A Need To Kill (DI Matt Barnes) (26 page)

“
Are you Lucas Downey?” Mark said.

“
The one and only.  And you are in INK MAGIC BY LUCAS, which is without doubt the finest tattoo studio in all the land.”

“
What kind of tattoos do you do, sir?” Mark inquired, looking around at the bare walls.

“
Any that I am commissioned to, and that are not pornographic or racist,” he said, glancing back to Errol.

Mark opened the top of the document wallet he was carrying and took out several well-thumbed 8x10s.  They showed close-ups of the tattoos that had survived the burning of the corpse found at
Grove Park.

“
Do you recognise this work, sir?” Mark said as he handed them to Lucas.

Lucas studied each one in turn, frowning and shaking his head. 
“Are these on a dead body?”

“
What would make you think that, sir?” Errol said.

“
Because if the subject was able to, he or she would be able to tell you all you want to know about them.”

“
And are they of a style that you are familiar with?”

Lucas gave them back to Mark. 
“’Fraid not, Officer.  Do you know how many tattoo artists are operating in the Greater London area?”

“
We do now,” Errol said.

“
What’s the connection between a corpse and the tattoos on it?” Lucas pushed.

“
Identification,” Mark said.  “Whoever did this work will no doubt be able to give us a name.  The young woman in question was unrecognisable.”

“
Sorry I can’t help,” Lucas said.  “The tattoos in the photographs do appear to be of a high standard, though, so you may get lucky.  If it had been some unlicensed amateur’s work, then you’d be wasting your time.  Have you bought copies of the many magazines that showcase a lot of work?  You may come across this particular style if you do.”

“
Thank you for your time, sir,” Mark said, replacing the photos into the envelope.

“
No sweat,” Lucas said.  “And please, take my card and pin it up on a notice board back at the station.  I’ll give ten percent discount to any officer who wants to make him or herself a little more colourful and interesting.”

When the two cops left, Lucas locked the door and dropped into the chair that was the centrepiece of the
studio.  He laid his head back on the padded rest and closed his eyes.  They had found parts of the young whore he had burned.  It was almost beyond belief that any of her skin had not been destroyed by the inferno.  But he was in no danger.  They were just canvassing tattoo parlours, trying to identify the charred remains in their keeping.  He giggled to himself.  It would appear that he had a guardian angel of the dark and fallen variety.  On a whim, after shaving his new lodger, he had used the clippers to remove his own hair.  And as though some portent had been subconsciously at work, he had taken all his promotional artwork down and started to redecorate the premises.  Had he a gift; a power of sixth sense that although he was not aware of, had come to his aid?  It would not surprise him.  He was without doubt a very special individual, so it was no wonder that he possessed superhuman abilities.  He wondered if the police had linked the tattooed remains to the murders of the other redheads.  He would assume that they had.  He could not afford to underestimate Barnes and his posse.  These were enemies to be given credit for their skills in solving what they perceived to be unlawful acts.  But he was smarter than them.  He now knew that they suspected the murderer might well be a tattoo artist, and some of the work in the photographs he had been shown was undoubtedly recognisable as his style.  He would have to be ultra careful. Keeping prey up in the loft was a perilous venture.  He should dispose of it and batten down the hatches for a while until the storm passed.  But the risk made it so much more exhilarating.  His new-found early warning system would guide him.  If sirens and blinking red lights started up in his head, then he would dump the material in the canal. But he was not on their radar, yet.  They were just following a slim lead and seeing where it might lead them.  He now knew the direction they were looking in.

Julie was dozing.  Too much sustained anxiety had exhausted her.  When she woke from the no man
’s land between slumber and full consciousness, she could hear a distant drone.  It was a familiar sound.  What was it?  A jet.  An airliner was passing above where she was imprisoned.  And even before the sound faded, the bark of a dog startled her.  All she had was her hearing.  Her other senses were of little use to her in this plastic-lined chamber.  She could see the shiny black film, and touch it.  She could smell urine and disinfectant from the chemiloo.  The fumes were stinging her eyes and the sensitive linings of her nostrils.  But it was the ability to hear sounds from outside her prison that saved her reason.  She lay with her eyes closed and savoured every aural titbit.  A car backfired.  A door slammed, and a woman’s voice screamed, ‘put that down Tommy, an’ get in the bleedin’ ’ouse, now!’

It all meant something.  Julie now knew
– for what it might be worth – that she was not in some remote location out in the country in an isolated farmhouse. And she was not underground, which was a relief.  She suffered from claustrophobia, and the belief that she might be below ground in some type of bunker or cellar had increased her panic.  In fact she believed that most of the exterior sounds, apart from the jet engines, were rising up to where she was imprisoned.  The overall implication was that she was in a house, maybe an attic, and in a built-up residential area, and that it was daytime.  This monster had taken her to his home.  If she disobeyed him and screamed at the top of her lungs, she may be heard.  But if no one took any notice, or could not pinpoint the source, then she would face being subjected to any manner of physical abuse.  And he would gag and tie her up again.  She could not take the risk.  Someone laughed.  It was difficult to envisage life going on as usual all around her.  She was cut off from the world she was accustomed to and had taken for granted.  What she would give this second to be at the Petal Soft Laundry, labouring in the steamy heat.  She would not complain over the cramped, noisy working conditions, or the damp, hot air that caused the perspiration to sheen her face, soak her hair, and run down the small of her back, to feed between her arse cheeks and cause a sweat rash.  All past adversity paled into insignificance under the weight of her present circumstances.  She was up against a foe that she could not hope to escape from; a tattooed man who demanded to be addressed as Wolf, and who had already shaved her head and private parts, raped her, in that although she had not refused him, it was an act she suffered under extreme intimidation and duress.  If she just acceded to all his demands, then she was positive that it would curry no favour, only postpone the inevitable.  She wanted to survive the ordeal, but could not begin to think how she might achieve that goal.  He was far too powerful for her to physically overcome, and she could see nothing to employ as a weapon.  Even if by some miracle she could render him unconscious, or preferably dead, then what?  She was chained to the fucking floor.  And if her cries for help went unheeded, she would starve to death.  There had to be a way.  He would not have installed her in a purpose-built room, provided her with a toilet, or shaved her and fitted a stupid red wig on her head if he intended to do away with her in the immediate future.  She had to somehow keep it together and wait for a chance to escape him, if one presented itself.

“What
else did he say?” Beth said after Matt had told Dave Brent to get back to him when he had a fix on the location that the phone call had been made from.

“
That he was the killer, and had got McCall to pick up the money at the museum.”

“
And what did he specifically want from you?”

“
The money.  He’s decided that I intercepted it, so it’s me who he has to collect from.  He also wants his ring back.  Says he’ll contact me again, and that if I don’t come through for him, then another woman will be murdered.”

“
You must
not
deal with him, Matt.  You shouldn’t speak to him again.”

“
We have no leads.  If I can set up another drop for the money, then I will.  It might be the only chance we get to put him out of business.”

“
Don’t you see that it’s happening again.  Another sociopath is reaching out to you, just like the others did.”

“
I did not go out of my way to have anything to do with him, Beth.  I had no way of knowing that he would single me out.”

“
That doesn’t mean you have to play by his rules and go up against him.”

“
His rules don’t come into it.  And I
am
up against him.”

“
Let Tom make any arrangements with him.  Don’t always let yourself be manipulated.  I thought we agreed that you would never let this happen again.  If you get too personal with him, then you know that he will end up gunning for you.”

Matt
had a flashback.  A rush of images filled his mind.  The vivid remembrance of just how utterly destroyed he had felt when Beth had been in extreme danger was a sobering thought.  He had at no time in his life experienced such mental torment.  He knew that what they had together was more important than anything else.  She was right.  He owed it to them both to keep this sadist at arms’ length.

“
You’re right,” he said.  “I’ll do my best to avoid any further contact with him.”

Beth let out a sigh of relief and gave him a fragile smile.  She did not think she could handle another sadistic killer impacting on their lives.  The nature of the beasts made them totally unpredictable, and far more dangerous than sharks in a feeding frenzy.
They could appear to be cold, calculated and highly organised, but under that facade was a brain on the point of meltdown.

Beth got out of bed.  Went to
Matt and held him in the grainy light that filtered through the cheap cotton curtains at the window.

“
You feel good,” Matt said, gently pulling her to him.

“
I feel cold,” she said.  “I can feel goose bumps all over.  I don’t know if it’s the temperature, or the thought of him out there planning his next warped move.”

“
Let’s get back in bed and warm you up,” Matt suggested.

“
You mean you aren’t going to get dressed and rush back to the Yard?”

“
Correct.  I’d rather be here with you.  I’m finally learning to compartmentalise my life.”

Beth reached behind herself, took his hands from where they were cupping her bottom, and pulled him back to the bed.

It was seven a.m. when Ron knocked at the door and woke them.  He had brought them tea on a tray and left it outside the door.  Asked them if they wanted a cooked breakfast.  They both declined.

Dressed and ready to go, they thanked Ron and left the hotel. 
Matt had switched off his mobile phone after having spoken to Dave Brent and the man who claimed to be the killer.  Cutting his only line of communication had been a symbolic gesture, to impress on Beth both his determination and ability to keep a part of his life separate from his work.  It was not an easy thing to do.  The side of him that was of a stronger proof than the malt whisky they had imbibed, rebelled at the act.  It was a sobering thought, to be suddenly cognisant of the fact that he had spent his entire career – up to this moment – on call, always in standby mode, ready to interrupt any and every activity to pursue what he had come to accept was an ongoing mission; one that he had put above and beyond all else.  It was complex.  He had been egoistic and self-seeking to a degree, in that what he did was to feed some inner motivational force. The catalyst may have stemmed from his being bullied at school.  A pupil in the year above him, Eddie Sykes, had picked him out for special attention of the painful kind.  To this day, Matt did not know what it was about himself that had made him a target.  It was during a six week summer holiday that he had made the choice not to continue being a punch bag for the older, taller and much heavier youth.  Enrolling at and starting basic training at the local judo club unlocked an untapped wealth of self belief in his ability to defend himself.  The new term saw a fully motivated and far more able Matt Barnes walk out into the yard at midmorning break on that long gone day. Like an exocet, Sykes zeroed in on him, with two of his hangers-on in tow.  The verbal and subsequent physical communication between Matt and his nemesis had lasted for all of ten seconds.

“
You ready for another nosebleed, Barnes?”  The tousle-headed lout asked.

“
I don’t want any trouble, Eddie,” Matt replied.  “Go pick on someone as dim-witted as yourself.”

Eddie swung a roundhouse punch that a one-eyed sloth would have seen coming and have had time to evade. 
Matt ducked under it, low, and as Eddie’s forward momentum took him off balance, Matt let him almost fold over his shoulder, then jerked upwards and threw him high into the air.  Eddie landed on his back, resulting in him being badly winded and dazed.  Matt casually placed the sole of his shoe on the throat of his persecutor and applied enough pressure to make him caw like a crow with a broken wing.