Marlon spat the blood from his mouth. ‘Mad bastard,’ he mumbled as the door slammed shut.
10
As soon as the first crack of daylight crept into the room, Tom Conway opened his eyes. There was no confusion, no yawning or stretching, he was instantly aware of his surroundings; moments later, he was sitting up and shuffling out of the sleeping bag.
Dressing quickly, he crossed to the window and looked out over open fields: trees in the distance, gardens to the left and right. Pulling out the tobacco pouch, he rolled a cigarette with his right hand and lit up, watching the sun clamber slowly into the sky.
His parents had been married for over forty years, his father had spent a life on the road driving trucks to bring in the money. Returning at the weekend, father and son would go fishing on the local river, “bonding time” his father used to call it as he smiled around the ever-present cigarette.
He’d been killed twelve months before he was due to retire, a pile-up on the motorway in thick fog, his mother had never recovered; six months later, she had died of a heart attack.
The man blinked as a shaft of sun bounced off the window, forcing him to turn away.
It was easy to get lost in the memories, to give yourself over to the past, but he had a job to do, a truth to discover, and he knew that reliving old memories wouldn’t help in the slightest.
Once downstairs he flicked the kettle on and spooned coffee into a mug, adding a splash of milk from a carton on the worktop.
Leaning against the cupboard, he took a sip from the hot drink and thought about the letters he had received from John Hall. The two of them had been friends for as long as he could remember, they’d grown up together and even joined the army on the same day, but after twelve years, John had decided he’d had enough and moved back to Kirkhead. Now John and his daughter were missing. Closing his eyes, Tom pictured meeting Rowan Hall for the first time. She had been a toddler smiling up at him as he lifted her from the ground. He’d been dressed in his uniform; John had clapped him on the back.
‘Rowan, say hello to your uncle Tom,’ John had said, as the girl looked closely at the man who held her.
Tom had smiled, the girl laced her arms around his neck and kissed his bristly cheek.
Over the next few years he had come back to the town a handful of times and on each occasion, he had been amazed by how much Rowan had grown and yet she had always been thrilled to see him, always wanted to spend time with him. And now, along with her father, she was missing.
Tipping the drink down the sink, he grabbed the car keys from his pocket and headed through the house, outside, the sky was clear and bright; the breeze cool for now, though he knew once the sun was fully up the day would be another hot one.
Twenty seconds later, he slid behind the wheel, slipped the key into the ignition and checked the mirrors before pulling away from the kerb.
11
Inky Jones glanced up as the shop bell tinkled, when he saw the brown-haired woman standing in the doorway he smiled his best guy-on-the-prowl smile, which, to be honest, wasn’t much to look at.
Marnie stepped into the studio and closed the door behind her, the walls were smothered with photos, the usual suspects were all present, naked women wrapped in the coils of a variety of hissing snakes, flaming skulls stood alongside ship’s anchors and a dizzying array of tribal tattoos.
‘Now then, sweetheart, are you after something big and brassy or do you prefer the delicate touch?’ Jones asked, his voice heavy with innuendo.
Marnie raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you saying I look “big and brassy”?’
Inky grinned as he looked her up and down. ‘Nah, a woman like you will want something classy, I can tell.’
Marnie sighed, Inky continued to leer; however, the smile fell from his face when she pulled out her warrant card.
‘You’re a copper?’ he asked nervously.
‘Don’t looked so shocked, I’m just here to pick your brains,’ she paused, ‘unless you have something to hide behind that big, brassy, exterior?’
Inky shuffled his feet and glanced towards the door as if contemplating making a run for it. ‘Hey, lass, I have nowt to hide.’
‘So, why do you look as if you do?’
Inky frowned. ‘Coppers always make me jittery but I’ve no record – not even a parking fine.’
Marnie slipped the warrant card back into the pocket. ‘Glad to hear it,’ she glanced at the photo gallery on the walls. ‘How long have you been doing the tattoos, Mr Jones?’
‘Call me Inky,’ Jones tried a tentative smile.
Marnie remained straight-faced while she studied the man in front of her, as expected his arms were smothered in ink. He wore a white T-shirt and black jeans and looked to be in his mid-forties, hair shaved closed to the skull, a golden earring sparkled in his right ear.
‘Answer the question, Mr Jones?’ she said easily.
‘Oh right, I’ve been here for the best part of twenty years.’
‘And what’s popular at the moment?’
Inky sniffed as he looked around the walls at his handiwork. ‘Depends what you want, the ladies still like the mermaids and the love birds – you know, girly stuff.’
‘What about the men?’
‘Well, you can see there’s a lot of tribal tats but that was popular about three to five years ago – every bugger wanted one – but they’ve gone off the boil a bit.’
Marnie stepped closer to the wall, her eyes roaming over each column of tattoos; when she spotted the lightning bolt she pointed a finger at the photo.‘What about that?’
Inky squinted at the wall and smiled. ‘Ah, not done one of those in a few years.’
‘Why not?’
Inky shrugged. ‘People like the more elaborate stuff, besides the bolt is a bit iffy.’
Marnie turned to face him. ‘What do you mean?’
She watched as a flush of colour rose in the tattooist’s cheeks. ‘It used to be popular with the skinheads, Nazi symbolism kind of thing but to be honest that was all a load of bollocks, still, you know what some idiots are like for jumping on the bandwagon.’
‘And you say you haven’t done one in a few years?’
‘Well look at it, it’s not what you’d call classy is it?’ Inky said with a frown. ‘In fact, I keep meaning to take it down but I never seem to get the time.’
‘I don’t suppose you can remember who last had the tattoo?’
‘God, it was years ago, I’ve done hundreds of tats since then.’
‘That’s not what I asked?’
He flicked his eyes towards her, and then looked away quickly when he saw the suspicion in her eyes.
‘It’s just a tat to me, I rarely take notice of names or faces.’
Marnie slipped her hands into her pockets. ‘So, you know you haven’t done that tattoo in years but you have no idea who the last person was who had one?’
‘Aye, that’s right.’
‘Warm in here, isn’t it, Mr Jones?’
Inky could feel the sweat break out on his forehead. ‘I guess so.’
Marnie turned back to the wall, studying the pictures.
The tattooist’s cheeks inflated in relief.
‘Take your time,’ Marnie said, without taking her eyes from the wall.
Any relief Inky felt was replaced with anxiety as he glanced at her profile; she was a good-looking woman, no doubt about that, but there was a hardness in her eyes, a look that said “I know you are lying and I’m going to stay here until you tell me the truth”.
‘Like I said, I can’t remember, I …’
‘In that case, why do you look so uncomfortable?’ she asked, turning back towards him. ‘Why do you look as if you want to run for the door?’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he mumbled, his face burning red.
Marnie watched as a trickle of sweat found its way into his right eye, he winced and screwed it shut against the sting.
‘If you tell me the truth
now, I’ll leave you in peace but if you don’t, then I may have to take you to the station until you do,’ she calmly explained.
Inky looked over his shoulder as if checking for spies hiding in the room. ‘Look, I was just going to make a brew, do you fancy a cuppa?’
‘Sounds good, tea, no sugar please.’
Inky strode towards the door and flicked the sign to closed before sliding the bolt into place, turning he headed to a beaded curtain at the back of the shop.
Marnie hesitated for a moment then followed.
12
Rowan Hall had no idea if it was morning or night; time was meaningless as she sat on the lumpy mattress, head bowed, long hair dangling, nerves shredded. She crinkled her nose at the smell that wafted from the chemical toilet. The room was huge, the corners lost to the darkness, the sixty-watt bulb merely dropped a yellow cone of light onto the dusty floor.
Closing her eyes, she felt the tears slide onto her cheeks. She thought of her father, in her mind’s eye he was smiling as he swung the hammer – driving the final nail into the wood – he stopped to look down at her before wiping his forearm across his sweating brow.
‘Come on, Rowan, it’s all done now,’ he said.
She pictured her younger self climbing the ladder to the tree house, she had been nine years old and they had sat perched in the doorway looking out over the large garden. Summertime and the bees had been busy in the rose bushes collecting pollen, the sun shining in a clear blue sky, the view of the fields beyond had looked lovely bathed in the warm summer light.
Six months earlier, her mum had died of the big C, that was what her dad had called it, with tears shining in his eyes.
Not long after the funeral he had set about making the tree house and Rowan had helped – passing him the hammer and nails and anything else that he asked for. They had worked as a team, her dad stripped to the waist, Rowan in jeans, a T-shirt and her ever-present wellingtons. Over the next couple of months, the tree house had taken shape until the day arrived when it was complete.
‘What do you say we sleep up here tonight?’ he’d asked.
Rowan had smiled in excitement. ‘That would be cool.’
The summer had continued long and hot, the weeks passed as they looked out at the world from their elevated position. They fell into an easy routine; her father would cook a meal in the house or buy in a pizza and they would eat it amongst the branches of the old oak tree.
Occasionally, she would watch her father when he wasn’t looking, and she would see the pain in his eyes, a pain she recognised only too well when she looked in the mirror.
At the end of the summer she had gone back to school, however, as soon as Friday night came her father would gather the sleeping bags and torches and they would head out to the tree house.
It became a ritual that lasted through the winter, Dad had brought a small heater into the tree house and they had snuggled into their sleeping bags, noses cold as they talked about Mum, sharing memories that sometimes left them both in tears. Other times they would laugh about the things she had done and said, the time she had been bouncing on the trampoline until she lost her balance and shot off into the laurel bushes that bordered the garden, or the time she made Rowan a birthday cake that had been so bad that even the dog had refused to try it.
Her father had smiled as Rowan recalled the memories, his eyes shining with emotion.
Time passed and life moved on, gradually the tree house was forgotten about and Rowan started to go to her friends for sleepovers.
Sitting on the dirty mattress, she wiped the tears from her eyes as she remembered coming home early, she had meant to be sleeping at her friend’s house but Suzi had become ill so Rowan had been taken home by Suzi’s mother.
When she let herself in, the house had been in darkness, she could remember the tremulous feeling that her father had vanished into thin air, the emotion had almost stopped her young heart as she moved through the empty rooms looking for her dad. Finally, she had entered the kitchen and seen the light shining from the window of the tree house. Her smooth brow had crinkled in confusion, grabbing the torch from the cupboard she had walked out into a garden smothered in shadows. Climbing the ladder, she had eased the door open – to find her dad asleep in the bag, his shoulders hunched, tears on his cheeks.
Now, Rowan Hall looked around the dusty room and prayed that her father would come and find her but with every passing minute she felt the distance between them grow.
On the day she had been snatched, she had been sitting in her bedroom listening to music and surfing the web, looking for a new pair of shoes when she had been grabbed from behind and whisked away.
Now, she lived in this strange limbo of torment, twice a day the door would open and a tray containing food would be pushed into the room. At first, she had been too terrified to eat but as time wore on she had found herself picking at the food, trying to stay alive for when her father, or maybe even the police, came to save her.
So, she sat and waited, trying to keep the flame of hope alive, trying to ward off the demons that skulked in the darkened corners of her mind.
In desperation, her voice hoarse with screaming, she had hammered on the hardwood door with her fists, demanding to be let out – but no one ever came to answer her call.
Looking down at the half-eaten burger, she started to cry, tears rolled down her cheeks and dropped to the mattress, the despair closed around her ever tighter until she gasped for breath.
‘Come on, Dad, where are you?’ she whispered in a trembling voice.
Silence.
13
Marnie grimaced as she took a sip from the cup, the tea was weak and tasteless.
‘Look, I know you’ll probably tell me “no comment” but why do you want to know about the tattoo?’ Inky asked.
Placing the cup on the worktop, Marnie looked at him. ‘We’re looking to identify a body and he has a lightning tattoo just like the one on your wall.’
The tattooist sighed heavily before taking a glug from the chipped mug.
‘I’ve called at the other two tattooists in town and neither of them had the same photo on the wall,’ she explained.
‘That proves nothing,’ Inky replied defensively.
‘You’re right, but they’ve only been open for a couple of years, whereas you have been here for almost twenty.’
Inky pursed his lips and grunted noncommittally.
‘I can’t make you tell me, Mr Jones, but this is a very serious situation and if you can help in any way then it would be appreciated.’
Inky flicked her a quick glance and sucked in a lungful of air. ‘I did two identical tattoos, it must be about, oh, best part of twenty years ago, I know I hadn’t been open long.’
‘Two?’ Marnie asked in surprise.
Inky nodded slowly, the sweat was back on his brow, a nervous look in his eyes. ‘It’s not that unusual, sometimes kids come in together and get the same tats.’
‘You have to be eighteen to have a tattoo, correct?’
‘That’s right.’
‘So, they were hardly kids, were they?’
A blush of colour reappeared in his cheeks. ‘I …’
‘Did they look at any other tattoos when they got here?’
Inky frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
Marnie sighed. ‘Did they take a look around trying to decide what they wanted, or go straight for the lightning bolt?’
‘To be honest I can’t remember.’
‘What about names?’ she asked.
The blush on Inky’s face bloomed and Marnie folded her arms and waited for a reply. Silence stretched out, the tattooist looked around the tiny kitchen with tortured eyes. Marnie watched the man squirm, knowing that eventually he would blurt out a name.
‘Jimmy Rae!’ Inky eventually gasped.
Marnie managed to keep the passive look on her face though she had no doubt the surprise was evident in her eyes.
Inky turned and emptied the
dregs down the sink, hands shaking he swilled the cup under the hot water tap. ‘Jimmy was a rough nut – even back then – and I can see him now with his cronies, I had a shop full of people waiting to have tats done but that bugger emptied the place in seconds.’
Marnie pictured Rae’s face, the permanent scowl, his eyes blazing out in perpetual anger, it was no wonder the other customers had scarpered.
‘Did you recognise the second man?’
This time when Inky shook his head Marnie believed him.
‘To be honest there were about four of them but only Jimmy and one of the others had the lightning bolt.’
Marnie nodded. ‘Can you tell me where they had the tattoos?’
Inky looked at her in confusion for a moment. ‘They had them here in the shop.’
Marnie smiled and then Inky slapped a hand to his forehead as the penny dropped. ‘Jesus, I can be thick at times,’ he groaned. ‘They had them in the small of their backs.’
The smile slipped from Marnie’s face and she pushed herself away from the worktop. ‘Thanks for your help, I …’
‘Look, I don’t know what this is all about but I don’t want Rae kicking my door down and going ape shit.’
‘Don’t worry, we’re only making enquiries.’
‘That won’t matter to him, if he thinks I’ve grassed him up he won’t be happy,’ Inky said, his face deadly serious.
‘You need to calm down …’
‘Look, sweetheart, for a copper you seem OK, but I know what that mad bastard’s like, he breaks limbs first and then he asks the questions; and if he don’t like the answer he breaks a few more.’
‘You know his reputation then?’
Inky ran a hand over his shaved head. ‘Come on, everyone in Kirkhead knows his reputation, I mean, I’m amazed he wasn’t locked up or bloody killed years ago.’
‘Well, according to records he’s a businessman …’
Cut The Threads: A Serial Killer Thriller That Will Keep You Hooked (DS Marnie Hammond Book 2) Page 4
