the back of the shop and he could just see a glimmer of light around its edges. Maybe she was here.

  He rapped on the glass door and then tried the handle. It swung open, squeaking loudly on stiff hinges.

  ‘Hello?’

  He stepped inside. A snarling explosion of fur and snapping teeth burst through the door at the back and catapulted itself at his centre of gravity. He fell back against the glass, which shattered around him, smelled the hot stink of a carnivore’s breath and felt grabby jaws trying to make purchase on his arm. The beast’s teeth closed around his sleeve instead, tearing the fabric. Sullivan gasped, flailing to get away.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  A light snapped on above him.

  ‘Who is it?’ Marni Mullins’ voice was on the edge of panic.

  ‘Francis Sullivan.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘DI Sullivan.’

  ‘Christ. Pepper! Come here, Pepper!’

  The slavering bulldog ignored his owner and continued to rip at Francis’s sleeve.

  Still winded, Francis looked up to see Marni silhouetted in the doorway at the back of the shop.

  ‘Do you have no fucking control over this dog?’ he asked, trying to wrench his arm away.

  ‘Pepper!’

  Francis struggled into a sitting position and put the palm of his free hand across the top of Pepper’s muzzle. He leaned in closer until his face was right by Pepper’s ear. Pepper growled low in his throat, adjusting his grip on the material of the suit. Glancing furiously at Marni, Francis bit down hard on the thin flap of the bulldog’s ear.

  With a yelp of surprise, Pepper let go of Francis’s arm. He tried to shake his head, but Francis still had him by the ear.

  ‘Jesus, what are you doing?’ Marni caught hold of Pepper’s collar, at which point Francis released his bite. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grimacing.

  ‘You need to get that dog to training classes, Ms Mullins.’

  Francis struggled to his feet, gingerly avoiding shards of broken glass, and retrieved his document case from the floor. Marni dragged the monster across the shop, pushed him through the door to the back and slammed it shut. Only then did she seem to realise the damage that had been done to the front door. She raised a hand to her mouth.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Are you hurt?’

  Francis touched the back of his head where it had made contact with the glass door. He felt a bump and then looked at his fingers. There was blood on them.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, holding up his hand for her to see. ‘And you’re damn lucky it wasn’t worse. As for this suit, it’s ruined.’

  ‘I’ll replace it,’ said Marni quickly. There was a tr
emor in her voice.

  ‘Too right you will. You need to get a muzzle for your dog. Or better yet, get rid of it.’

  Marni bent down and started to pick up the largest shards of glass from the floor.

  ‘He’s a guard dog.’

  ‘What if a child had walked through that door?’

  He saw her hackles rise. ‘It’s unlikely. This is a tattoo shop.’

  ‘Could I have some water, please? I can still taste dog in my mouth.’

  She headed to the back of the shop. When Francis hesitated at the connecting door, Marni Mullins looked amused.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about Pepper. If I invite you in, he’ll be fine.’

  He tentatively followed Marni into her studio and looked around. Just like the front of the shop, the walls were covered with her artwork – some of it drawings and watercolours, some of it close-up photographs of tattoos. The space was cluttered – as well as her desk in the corner, there was a massage bench and a large, old-fashioned barber’s chair. A glass-fronted corner cabinet housed a collection of crystal and real human skulls, some painted like Mexican Day of the Dead sugar skulls.

  ‘Sit,’ she said, pointing to the barber’s chair. ‘Whisky?’

  Francis shook his head. ‘I don’t drink on duty.’ He hardly drank at all but that was none of her business.

  While Marni phoned someone to come and board up the broken door, Francis sipped his water and contemplated Pepper. The bulldog eyed him warily in return but remained outstretched on a grimy cushion under the desk. A couple of times he rubbed at his bitten ear with a paw. Eventually, he lumbered over and butted Francis’s leg with his flat-nosed muzzle.

  By the time Marni returned from measuring the door, the dog was lying on his back with his head on one of Francis’s feet.

  She eyed them suspiciously. ‘You a dog person?’

  ‘No.’

  He unzipped the leather document case and took out a large glossy photograph.