Tattoo

by J G Alva

  He stared at her a moment, and then convinced she would not give up, said, “I happen to like women. That’s all. I like sex, sure, who doesn’t, but if that’s all you can appreciate in a woman, then you’re missing the point.”

  “And what’s the point?”

  “Robin, what is this?”

  Robin shrugged.

  “I’m just trying to get a sense of you. There’s certain contradictory aspects of your personality.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “You’re creative,” she said. “I’ve seen that. And you’re good with people. I’ve seen that too. You have an empathic nature, are exceptionally sensitive to people and their moods. So on the one hand we have a highly developed intellectual side to you – the puzzles – and on the other hand a deep appreciation for complex emotional concepts. Like people. And Art.”

  Sutton was staring at her, but she couldn’t see his eyes; his face was in shadow.

  As if he had asked her something, Robin shrugged and said, “I’m just trying to reconcile these different aspects of your personality. How you can be affected and respond to complex emotional states…and at the same time ignore that part of you, or worse, use it, to green light conflict. Even violence. For your own ends.”

  He was silent for a moment.

  “The hairdressing salon,” he said knowingly.

  “Yes.”

  “Look, I didn’t want you to see that-“

  “But I did see it.”

  He took a deep breath.

  “Do you think my…sensitivity should automatically negate a need for a necessary course, if it turns out to be violent?”

  “It shouldn’t,” she said. “If it was your sister that had been abducted.”

  “Morality is too abstract a concept to override one’s basic nature?”

  “But you’re not doing this off your own back. You’re not a vigilante. You’re being paid to be moral.”

  “Ah. And money can’t be on the side of good.”

  “Of course it can.”

  “Then what are you saying?”

  She shrugged.

  “I just…I just don’t know how you do what you do.”

  She could see that Sutton was smiling.

  “And sleep at night? Was that what you were going to say?”

  “No,” she said, defensive herself this time, that he had read her thoughts so concisely.

  Sutton sighed, shifting in his seat.

  “I have rules,” he said. “And I try to keep to them, as best I can. Without rules you have chaos. Or worse: corruption.” Sutton looked out of the window again. “I know that, if I stray from my rules, if I ignore them, then it would be all too easy to become…I don’t know…sour. Rotten. I’ve seen it happen to so many people.” His eyes seemed to glow in the dark interior of the car. “They lose themselves.”

  “Like Ellie.”

  “Hm. Yes.”

  “It’s like a…a knight’s code.”

  Sutton seemed amused.

  “Hardly. I’m not that noble.”

  Robin paused.

  “Everyone’s got rules,” she said, looking down at her bitten and broken nails.

  “What’s yours?” He asked, but before she could answer, Sutton’s mobile phone rang again, startling them both.

  He took it out and put it to his ear and said, “what have you got?”

  There was silence for a long time while Sutton listened. Robin could just about hear the tinny voice coming from the phone’s speaker, but she could not discern what was being said, or even the identity of who it was that was speaking.

  “She was helpful,” Sutton said.

  Another pause, as Sutton listened.

  “Yes,” he said, finally, “I know where College Road is. We’re not far away. We could check it out. And she’s sure? You gave her the description?” Sutton listened. “Okay. I’m going to take a look. Well done. I suppose it’s too good to hope that it’s him, it’s too easy, but fuck knows, we could use a bit of luck. Are you alright to get back by yourself?” Another pause. “Well, take a taxi. You’ve earnt it. Put it down on your expenses. I’ll speak to you soon. Bye.”

  Sutton ended the call, and put the phone back in his pocket.

  “What?” Robin said.

  “That was Fin. He met with the woman from the Bristol Civic Society. He described the suspect to her and she recognised the description right away as one of their members. He’s tall, is in his mid-twenties, is very shy around people, and lives on College Road in Clifton.”

  “Where is that-“

  “It’s by Clifton College,” Sutton said, “not far from here. About five minutes drive?”

  She started the car.

  “My God, could it be him-“

  “He sounds right, but I thought we’d just-“

  Once more, Sutton’s phone began ringing. He answered it.

  Almost immediately, his alarmed eyes flicked to Robin.

  “Hang on a minute, Sean, let me put you on speaker so Robin can hear as well.” Sutton pressed a button on his phone, and then held it out toward Robin, like a peace offering, and then said loudly, “go ahead.”

  “Eleanor Mason has a son,” Sean said, his voice distorted but clearly audible. “He’s twenty seven, has blonde hair, and is six feet seven inches tall.”

  Robin stared wide eyed at Sutton.

  “Let me guess,” Sutton said. “His name is Alden King.”

  There was silence on the phone a moment.

  “How did you know that?” Sean said, outraged almost. “I thought you said-“

  “Fin went to the Civic Society to see if anyone recognised the description we had,” Sutton explained. “That was the name he was given.”

  “It’s him,” Sean said, his voice hard with certainty. “He lives on College Road-“

  “We’re about five minutes away,” Sutton said.

  “Don’t do anything,” Sean said quickly. “Wait for me. I’m on my way.”

  “We were just going to-“

  “Don’t fucking do anything, I’ll be there in five minutes. Just wait.”

  *

  CHAPTER 15

  It was a big house.

  They sat in Robin’s car and watched it. They did not speak. They had no urge to speak; besides, Sutton didn’t think there was anything appropriate to say anyway. They both knew what this could mean: that this might be an end to it…or another fruitless diversion. Either Andrea was in there, or she wasn’t. You could hope, but hope was as effective – or as ineffective – as prayer. It seemed to Sutton that hope and prayer were pretty much the same things anyway.

  The lights were on upstairs, but the ground floor was dark. It was an old Victorian building, as most of the buildings were in this part of Clifton; semi-detached, and four storeys tall. Across the road was The Close, the large green at the back of Clifton College, dark and foreboding at that time of night; Alden King’s property overlooked it. In front of the house was an old stone wall, split by an entrance to a large front garden that had been covered in a layer of tarmac, and was big enough to be a forecourt…but no cars were parked out front. Instead, a lonely metal dustbin kept a solitary vigil. The house itself was on a slight hill, with a small row of old stone steps at its centre, that led up to the front door. The front door itself wasn’t impressive, but the stonework around it was: two Roman columns, and above the door ornate brickwork in a semi-circle bracketing a simple stained glass window. The tarmac in front of the house also led down its left side to the back. What was back there? A white Ford Transit Van? Sutton did not know.

  Headlights from behind them suddenly illuminated the interior of Robin’s car, and then as the approaching car pulled to a stop, were quickly doused.

  Sutton looked over his shoulder and saw Sean getting out, so he too opened his door. Robin clutched at his hand suddenly. Surprised, he stopped and looked down.

  Her face was drawn, her eyes huge.

  “If anything goes wrong,” Sutton
said, “you drive away. When you’re far enough away to be safe, then you call for help. Got it?”

  She nodded, and almost reluctantly let go of his hand.

  He shut the door on her.

  Sean came to meet him.

  “It’s just you?” Sutton said.

  “Until we know, yes,” he said.

  “I’ve got a feeling-“

  “But you said you couldn’t see a white van,” Sean said.

  Sutton shook his head.

  “I haven’t been around the back yet though.”

  “So we just talk to him,” Sean said, and set off across the road toward the house; Sutton followed. “That’s all it has to be.” He looked at Sutton. “We couldn’t do anything without Reasonable Suspicion anyway.”

  “Right.”

  They passed through the break in the low stone wall and moved up the slight rise to the house.

  “Did you bring a gun?” Sutton asked.

  Sean gave him a look: I’m not stupid.

  Sean took the lead up the steps, leaning forward to bang on the ornate knocker on the front door.

  Sutton felt his mind tingling, felt electricity shooting along nerve endings. Sean’s movements were stiff with adrenaline.

  They waited.

  After a long time, Sean leaned forward and banged on the knocker again.

  The semi-circle of glass above the front door suddenly lit up, in red, green and a blue tinged white, and then the door opened. They both tensed.

  The man behind the door was tall. But more than that, he was big. He was wearing jeans and a grey t-shirt, and neither concealed the slabs of muscle in his thighs, biceps and shoulders. It wasn’t muscle created by bench presses or treadmills, it was naturally occurring; just good genes, Sutton supposed.

  A hanging crystal chandelier lit up a long hall with pale cream walls, a picture rail running at head height along each wall, an antique looking table, and a coat rack, but kept Alden King’s face in shadow. What little Sutton could make out made the face seem like that of a child: the shape of the head was too big for the small features crowded in the centre of it. But he was obviously not a child. He had about three millimetres of blonde bristle, like a rug, cut perfectly to the lines of his head, so that it was like he was wearing a shower cap of hair; like he had an Action Man’s haircut.

  Sutton was waiting for that stab of recognition, but looking at Alden King he did not feel it. True, he had not been able to see the man in the moat with any degree of clarity, but he thought he would feel something, either way. Instead, he wavered on that knife edge, not sure if it was the same man or not.

  Alden spoke, and his voice, and its incongruence with the rest of him, was alarming, even shocking.

  His voice was soft, gentle, intimate and yet slightly chilly with politeness, and seemed to fall out of Alden King’s mouth like velvet.

  “Hello?” He said. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m Sean Bocksham, an officer with the Major Crime Investigation Unit,” Sean said politely. “I was wondering if I could speak with you?”

  Alden’s expression did not change. His eyes flicked between Sutton and Sean, but his face showed no emotion. Sutton noticed how unlined and how youthful his skin was.

  Unlined and youthful.

  Hadn’t Jessica Leonard said the same thing?

  And even Mike?

  “Is there a problem? How can I help?”

  The voice was so innocuous, so unthreatening, that Sutton could not help but doubt that this was the same man that had decapitated four people…and, if they were unable to stop him, would soon decapitate one more.

  “I was wondering if we could come inside and talk?” Sean said. “It’s very important.”

  “Of course,” Alden King said. He pulled the door back and then stopped as if something were blocking its movement. He gave them an apologetic smile and reaching down to move it, said, “hang on, let me just…”

  The stab of recognition came to Sutton, but by then it was too late. The movement of Alden bending to free something from behind the door echoed in Sutton’s head with the memory of his movements in the moat, but before he could speak, to warn Sean, Alden had pulled a long segmented pole about the size and length of a broom handle from behind the door, and had swung it at Sean.

  The swing was so immediate that Sean did not have time to react, and Sutton saw the tube connect with Sean’s cheek, heard the slap, saw Sean fly backward, off the steps, into the small bushes that ran around the base of the house.

  Sutton moved to grapple Alden, jumping forward, but he was too far down the steps, and the pole was already coming round, and Sutton saw a brief spark at its tip and realised what it was before it connected with his ribs, and he felt a jolt through his body unlike anything he had felt before, and his thought – this is what it must feel like to be struck by lighting – was blotted out by a blinding light in his head, and he was only dimly aware that he was flying backward through air, before he blacked out.

  *

  Robin watched in horror as Alden struck her cousin, sending him tumbling off the steps, before turning to tazer Sutton, like he was a farmer prodding a cow with a pitchfork, pushing Sutton back, so that he spilled, lifeless, from the steps, out and down, the shiny steel rubbish bin breaking his fall.

  Neither of them got up.

  Oh my God, oh my God, what should she do, what should she do?

  In the end, she supposed, there was only one thing she could do.

  She started the car, her nerves jangling in all her limbs, put it in gear, spun it around in the road, her foot pushing the pedal to the floor, the car engine screaming.

  She met the rise of the tarmac toward Alden King’s house with a loud hollow thump that echoed through the car. She had time to see Alden King standing in the doorway, just standing there, watching her, the long pole in his hand, staring, motionless.

  Only at the last minute did he back up slightly, by which time her car had hit the front steps, was banging up them, the car twisting slightly, the steering wheel pulling to the left –

  The car hit the front of the house just slightly left of the door. There was a tremendous hollow bang, the bonnet folded up, the front door swung inward and then twisted off its hinges and hit the floor, a large chunk of plaster came off the building and smashed across the windscreen, the windscreen starred, and the airbag inflated in her face, a flash of white that blotted out the world, all of this taking place in the time it takes for the heart to beat twice.

  She was some moments coming back to herself. Her senses lay scattered like a broken china vase. The world was on an angle, the front of her car pointing up at the house, like a begging dog on its master’s leg.

  Jesus Christ.

  She opened the door and got out.

  She was shaking. She felt sick.

  Sutton was struggling to rise, much like a fish out of water; he had one hand thrown over what remained of the metal dustbin, and was trying to use it to lever himself upright.

  She went to him, and he clutched at her like a blind man. She took his hand and helped him upright.

  “God, are you okay?” She said.

  He nodded, breathing heavily, his hand shaking uncontrollably in her grasp.

  “Sean,” he said, gesturing, and Robin ran around the back of her car to her cousin, who lay in the bushes on the other side of it.

  He was not moving. A large red welt was rising on his right cheekbone. She knelt beside him and put a delicate hand to his neck; he was breathing, his pulse was fine, he was just out cold.

  There were footsteps behind her, and she looked around wildly, cold hard fear crawling up the back of her throat…but it was only Sutton, coming around the back of her car to join her. He seemed dangerously unstable on his feet.

  “Is he…alright?” He asked.

  “Just unconscious, I think,” she said.

  Sutton looked up at the house, and then back to Sean. Sutton gave an unformed shout, part in frustration, par
t in rage, but more, Robin thought, at his own incompetence.

  “Come on,” he said, hunkering down.

  “What-“

  “We have to carry him to his car.”

  Of course. Alden was still here, somewhere.

  Sutton did not look capable of carrying himself, let alone Sean, but he bore most of the weight as they struggled across the forecourt, over the road, and stopped at Sean’s car.

  A neighbour, an old man in a grey cardigan and jeans, came hesitantly toward them, obviously alerted by the noise of her car hitting Victorian style masonry.

  “Are you alright?” The old man asked. “Do you need any help? I heard-“

  “Get back in your house,” Sutton shouted at him. “Police business. Get back in your house.”

  The old man looked frightened, and turned and ran back to his house.

  “Keys,” Sutton said breathlessly, and Robin searched Sean’s pockets until she found them.

  She unlocked the car, and Sutton let Sean’s unconscious body tumble over the back seat. He bent and lifted Sean’s feet in, twisting him on the seat slightly.

  “Get in,” Sutton said to her. “You’re driving.”

  She got in.

  Sutton shut the door on her, and then rested his hands on the top of the car.

  She started the engine, and then pressed the button for the electric window; it quickly slid down.

  “Sutton, what are you doing? Get in.”

  “Get away from here. Then call the police.”

  “Sutton, get in.”

  “No.”

  She stared at him.

  “You’re angry,” she said.

  “I am.”

  “You’re not thinking straight,” she said, using a placating tone. “You’re angry and you’re being stupid. Get in. Now.”

  He turned and looked back at the house.

  “Call the police,” he said, and then started back toward the house.

  “Sutton, no. You’re in no condition-“

  But he was not listening to her, was returning to the house, despite logic, despite common sense, Jesus Christ, what could he hope to do, he could barely walk, what an idiot, but Robin knew that she would not be able to stop him, he was like a force of nature, implacable, impossible to divert, and in despair and frustration she watched as he began up the rise to the house and knew how it felt to be the wife of a soldier, how it must be to watch them go in to battle and be able to do nothing to protect them, because what they really needed was protection from themselves. Sutton’s slow, lumbering gait was almost painful to watch, like he was drunk, or exhausted.