Tattoo

by J G Alva

“Yes.”

  “Who is it?”

  He uncapped the marker.

  “Just a friend.”

  She stared at it.

  “Mm.”

  He stopped at the tone in her voice and turned.

  “What? You don’t like it?”

  “I didn’t say that,” she said, with forced innocence.

  He stared at her, and then turned back to the map. He began marking on it.

  “You didn’t say anything,” he pointed out.

  “Well. I’m no art critic.”

  “Right.”

  “What are you doing?” She asked.

  “I’m marking down all the places the bodies were dumped, to see if I can find any pattern in them.”

  “Oh.”

  After he was done, he stood back to see if anything presented itself to him.

  When nothing did, he pinned the pictures Sean had given him of the tattoos up next to it.

  “Can I see?” She asked, from the sofa.

  He realised he was standing in the way, and so stepped to one side to allow her to look at it.

  “They’re all over the place,” he said, despondent, and re-capped the magic marker and replaced it in the pot. Not that he thought there would be anything there anyway, but…

  There was silence a moment as they both stared at the map, and the tattoos, and then his mobile phone rang; they both jumped.

  It was Sean. He sounded like he was outside; there was a wind blowing.

  “What have you got?” Sutton asked.

  He could tell by his voice that it wasn’t good news.

  “The Renault Clio,” Sean said, “belongs to a Darren Barrett, formerly of Knowle. At least, it did until two years ago. Does the name ring any bells?”

  “No. What happened two years ago?”

  Sean sighed.

  “That was when he died.”

  “Shit.”

  He saw Robin mouth, “what?” but he shook his head; he would tell her later.

  “Well, somebody’s driving it,” Sutton said.

  “No doubt. And illegally. Which means I have no way to trace it. I’ll put out an alert, hope one of our guys spots it and pulls it over, but…”

  “Yeah. A dead end.”

  “More than likely.”

  “What about the new victim? Do you have anything on her yet?”

  Sutton could hear paper being flicked through on the other end of the line.

  “No formal identification as of yet. All I can tell you is she is a Caucasian female, between the ages of seventeen and twenty eight. Thereabouts.”

  “Okay.”

  “But I’ve taken a picture of the tattoo,” Sean said. “I’ll show it to you when I see you.”

  “When is that going to be? When does your shift end?”

  “Like the Carpenters said, it’s only just begun. But I’ll be seeing you in a bit.” He paused before saying, “they’ve found another one. And I want you to come over and take a look at it. It’s different. It’s…Well, you’ll see when you get here.”

  *

  “The Forensic Science Service think it’s been here for five years,” Sean said, standing at the edge of the garden. “At least, based on the rate of decay, that’s what they think.”

  They were around the back of one of the two abandoned houses just down from the HH Wills Physics Laboratory on Tyndall Avenue. Both buildings were in a state of severe decay, their windows boarded up, their brickwork stained with a century’s worth of grime. Sutton did not know how long they had been empty. The body had only been discovered by accident: two adventurous boys living not three streets away had been convinced buried treasure was hidden somewhere on the site of these abandoned hulks, and had turned to digging amongst the weeds with earnest enthusiasm. When, instead, they found bones, they had promptly run back to tell their parents.

  The HH Wills Physics Laboratory towered over them now, casting a midday shadow over the overgrown back garden, a modern building of glass and steel not quite tall enough to be considered a sky scraper. To his left, Sutton could see the tall white stack of the hospital incinerator.

  St. Michael’s Hill is old Bristol, rising up behind the shopping district in the city centre, and is home to two great national entities: the University of Bristol and the Bristol Royal Infirmary. The BRI operates out of a large dirty office block that harks back to the throwaway architecture of the fifties, a completely tasteless and unpleasant grey building sequestered amongst all that history, a retarded cousin at an aristocratic ball. The University, on the other hand, has converted rather created, at least in regards to the many annexes in the Georgian houses that reside on the hill behind the Triangle; all in all, it covers twelve acres of land, in a messy spray not dissimilar from a shotgun blast: a cluster, dissipating as it spread. It was only on Tyndall Avenue that the two newest additions to the University had been built, rather than appropriated.

  Arthur Tinman had quickly been identified because amongst the dry bones there had been certain specialised items not found in any century but our own: a mechanical heart valve, upon which had been inscribed the tiniest of serial numbers. One simple phone call had confirmed the corpse’s identity.

  This, however, Sean told them, was as far as they had been able to get, because the records for Mr Tinman were sketchy. The last time he had ever been inputted into anyone’s database had been for a charge of Vagrancy in late 1997. Then…nothing.

  “Five years?” Sutton said.

  “I know.” Sean looked unhappy. “And it might not even be him. The Head Hunter, I mean.”

  “Sean, please don’t call him that,” Robin said, her face tense. “It makes me feel ill.”

  Sean held up his hand.

  “I know. I’m sorry. What I was trying to say is, no one can seem to find Arthur Tinman’s head.” Sean looked at them both, shrugged. “I thought it was worth looking at.”

  Sutton looked at Robin and then back at Sean.

  “Do you know anything more about Arthur Tinman?” He asked, nodding at the forensic technicians in their white suits crab-walking around a hole at the bottom of the garden. “Besides the fact he was arrested for Vagrancy?”

  “His father was a surgeon,” Sean said, “and his mother was a GP. Both quite respected in their own fields, I believe. We found some published articles by his father in our search on Arthur. His father actually performed the bypass operation on his son – it’s in the records. But…I think something wasn’t right with Arthur. Hospital records show that he was delivered with a number of birth defects, a heart murmur being one of them. He also had some deformity with regards to his legs; he was born with his feet turned inward, and some reconstruction had to be done on the calf muscles – they used carbon fibre.” Sean nodded to the forensic technicians. “That’s been discovered as well. His hospital records also show he suffered some slight mental retardation. Arthur Tinman’s last known address was his parent’s house, but they died in 1984. Maybe, without them, he couldn’t care for himself; we don’t know. But I think it’s safe to assume that he was homeless from around about that time.”

  “The Vagrancy,” Sutton said.

  “And he ends up here?” Robin said. “That poor man.”

  “His mother and father left a bit of money behind. When they couldn’t find Arthur, and nobody applied for probate, the money was locked up until it could be determined if any relatives still existed. He didn’t resurface again until 1997. It was quite a sum. A quarter of a million quid.” Sean shrugged: there you go. “I’ve got a picture,” he said, and shuffling in his pockets produced a photograph of Arthur Tinman.

  Sutton took it, looked at it. Arthur Tinman was young in the picture, a tall man with blonde hair that hung over his forehead and down to his brow.

  Sutton paused, looking at the picture, thinking.

  “He’s not gone for a man before,” he said.

  “We didn’t think he’d gone for anything before.”

  “Hm. He has a type
. Killers don’t usually deviate from a type; they don’t get the same thrill.”

  “Maybe…but maybe this was before that,” Sean said. “Before he got so…specific. He’s too good at what he does to have just started.”

  “Yeah. I think you’re right.”

  Sutton thought about that for a moment, staring at the forensic technicians in their white protective suits. Beyond them, on the other side of the garden next door, a large red wooden barrier had been erected, too high for Sutton to see passed it.

  “What’s behind there?” He asked, nodding his head to the wooden barrier.

  Sean looked over.

  “Oh. Architectural dig, I believe. That land over there backs on to the Royal Fort. Apparently they were about to build an extensions – or tear down an extension, I forget which – to the Physics Laboratory when they came across the remains of the original fort. Now they’re discovering all sorts of historical shit. Construction has stopped indefinitely.”

  “I heard about that,” Sutton said thoughtfully. “It was a Civil War citadel, constructed in the mid seventeenth century, and then torn down once the Commonwealth Government were in power.” Sutton turned to them. “They found cannonballs, shoes, even a musket, I think.”

  There was something rattling around in his head, some connection. The Fort, the body. But what?

  He had seen pictures of the excavation, of course, a large dirty area with box shaped depressions cut into the mud as they dug deeper and deeper into history.

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Sean said, and then by way of distraction said, “oh, by the way,” and handed an A4 sheet of paper to Sutton.

  Sutton turned it around to look at it, and Robin came to his side to stare at it with him.

  “From the latest victim.”

  The next tattoo.

  They all stared at it.

  “He’s got some skill,” Sutton admitted.

  Robin stared at him, as if he had gone mad.

  “It’s horrible,” she said, tight lipped.

  They stared some more.

  “Another impossible object,” Robin said, pointing at the castle in the centre of it.

  “Yeah,” Sean said.

  “What do these words mean? Are they Latin?” Robin pointed.

  “Yeah, they’re Latin. We got some guy from the university to translate it for us. Apparently, it loosely means, he flies with his own wings. Which, believe it or not, is the motto of the American state of Oregon.”

  “Oregon?”

  Sean scratched the back of his head; he looked confused. “If you can understand what he’s going on about, then you’re a better man than I.”

  “Well,” Sutton said, and realised he was excited. “I can tell you one thing about it: it’s a bastardised version of the Bristol coat of arms.”

  Sean looked shocked for a moment.

  “What?”

  Sutton nodded.

  “It’s more simplified, but it’s definitely a copy. The original coat of arms is a shield with unicorns on either side, and two arms above it, one holding a set of scales, the other a snake. Supposedly, the unicorns will only do homage to men of virtue. The arms in the crest signify that good government depends on wisdom – the serpent – and justice – the scales. The design inside the shield was based on the early seals of Bristol, from the thirteenth century: in those days there really was a twin towered castle in Bristol, built by Henry the third. The castle and the boat design signified a strongly fortified harbour, which at that time Bristol was. On that version, the inscription at the bottom is Virtute Et Industria, which translated means virtue or valour and industry. The castle’s the same, even if it is one of his impossible objects. But there’s no ship.” Sutton paused, pondering. “I’m not sure what he’s trying to tell us.”

  Sean sighed.

  “If he’s trying to tell us anything.”

  Robin said thoughtfully, “even in his tattoos, he can’t let the women have identities.” She paused. “And what’s the drop of water? Is that significant?”

  Sutton shook his head.

  “I don’t know.”

  They all stared at the tattoo in silence.

  *

  They were using Robin’s car to get about: a dusty Ford Focus that rattled a little when it went above fifty. Sutton was surprised by the mess inside – packets of tissues and old water bottles in the wells and pockets and on the floor – but a look from Robin silently forbade him from commenting.

  Nobody was in residence at the house on Manilla Road when Sutton knocked on it around about lunchtime.

  “Where is she?” Robin asked.

  “Fuck knows. Out getting her nails done, for all we know.”

  He attacked the door again, knocking with some force. His arms were big; Robin had not quite gotten used to how big.

  “What do we do now?” She asked.

  Sutton looked up and down the street, angry, undecided. He bounced down the steps, looked up and down the street again, a ball of urgent energy.

  “We need to find her,” Robin said. “Maybe her neighbours…?”

  Sutton shook his head, still angry, and then dug his mobile phone out of his pocket. He waited while it rang.

  “Sean? There’s nobody here, at Ellie Mason’s house. No. Look – I know she owns a couple of other places in Bristol. Can you run them down for me? Eleanor Mason. I don’t know, late forties. I don’t really know much more about her than that. Okay. Well. Get back to me.”

  He shut his mobile phone.

  “Come on,” he said, grabbing her arm and leading her back to the car, distracted, his attention elsewhere.

  “Where are we going?” She asked.

  “I know someone we can talk to about Arthur Tinman.”

  *

  “Well, well, well,” Freddie Hopkins said, grinning. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

  He grasped Sutton’s hand in a warm grip, and then unsatisfied with that took him in something like a bear hug. Sutton wondered what they must look like, two middle aged men grappling in the middle of a quiet café in Broadmead. An older woman reading a Joanna Trollope novel regarded them warily from the corner, as if they might slip their leashes and come after her.

  “Well, my God, it’s been long enough, Sutton,” Freddie said, “what the fuck have you been up to?”

  “This and that, Freddie. You know how it is.”

  Freddie was a short man with a shaved head; he wore thick round glasses with gold frames, and had a penchant for tan tweed jackets. Sutton always thought it gave him something of a sedate scholarly air, although he had known Freddie when he was younger and an altogether different, and certainly less sedate, person.

  It is a tradition for youth to rebel at some point, against expectations, a time for the definition of self. Freddie’s rebellion had been darker, and more destructive. He had been a desperate and frightening alcoholic, had sucked love and warmth from his friends and family as greedily as a vampire in his pursuit of intoxication, but had pulled himself up out of the muck to start again. He now ran a shelter in Old Market for homeless people, and it was a life that agreed with him, and even if his days of excess had taken their toll, he looked more comfortable with himself than Sutton had ever seen him. A gold earring sat in his left ear, a testament to a wilder man, gone but not forgotten. And vigilance against that side of him, Freddie often told Sutton, is the price he continues to pay for this life. You never stop wanting to drink.

  He turned to Robin.

  “And who’s this delightful young lady you’ve brought with you?”

  “Freddie, this is Dr Robin Sails,” Sutton said, and they shook hands.

  “A doctor, no less,” Freddie said, impressed.

  “Of Psychotherapy,” Robin amended.

  “Right. Is Sutton a charity case? He’s going to need a lot of work, you know. On average, how many sessions do you think your clients need? I mean, to iron out their mental wrinkles? Because I would pencil Sutton down for about t
wice that.”

  Robin smiled.

  “Well. He certainly is no average case.”

  “Aint that the fucking truth.”

  Sutton said, “shut up and sit down, Freddie, before I knock you down.”

  “See,” Freddie said, smiling, but he sat; they all did.

  “How’s the girl doing now?” He asked Sutton.

  Sutton inclined his head.

  “I hear through Aimee that she’s doing fine. Something of a miracle, I think, considering her father’s got as much warmth to him as a block of Arctic ice.”

  A long time ago Freddie had helped Sutton find a missing girl. That whole year had been a dark one, and was not something Sutton liked to dwell on, if he could help it.

  Freddie shrugged.

  “My father wasn’t much warmer. And look how I turned out.”

  It was an old joke. He had first made it when Sutton had visited him in a treatment clinic as he was ‘drying out’. Then, he had looked as near to death as Sutton had ever seen anyone, skinny to the point of emaciation, his skin crusted with scabs and sores, his eyes red rimmed and mad with want or need, or something.

  “I was thinking you were looking pretty good, actually,” Sutton said.

  A twinkle appeared in his eye.

  “I’ve just gotten engaged. They do a good cappuccino in here.”

  Sutton stared at him.

  “When did this happen?” He asked.

  “What? The cappuccino? I think they’ve always done it.”

  “Freddie,” he warned.

  He seemed curiously shy in that moment.

  “I don’t know. It kind of snuck up on me. One minute I’m seeing this girl” – he looked at Robin, gave an apologetic half shrug –“well, woman I should say – and the next thing I know she’s got me wrapped around her little finger.”

  “And I bet you were kicking and screaming all the while.”

  Freddie smiled.

  “Do I make it sound that bad?”

  “You’re happy?”

  “So happy I’m suspicious of it. I’m constantly looking over my shoulder, afraid that something’s going to come out of the dark and steal it away from me.”

  “What’s she like?”