CHAPTER 38
Claudia spent the next couple of hours sitting in her office going through the case files looking for details they could exploit or had missed.
As the clock ticked on, frustration gnawed at her bones. She was restless, tapping on her desk as she read through the reports, desperate for any piece of evidence that would give them the lead they so very much needed. An email pinged into her inbox. It was from Nadira. Toxicology had come back on Brendan. Diazepam had been in his system. Not enough to kill him, but definitely enough to sedate him and make him pliable enough for the killer to manoeuvre into the position he wanted him.
Claudia sighed. It helped to know his MO, but it didn’t provide them a line of enquiry that would help with this new victim. Diazepam was a fairly easy drug to obtain, and you wouldn’t need much to make a person woozy. She hit reply on the email and thanked Nadira for letting her know.
Eventually she checked her watch. The hours were moving faster than she’d realised. As she’d been working, staff had been clocking in, advising her that their results were negative with the tattoo artists.
Time was running out.
She looked down at the tally sheet she was keeping. There were ten left to contact with only twenty minutes before her self-imposed deadline. They couldn’t do it, but if she mucked in, they might just cover them all. No point stopping the task for only the few that needed contacting.
She needed to do something physical, so Claudia picked up her Airwave radio, headed to the stairs and ran down to her car as she informed the team of the three artists she was picking up to interview in person. They should finish the rest.
The first shop she entered was small, dark and dingy, by the name of Shirley’s Tattoos. There wasn’t a female in sight, so Claudia had no idea who Shirley was. An enormous bear of a man was sitting on a high stool behind a tall desk. The sides of his legs, in skin-tight black jeans, flopped over the edges of his seat.
‘Looking for anything in particular?’ he asked, his voice deep and baritone.
Claudia pulled the cropped drawing from her pocket and shoved it onto the desk. ‘Is this one of yours?’
The bear of a man peered down. Strip lights above glistened off the skin on his bald crown. Claudia wondered if he polished it, it was that bright.
A thick sausage finger outlined the skull and then the wings, as if this would help decide if it was from this shop or not.
‘We can’t do it for you if it’s not one of ours,’ he said eventually.
Claudia then fished out her ID and flashed it at him. ‘DI Nunn. We need to trace the man who has this tattoo. Can you help?’ She doubted it by the second.
Finally, he lifted his head and shook it. Meaty chops wobbled with the motion. ‘It’s not one of ours.’
If only he’d said that in the first place.
‘But . . .’ he said.
Claudia tensed.
‘I do recognise the work. It belongs to Textured Tattoo. I’d know their art anywhere.’
Claudia pulled the list of places she was visiting from her pocket and saw Textured Tattoo. ‘You’re sure?’
‘I worked there for a year. Like I said, I’d recognise his work anywhere. He does some unique pieces. This is a classy tat.’ He nodded to himself. ‘Yeah, definitely Jimmy’s.’
Claudia thanked the man and rushed through the door into the brilliant sunshine. He’d managed to cut her job down to just one more premises. She checked the address. It would take her ten minutes to get there. No point calling everyone off until she’d confirmed what she’d been told. But her pace quickened as she walked to the car and had to bite down on a smile at the thought that they might actually be able to identify the victim this time before the killer got to them.
Maybe, just maybe, he’d given too much away in this drawing and the police were going to beat him to his prey. She nearly ran down the street, desperate to get to Textured Tattoo, and prayed that she was right.
Textured Tattoo was the complete opposite to Shirley’s. This place was brightly lit and spacious. The walls were white-washed and filled with the artwork that customers could have etched onto their bodies from the artists within.
Again, Claudia thought to herself, another link to a creative endeavour.
A tattooed woman, slim with a red pixie haircut, lounged on a sofa against one wall. She shifted slightly when Claudia entered.
On the back wall was an archway, through which Claudia could see seating where the tattooing was done. It was akin to a dentist’s office.
The tattooist looked appraisingly at Claudia. Not dismissively. For all she knew, Claudia could have a host of artwork covered by the stiff suit she wore for work. It took all sorts to adorn their body with permanent images.
‘I’ve been told I might be able to find Jimmy here,’ Claudia said.
The woman’s interest was piqued. Her chin lifted. Her eyes sparkled. ‘Who’s asking?’
Once again Claudia produced her ID. ‘It’s important that I speak with Jimmy. He might be able to help with a case that could involve one of his clients.’
The woman looked toward the archway, through which Claudia could hear the hum of what she presumed was the tattoo machine working, and shouted for Jimmy.
The hum stopped and a slim man in ripped jeans and white vest, best for showing the tremendous amount of artwork he had across his body, up his neck, and down his arms, appeared. His hair was tied back in a ponytail. It was shaved around the sides but longer on the top half of his head. There was a large black ring through his nose, not dissimilar to a cow ring, and several in a line through one eyebrow. He was wiping his hands on a thin wipe. Claudia could smell the faint scent of disinfectant.
‘Yeah?’ The man looked her up and down. Not his usual client, she presumed.
‘This woman, she’s a cop, thinks you can help her with a case.’
The man who must be Jimmy raised his heavily pierced eyebrow at Claudia. Claudia showed her ID. ‘I have an image that you might be able to help with.’ She pulled the drawing from her pocket, unfolded it, tried to smooth out the creases and handed it over to Jimmy.
He considered the drawing. ‘And what if I can?’
Claudia hadn’t considered she might have a battle on her hands. ‘The man in the image is in dire need of our help. He’s in a huge amount of danger, and if you can help us you are in turn helping him.’
Jimmy looked again at the drawing in his hands. ‘It’s one of mine.’
A flutter of joy bubbled in Claudia’s chest. They were one step closer. ‘Can you tell us who you did this work on?’
‘It took several hours and a few different sessions to complete it. I log clients by time taken because that’s how they pay. Plus for the intricacy of the piece they want. But I’m not sure I can identify him for you.’
Claudia wanted to scream. ‘You don’t keep a log of your clients?’
‘We get hundreds of randoms through here a month. A lot of university kids who want something small, usually when they’ve had a shot of something to steady their nerves.’
Claudia stared at him.
‘Don’t worry. I don’t do the kids if they’re legless. I run a professional establishment. There is a consent form they have to sign, but it only contains the bare details. A name and contact number . . .’
Once again Claudia’s heart raced in excitement. ‘That’ll help. We can work with that.’ A wide smile was on her face.
‘I’m afraid we don’t have this guy’s. I remember it as being one of mine, but it’s old. Older than the time limit we need to keep the consent forms for. What do you mean he’s in danger?’
‘His life is in danger,’ Claudia conceded.
Jimmy whistled. ‘I’m sorry I can’t help you.’
So was Claudia. She’d been so hopeful the tattoo would lead them somewhere. Now they were three hours down and the victim was three hours closer to his death.
CHAPTER 39
Claudia gathered everyon
e in the incident room. The tattoo chase had been a bust and she was pacing the room with frustration. She’d put all her eggs in the tattoo artist’s basket. Now they’d lost time on the clock and were no closer to identifying the victim.
‘We have no choice but to bring the press into this,’ she said. ‘Yes, they’re a pack of vultures who distort and manipulate everything, but we need their reach to ID this guy. They can distribute his face widely, and that way we might be able to find him. Sharpe has organised a press conference for an hour’s time.’
The image was again directed onto the wall. The victim’s head lolled slightly to the side in death, but there was enough of his features visible for anyone who knew him to make an identification. Claudia looked at the drawing for what felt like the hundredth time and asked inside her mind, directly to the man, who he was. What was he doing right now? And was he even subliminally aware of the danger that faced him? To prevent scaring him any more than he needed to be, the decision had been taken to only show a cut-down image at the press briefing — an image of his face, so he or someone he knew could recognise it. To show the rest of the image, the drawn wings from his body, would only serve to terrify even the most hardy of people, knowing what had happened in the city recently. He’d want to know why wings were floating from his torso matching the tattoo on his chest. Of course they’d explain this when they met him, but for now, he could be identified by only his face. It was the easiest option.
An hour later she filed out with Sharpe to face the curious media. Of course the previous two murders had caught their attention and they presumed this press conference was to do with that.
Sharpe stared out at the sea of faces until they silenced themselves for her. She’d informed Claudia this was not to be a long affair. They needed something from the press, and in asking for it they were also giving. They were giving the press something to run with. It was a fair trade. She would put up with no messing about from them.
Once everyone was quiet, Sharpe spoke. ‘You have all been handed a press pack. Within that is a copy of a drawing.’
The room hummed with voices.
Claudia watched as Sharpe waited them out. She knew Sharpe would refuse an attempt to speak over the rabble. Her view was that if they were rude enough to keep speaking then she would wait until their manners kicked in. And it worked every single time. Like trained dogs, the press realised they’d get nothing else until they listened. So silence once again reigned.
‘We would appreciate it if you could run this image in your various outlets with a request for anyone who knows the man to come forward.’
The room erupted, understanding what this request meant.
Sharpe was going to struggle to bring them to order. Questions were being shouted, microphones thrust closer, flashes blasting in their eyes. It was pandemonium.
Sharpe was rigid, though. Claudia watched her work. She would not fight with them for airtime. If they wanted their questions answering, they had to shut up. She treated them as errant schoolchildren. Though Claudia wasn’t sure Sharpe had children — she kept her private life close to her chest, only discussing work-related issues, and there were no family photographs on her desk — the woman did know how to get misbehaving adults to fall into line.
After a good five minutes the journalists recognised again they were getting nowhere, and those that had leapt up to be heard better returned to their seats. They quietened down and pulled their microphones back, closer to themselves.
Sharpe glared at them. ‘I’m sure you have a lot of questions,’ she went on as though the last five minutes hadn’t just occurred. ‘I will take a couple before finishing.’ She pointed to the back row.
‘Simon Frith, Sheffield Chronicle. Does the fact you’re asking us to share a drawing for identification mean you have another image from the Artist, that someone else’s life is in danger?’
He’d asked two questions but hidden them as if it was all one.
Sharpe narrowed her eyes. Claudia was aware she’d picked up on it.
‘Of course it means we have another drawing from the person you call the Artist. Although I see no reason to give him such a name. There is nothing artistic in the murder of another human being. How do you think the families of those he has already killed feel about such a moniker?’ She scolded him well.
Frith sank down into his chair.
‘As for his life, it won’t be in danger if we identify him. And that’s where you come into it. With your reach, we hope to locate the male in the drawing. Luckily, the person who drew him is particularly good, and all the drawings to date have been very lifelike. We can trust that this is the same. This person, or someone who knows him, should be able to make an identification based on the image we’ve shared.’
Sharpe pointed at a woman on the front row.
‘Lucy Zhang, BBC. It’s obvious you’re attempting to identify the victim, but what lines of enquiry are you following to identify the killer?’
Something curled up and died in Claudia’s stomach. So far, the killer had evaded every attempt they’d made to ID him. He was cautious, and they had no lines on him. All they could do was hope he’d make a mistake.
‘Some elements of the investigation are not for public consumption because we don’t want to alert the killer to our methods, as I’m sure you can understand. We provide the press with as much information as we possibly can without causing complications for the case.’ And with that she rose from her chair. She had promised only two questions, and she was sticking to it.
Claudia followed her lead and stood. Arms waved in the air, looking for attention. They wanted more, little realising that Sharpe had simply used them for her own ends and would give them nothing else. What she had given them though was certainly newsworthy. An image of the next victim. Before he was potentially murdered. The media would usually pay good money for something that juicy, but here the police had provided it willingly. Claudia had no qualms about walking away behind Sharpe. All she wanted was the image of the man to be distributed far and wide and for someone to recognise him or for him to recognise himself. Preferably before 6 a.m. tomorrow, when, if this failed, he would be sitting on a chair with a pair of wings behind him. Dead. Being examined by a pathologist and a bunch of police officers.
All she could do was wait. Wait for the press to release the image and wait for the results.
They had set up a tip line to go out with the drawing for anyone who might recognise the male and had several detectives drafted in to man the lines.
It would take a couple of hours for them to come to life. Time for people to pick up their papers. To see news reports on local stations. To let the outside world seep into their busy lives. Time Claudia didn’t know their next victim had.
CHAPTER 40
The Artist, as he was now known — and he was quite proud of the name, if he’d had to decide on a name for himself he couldn’t have done it better — saw the report on the local news channel. A cropped section of his invitation to the police covered the screen and viewers were asked to call a tip line if they recognised the man in the drawing. The number also flashed up.
Why though, had they used a cut-down version of his invitation? Instead of the whole image, they had sliced it down so only the head of his next installation was visible. There was nothing offensive in the artwork. Nothing that would upset viewers. It was quite a beautiful drawing, if he said so himself. Especially the wings. The wings were magnificent. To have found a location in Sheffield that suited the man he’d picked out at his local gym, that paired with the winged tattoo on his chest. It was just so perfect.
The Artist liked to keep himself in shape. It helped him craft his artwork. The heavy lifting needed a steady hand.
Each installation took weeks of preparation. He had to follow his subject around to find out where they lived and how best to get them into the piece he had selected. He had to research and obtain drugs to knock each subject out, as required, so he could do what he
needed to. Though drugs hadn’t been necessary for every subject, of course. The first one had climbed on the bed voluntarily.
He’d manoeuvred that situation so the guy came to him, and how he laughed to himself at that thought. The fact he’d even managed to get him to lie in position, hands tied, as part of the photoshoot. All before he slammed the dagger deep into his back. The poor boy hadn’t known what was coming. But it was by far the easiest piece he had created. The following two were much more intricate.
He turned his attention back into the television, where the reporter was reeling off the tip line yet again and asking anyone who recognised the man in the drawing to call in. Telling viewers it was of the utmost importance.
They had taken notice of the clock then.
Little knowing it was not as straightforward as it looked.
The clock was simply the time he was promising the installation would be found. Not the time the piece would be created.
CHAPTER 41
Claudia decided they’d be working late, so had ordered the team pizza. It had just been delivered. Rhys had been down to reception to collect it. He entered the incident room carrying a tower of boxes. She wasn’t just providing for the detectives on the team. She was providing for all. Civilian staff as well. Everyone was working flat out on this job.
‘Grub’s up.’ Rhys dumped the boxes on a desk as soon as he could relieve himself of them. ‘They smell divine. Thanks, boss,’ he shouted across the room.
Claudia came out of her office and stood in the doorway. There was a mass pile-on of the boxes. Lids were opened and slices of pizza lifted out, cheese trailing behind like yellow tentacles.
There were more groans of ‘thanks, boss’, but Claudia could barely hear them behind the stuffed pizza-filled mouths. This crowd could always be relied upon to be hungry and to eat whatever was put in front of them.
SECONDS TO DIE a totally gripping serial killer thriller with a twist (Detective Claudia Nunn Book 2) Page 15
