Lastnight (14 page)

She disconnected the phone and handed it back to him. ‘I’m hardly an expert, Jack. But I have to say that Goths tend to go more for piercings than tattoos.’

‘So what I’m thinking is that the place where they got tattooed is the common factor.’

‘The shoulder, you mean?’

Nightingale looked at the ceiling and sighed. ‘The tattoo parlour,’ he said. ‘I meant they went to the same place, maybe.’

‘You know I was joking, right?’

‘Sometimes I wonder,’ said Nightingale. ‘I couldn’t find a common factor other than the tattoos. They didn’t know each other and we can’t find any common point of contact. So it looks to me like the tattoo parlour is the best bet. I can take the photographs, see if anyone recognises them. Stella Walsh’s mum said she went to some place in Camden called the Ink Spot or something.’ He held up his hand. ‘Give me a minute.’ He tapped out Zoe’s number as he walked through to his own office. She answered on the fourth ring and it sounded as if she had been crying. ‘Zoe, it’s me, Jack Nightingale. Sorry to bother you again but I just wanted to check something with you.’

‘Okay,’ she said.

‘You and Abbie had tattoos, right?’

‘Tattoos?’

‘Yeah, I was wondering where you went to have them done?’

‘Me? I went with Abbie to a place in Wardour Street. You know, in Soho.’

‘Ah.’

‘Something wrong?’

‘No, I was hoping you’d gone to Camden, that’s all.’

‘I think Abbie did. A few weeks ago. She went on her own.’

‘Why?’

‘She liked tattoos.’

‘How many did she have?’

‘Six,’ said Abbie. ‘All on her back. Plus my name on her shoulder.’

‘I don’t suppose you know the name of the one in Camden do you?’

‘I’m sorry, no. She wanted me to go with her but I can’t stand the needles. She nagged me into getting her name tattooed on my shoulder and I was okay with that, but I told her I didn’t want any more.’

Nightingale thanked her and ended the call. He went through to Jenny’s office. ‘Any joy?’

‘There’s an Ink Pit in Camden,’ she said.

‘Abbie had half a dozen tattoos, according to Zoe.’

‘The only one on show on her Facebook page is the name one,’ said Jenny.

‘They were on her back. I guess you’d only see them if she was naked. So there’s no Ink Spot?’

‘None that I can find anyway. And the only one with Ink in the name in Camden is the Ink Pit.’

‘That’s probably it, then,’ said Nightingale. ‘Let me just give Mrs Patterson a call.’ He walked back into his office and tapped out Mrs Patterson’s number. When she answered her voice was a dull, flat monotone. ‘I forgot to ask you about Gabe’s tattoos,’ he said. ‘Do you remember where he had them done?’

‘Lots of places,’ she said. ‘He had some on his shoulders done when we were on holiday in Thailand. And he had his first one in Birmingham, before he came down to college.’

‘What about in London? Where did he go?’

‘His favourite was New Wave in Muswell Hill. He used to hang out there sometimes. And Jolie Rouge in the Caledonian Road. He went somewhere else for his last one. It was only a few weeks ago. Where was it now? Somewhere in Camden, I think.’

Nightingale’s heart began to pound but he kept quiet, resisting the urge to prompt her.’

‘The Ink Pit,’ she said. ‘That’s it. A friend had recommended them and he went and had one done on his hip.’

‘That’s brilliant, Mrs Patterson.’

‘Is that a help?’

‘I think so,’ said Nightingale. He ended the call and beamed at Jenny. ‘Gabe Patterson had a tattoo done at the Ink Pit too.’

‘That’s it then,’ said Jenny. ‘You can tell Chalmers that you’ve found the connection and pass it back to him. The answer’s probably in their client list. They might even have CCTV.’ She smiled brightly. ‘Case closed, as good as.’

‘Think I might pop around there tomorrow,’ said Nightingale. ‘Ask a few questions myself.’

‘Why, Jack? All Chalmers wanted was a lead and you have that.’

‘I’ll call it in on Monday,’ said Nightingale. ‘Besides I’m going to go to the Crypt tomorrow night.’

‘Hoping to pick up Goth girls?’

‘Yeah, that’s exactly what I had in mind.’ He smiled sarcastically. ‘I’m planning on showing the photographs around, see if anyone remembers them.’

‘The police will already have done that, surely?’

‘If I know anything about cops it’s that they generally take the easy way out. They probably just had a few council cops on the door handing out flyers.’

‘Whereas your plan is?’

‘To walk around, see what’s what, and talk to people.’

‘In a Goth club playing music at full blast? Well, good luck with that.’

‘I can look for Goths with tattoos. That seems to be the link.’

‘If it was me, I’d just pass it back to Chalmers and get on with my life.’

‘I will, on Monday, I promise.’

Jenny’s printer whirred and she handed him a printed sheet. ‘There’s the details of the Ink Pit, and a map, just so you can find it.’

‘You’re a star,’ he said.

Jenny stood up, retrieved her coat, and blew him a kiss. ‘See you Monday.’

He blew her a kiss back. ‘Not if I see you first.’

15

N
ightingale woke up early on Saturday morning, ate a bacon sandwich in his boxer shorts, then shaved and showered and went for a walk around Hyde Park to clear his thoughts and smoke a couple of cigarettes. The park seemed to be full of joggers and skateboarders and women in Lycra on rollerblades. Nightingale sat on a bench and wondered whether rollerblades would be a smart way of getting around town, what with traffic now reduced to the pace of a running chicken, but he decided that the downside of looking ridiculous in a helmet, kneepads and figure-hugging Lycra probably wasn’t worth the extra speed.

As he sat on the bench, two Goth teenagers walked by, both male, tall and spindly with spiky hair, chains hanging down from their black leather jackets. One had tight black jeans, the other was wearing baggy black combat pants. They were both carrying cloth bags with the logos of bands, the Cure and the Ramones. Nightingale stood up and spent a few minutes following them as they walked across the park in the direction of Harrods. Nightingale wasn’t so much interested in the two men as he was in the way that other people reacted to them. And the short answer to that was they provoked no reaction at all. Nobody gave them a second look as they strolled through the park. They were ignored. There were no taunts, no sneers, no comments. No one cared. The Goths were different from the average park user, but no more ridiculous than the Lycra-clad rollerbladers or the middle-aged men in sports gear and trainers who hadn’t broken into a run for decades. Pretty much everyone was wrapped up in themselves – or their smartphones or MP3 players – to pay the Goths any attention at all. The only person who gave them a second look was a pretty blonde girl and it was clear she was admiring the backside of the guy in the tight jeans. Nightingale stopped following them and blew smoke up at the clouds as he watched them walk away. The simple fact was Goths didn’t inspire hatred or contempt, not in the same way that people tended to look down on skinheads or punks. Goths were quiet and easy-going and kept to themselves. They didn’t shout racist comments or swear or try to intimidate others in the way that skinheads tended to do. And they didn’t dress to shock or offend in the way that punks often did. Nightingale finished his cigarette and walked back to Bayswater, deep in thought. Goths were non-threatening and Nightingale couldn’t understand why anyone would be so fired up by them that they would want to mutilate and kill them. When there were so many other people who went out of their way to be provocative and hateful, why single out a group who seemed to want nothing more than to listen to their own music and hang out with their own kind? It didn’t make any sense at all.

Nightingale collected his car from his lock-up. It took three turns of the key to get the engine turning, which suggested that the battery was on its last legs. Battery-changing was one of the many jobs that Nightingale was capable of carrying out himself, he just needed to find the time to pick up a new one. He drove to Camden with the print-out that Jenny had given him on the passenger seat and managed to find a parking space a short walk from the Ink Pit.

The tattoo parlour was sandwiched between a shop that sold leather bondage gear and another that sold vintage dresses. There were various tattoo designs around the edge of the window and by the door was a printed note saying that only those above eighteen would be tattooed and another that promised a twenty-five per cent discount for serving soldiers. Through the window Nightingale could see three leather reclining seats, only one of which was occupied. A young girl was lying face down while a bearded man with round-lensed glasses bent over her. He was wearing blue latex gloves similar to the ones used by SOCO and he alternated between using a tattoo gun on her shoulder and dabbing her skin with a tissue. From where Nightingale was standing it looked like an eagle. Or an angel. There was a young woman standing behind a cramped reception desk

There were framed photographs of tattoos all over the walls and a few signed photographs of what Nightingale assumed were famous people who had been tattooed on the premises. The tattoo artist looked up from his work, blinked a few times, and then bent over the girl again. Two more girls – presumably her friends – were sitting on chairs against the far well, peering over at the work in progress.

A bell dinged as Nightingale pushed open the door and the receptionist looked up. She had dyed blonde hair that was dark brown at the roots and more than a dozen bits of shiny metal hanging off her face and ears. She had three rings in each ear, connected by fine chains, a curved chrome pin through her lip, studs either side of her nostrils and three rings in each of her eyebrows. There was another stud in her chin, just under her lip.

‘Do you set off metal detectors at airports?’ Nightingale asked.

She grinned and stuck out her tongue to reveal another bulky silver stud. ‘These don’t,’ she said. She patted her groin. ‘But the one here definitely does. Is that what you want? Penis piercings are very very sexy.’

Nightingale winced. ‘I think I’ll pass on that.’

‘Trust me, you give your girlfriend a good seeing to with a penis piercing and she’ll never stray.’

‘Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.’

She winked. ‘That would be telling,’ she said.

‘I’m actually here to talk to the owner,’ said Nightingale.

‘There are two,’ said the girl. ‘Rusty and Jezza.’ She nodded at the man doing the rose tattoo. ‘That’s Jezza.’

‘What about Ricky? Ricky Nail?’ Jenny had told him that Ricky Nail was one of the owners.

‘No one calls him Ricky,’ said the girl. ‘He’s Rusty. Rusty Nail. Geddit?’

‘Okay, is Rusty around? Seeing as how Jezza’s busy?’

‘We haven’t seen him for a few days. We think he’s off sick.’

‘You think?’

‘You’re not from trading standards, are you?’

‘Nah,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m with the police, I just need some information on some clients.’

‘Not underage?’ she said. ‘We’re really tight on that, we don’t do kids. We insist on a photo ID and if we’ve any doubts we call their parents, too. Kids can be really devious.’

Nightingale smiled. ‘No, it’s not about underage kids.’ He took the five photographs from his pocket and turned them over to show her the names. ‘I want to confirm that these five people had tattoos done here. What about your computer? Do you have a database you could check?’

The girl shook her head. ‘We had a break-in last week. They took the register, the computers, pretty much everything that wasn’t nailed down.’

‘Bugger,’ said Nightingale.

‘You’re telling me,’ said the girl. ‘We lost all our appointments, all our phone numbers, this week has been a disaster.’

‘Did you call the police?’

‘They weren’t interested,’ said the girl. ‘You know what they’re like. They never get out of their cars these days.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Oh, sorry, no offence.’

‘None taken,’ said Nightingale.

‘I mean, they came around eventually but they didn’t take fingerprints or anything. They just gave us a crime number and the phone number of some victim support thing and then they went. Suggested we get a burglar alarm, they did.’

‘Probably good advice,’ said Nightingale. ‘Best I talk to Jezza then,’ said Nightingale. ‘How long until he’s done?’

The girl looked over at the work in progress. ‘Twenty minutes,’ she said.

‘I’ll wait,’ he said.

‘I could do you a penis piercing while you wait,’ said the girl. ‘I could give you the forces discount.’

‘I’d love to but I’m gasping for a cigarette,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ll wait outside.’ He went out and lit a Marlboro and paced slowly up and down as he smoked it. There was a Costa Coffee outlet across the road and he was just about to walk over and get himself a coffee when the door opened and Jezza came out. The girl he had been working on was at the reception desk, talking to the receptionist.

‘Joyce said you wanted a word,’ said the tattoo artist. ‘And seeing as how you’re a smoker we might as well do it here.’

Nightingale took the hint and offered his pack to the man and then lit it for him. He drew the smoke into his lungs and then held the cigarette up and nodded at it appreciatively before exhaling a cloud of smoke. ‘Used to smoke these at school,’ he said.

Nightingale grinned. ‘Behind the bike sheds?’

‘With a couple of teachers. I think it was the cowboy thing. Marlboro Man.’ He shrugged. ‘He died, didn’t he? Cancer?’

‘I think the jury’s out on that,’ said Nightingale.

Jezza looked at him sideways. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The anti-smoking lobby likes to say that the Marlboro Man died of lung cancer but there were a number of Marlboro Men and they didn’t all die that way. Plenty of smokers die of old age and plenty of non-smokers die of lung cancer.’ He shrugged. ‘Everyone dies, Jezza. There’s no getting away from that.’

‘Are you always as cheerful as this?’ asked Jezza. He laughed and took a long pull on his cigarette. ‘Joyce said you were asking about clients.’