Lastnight (15 page)

‘Yeah, she said you had a break-in?’

Jezza nodded. ‘Yeah, bastards. Took our computer and the cash float, our stereo system and a DVD player.’

‘Joyce said you called the cops but they weren’t much help.’

Jezza smiled. ‘Break-ins are pretty low priority these days,’ he said. ‘They’re too busy hunting down DJs from the sixties and racists on Twitter.’ He shrugged. ‘The insurance will cover it but our premium will shoot up. Who’d expect anyone to break into a tattoo parlour?’

They both blew smoke and then Nightingale took the five photographs out of his pocket. ‘Do you recognise any of these people?’

Jezza went through the pictures one by one, taking a good long look at each one. He smiled when he got to the picture of Stella Walsh. ‘This one, for sure,’ he said. ‘She was in here about six months ago claiming to be eighteen. We said she needed photo ID and she said she had her birth certificate. That showed she was nineteen but it wasn’t her. We asked her for her address and we got her home number and called it and she hit the roof. Turned out she was seventeen.’

‘That happens a lot?’

Jezza nodded. ‘Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. A lot of people think that if you have the permission of a parent we can do it at sixteen, but that’s not true. If you’re not eighteen, it’s against the law. We told her she’d be okay for a piercing, but she wanted a tattoo.’ He grinned. ‘She got really upset and threatened to sue us, which was funny.’ His face suddenly hardened. ‘Oh my God,’ he said quietly. He flicked through all of the pictures. ‘They’re the ones that got skinned, right?’

Nightingale nodded.

‘Shit, I never realised. I’ve seen the story in the papers and on TV but it didn’t click.’

‘Yeah. Stella Walsh. She was the first.’

‘That wasn’t the name she used.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘She was so funny, shouting and stamping her feet like not having a tattoo was the worst thing that had ever happened to her. She was almost eighteen anyway, just a few months off, I think. We told her to spend the time planning it. I offered to work with her on the design. But she wasn’t having any of it. She wanted it then and there.’ He took a drag on his cigarette. ‘Kids,’ he said, after he’d blown smoke. ‘They don’t seem to realise that a tattoo is for life. It’s not something you rush into. It has to say something about you, something personal.’ He pointed at a seashell on his right arm. ‘When I was a kid my dad took me walking on the beach at Blackpool. We found a shell, just like this. He told me this long story about a mermaid who used a shell as a mirror. Every time I look at that tattoo, I think of my dad, God bless him.’ He held up his left arm and rotated it slowly so that Nightingale could see all the tattoos on it, more than a dozen. ‘Every one means something to me, every one has a story. That’s how it should be.’

‘And what did Stella want?’

‘Words. I love Justin Bieber or something. In some fancy typeface. That’s why I reckon the law’s right – kids shouldn’t be allowed to have tattoos.’

‘Did she come back?’

‘I don’t remember seeing her.’ He went through the pictures again. ‘None of these others ring a bell.’

‘And you’re there all the time?’

‘I’m there during our regular opening hours,’ he said. ‘Ten until seven. We run an appointment system, we have to because otherwise people would phone up to book a time and then not turn up. We insist that they come in and talk to an artist, plan their design and then book a time. And put down a deposit, of course.’

He gave him the photograph of Gabe Patterson. ‘You’re sure about this guy? His wife said he’d had a tattoo done here.’

Jezza looked at the photograph carefully, then shook his head. ‘Definitely not.’ He handed the photograph back and took a long last pull on his cigarette and flicked away the butt. ‘He could have done a walk-in with Rusty, I suppose.’

‘A walk-in? How does that work?’

‘Like I said, we have a strict appointment system during working hours. But Rusty kept the place open at night and would take anyone.’ He shrugged. ‘He said he did his best work at night. Experimental stuff.’

Nightingale finished his cigarette. ‘What do you mean by experimental?’

Jezza looked uncomfortable. He scratched his chin and swayed from side to side. ‘It was his style. Freestyle, I guess you’d call it. See, my way is to let the client decide what they want. It’s their body and their tattoo. And with the appointment system, that’s how it works. We show them designs, we talk it through, there’s a lot of thought and planning goes into it. That way there are no surprises. But Rusty would open late at night, usually Friday and Saturday, and he’d do anything on anyone. Not underage, that was a rule we never broke, but he’d do drunks, crackheads, whatever. I told him he was playing with fire and that he’d end up being sued but it’s his shop so I couldn’t argue.’

‘I thought you were joint owners?’ said Nightingale.

‘He put in most of the money when we started, so he always has the last word,’ said Jezza.

‘These late-night sessions, Rusty was here alone?’

‘Yeah, more often than not. I wasn’t happy about it. Clients need to have a clear head when they plan a tattoo, and the tattoo artist has to have a clear head when he’s doing the work. What you don’t want is a couple of kids deciding they want matching tattoos when they’re drunk at three o’clock in the morning and then regretting it next day.’

‘And Rusty didn’t care?’

‘He cared, but he cared about the art. He wanted to push the envelope and he tended to do that at night.’ He gestured at the photographs in Nightingale’s hand. ‘Any one of them could have come in during the late-night sessions.’

‘Did Rusty keep records?’

‘Sure, it would all have been on the computer. We’re VAT registered so everything had to go through the till.’

‘But the computer’s gone?’

Jezza nodded.

Nightingale put the photographs away. ‘Where is Rusty?’

‘He’s gone walkabout.’

‘Walkabout?’

‘He goes AWOL from time to time. Sometimes he’s on a bender and sometimes there’s a girl involved. This time he’s not been in for four or five days. What day is it today?’

‘Saturday.’

‘Then it was last week when he was last in. We’ve phoned a few times but it goes straight through to voicemail.’

‘And no one’s worried?’

Jezza laughed. ‘You don’t know Rusty. It’s like he has an on-off switch. He’s either working every hour of the day or he’s just … AWOL. One time he disappeared and then called us from Vietnam. He’d gone to Heathrow and got on the first long-haul flight he could.’

‘I’d really like to talk to him,’ said Nightingale.

‘I’ll get Joyce to give you his details,’ said Jezza, pushing open the door. ‘If you do track him down, tell him he needs to call. We’ve got to do our VAT filing and without the computer we need all hands to the pumps.’

‘I’ll tell him,’ said Nightingale, following him inside.

Jezza told the receptionist what he wanted and she wrote down an address and a phone number for Nightingale. Jezza went back to his workstation. The girl he had tattooed was admiring her inked angel in a mirror while one of her companions had slipped off her shirt and was lying face down on the reclining seat.

‘You might try his present girlfriend. Suw. With a double-u.’

‘Does he live with her?’

She scribbled down the name and address and gave him the piece of paper. ‘Sometimes. He’s lived with half a dozen over the last few years. I think sometimes he stays with Suw and sometimes she stays with him. They do a lot of music festivals and stuff. Rusty was talking about the Warped Tour in the States and I thought he might have gone there.’

‘He wouldn’t tell anyone? He’s just up and go to America?’

Joyce laughed. ‘Rusty? He’s a free spirit. Which basically means he doesn’t give a shit about anyone else.’ She leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘I don’t know what Jezza said to you, but Rusty has seriously screwed us over by going walkabout. We’re backed up with appointments and our other tattooist is down with the flu. Jezza’s working non-stop and we’re still behind. If you do find Rusty, give him a kick up the arse and tell him to get back here.’

Nightingale slipped the piece of paper into his back pocket. ‘I will do.’

He opened the door and the bell dinged. She grinned and waggled her fingers at him. ‘And if you change your mind about the penis piercing, you know where to come.’

‘You’ll be the first person I call,’ he said.

16

N
ightingale decided against driving to the Crypt and took the Tube instead, getting on at Queensway and changing to the Northern Line at Bank. It took him a little more than half an hour, which was probably quicker than using his car, especially considering the way the battery had become so temperamental lately. He had left his raincoat behind and was wearing black jeans, a black polo shirt and a black linen jacket. He had drawn the line at make-up, figuring that at least he’d made an effort. He got off at the Angel station and took the escalator up to street level. There was nothing biblical about the name chosen for the station, it was named after a local pub.

The Crypt was a short walk from the Tube station. In a previous life it had been a cinema and where once the films had been advertised were the words
THE CRYPT
in capital letters and
SATURDAY
FROM
10
P.M
. in smaller letters. It was eleven o’clock at night and Nightingale had assumed the club wouldn’t get going until the early hours but there were dozens of Goths heading that way and when he got there he saw a long line waiting to get in. Most of those in the queue were teenage Goths but there was a sprinkling of girls wearing Victorian dresses and he saw one young man in a top hat and tails. At the head of the queue were two large men in black suits and shades, with the impassive bored faces cultivated by bouncers the world over. One had a shaved head, the other shoulder-length grey hair tied back in a ponytail. Both looked as if they worked out a lot and had their blue plastic Security Industry Authority licences on display on their left arms.

Nightingale walked up to them and smiled. They looked back at him, their faces set in stone. Nightingale suddenly felt as if he was ten years old and about to be told it was his bedtime. ‘Hi, guys,’ he said. The two men didn’t react. Nightingale could feel a dozen or so pairs of mascara-laden eyes watching him and he turned so that his back was to the queue. ‘I’m with the cops, getting information about the Goths that were killed.’

‘So you’ll have a warrant card, then?’ said Ponytail.

‘I said I was with the cops. I’m a private detective. I used to be a cop, though.’

‘Yeah, well, I used to be a male model but you won’t see me on the cover of
Vogue
.’ Ponytail grinned at his colleague but the smile vanished when he turned to look back at Nightingale.

Nightingale frowned. ‘What?’

‘I’m saying, what’s past is past. You’re not a cop so that makes you a civilian so if you want to get inside you’re going to have to join the queue. Unless you’re a member. But you don’t look like a member.’ Ponytail looked across at Shaven Head. ‘Does he look like a member?’

Shaven Head took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘He doesn’t look like a member.’ He unclipped a thick black rope and allowed half a dozen Goths inside before replacing the rope.

‘Okay, how about not letting me in but having a look at these instead?’ Jenny had given him a print-out with pictures of the five Goths on it. He took it from his pocket, unfolded it and handed it to Ponytail.

The doorman frowned as he studied the five faces. ‘The cops already showed me these,’ he said. ‘A couple of times.’

He gave the sheet of paper to Shaven Head who stared at it for several seconds, pulled a face, and handed it back to Ponytail who then gave it to Nightingale. ‘And you don’t remember seeing any of them?’ asked Nightingale.

Ponytail jerked a thumb at the long line of Goths. ‘I’ll tell you what I told the cops. They all look the same to me.’

‘You must know some of them though. The regulars. The ones that stand out. The members.’

‘Of course,’ said Ponytail. ‘But they checked with management and none of them was a member. No details on file.’ Nightingale squinted at the ID card on the man’s left upper arm but couldn’t get a good look at it. The doorman lifted his arm closer to Nightingale’s face. ‘More than happy for you to have my name,’ he said. ‘John Brown.’

‘Cheers, John,’ said Nightingale. He took out his wallet and gave him one of his business cards. ‘Happy to return the favour.’

Ponytail squinted at the card. ‘Nightingale?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Like the bird.’

‘Very much so.’ He gave a card to Shaven Head who put it in his top pocket without looking at it.

‘So can I go inside?’ asked Nightingale. ‘I just want to show those pictures around, see if anyone remembers them.’

‘Sure,’ said Ponytail. ‘Just join the queue and we’ll make a decision when you reach the front.’

‘Decision?’

‘We have a dress code.’

‘Seriously?’ Nightingale held out his arms to the side. ‘Is this not Goth enough for you?’

Nightingale could see that Ponytail was trying not to smile.

‘End of the line,’ said Shaven Head. He unhitched the black rope and allowed another group of a dozen Goths to go inside. Since Nightingale had started talking to the doormen, another forty or so Goths had joined the queue. He smiled hopefully at Ponytail but could see that he was wasting his time.

‘Jellybean, are you giving Mr Nightingale a hard time?’ said a voice behind him.

Nightingale turned around. For a second he didn’t recognise the two young Goths then he realised they were the dog-owners from Clapham Common.

‘You know him?’ said Ponytail, surprised.

Hannah and Becky slipped their arms through Nightingale’s. ‘He’s our new best friend,’ said Hannah.

‘You know he’s a private dick?’ said Becky.

‘And they’re the best kind, Jellybean,’ said Hannah, and for the first time the doorman’s face broke into a smile.