Read Online Blood Never Dies by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Cynthia Harrod-Eagles
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Tuesday, but I haven’t got anything else to do, really, so I sit in here and do my paperwork, and work out new designs, so if anyone does come in, I’m not turning away trade. Anyway, it was a Monday or a Tuesday morning this man comes in.’
‘Alone?’
‘Eh? Oh yes. He walked in off the street and I took one look at his clothes and thought, hello, he’s come to the wrong shop. Like you, y’see, he didn’t look the type. Cords and a jacket, he had on, and very nice shoes – most people round here are in jeans and trainers, and a lot of them through my door are covered in piercings. But he was a tall, good-looking bloke. Money coming out of every pore, that’s the way he looked to me. Kind you’d expect to see in Berkshire driving a Range Rover towing a horse trailer, you get my drift?’
‘Yes,’ said Atherton. ‘Very graphic.’
He seemed pleased. ‘I notice things,’ he said. ‘You have to in this trade. You get all sorts – junkies looking to rob you, kids on a dare their mums and dads don’t know about, girls egging each other on, dating couples. You have to give them advice as well as the work. Practically an agony aunt, me.’
‘Go on,’ Atherton prompted.
‘Anyway, he wasn’t the usual sort of person that comes in, that’s what I’m saying, which is why I remember him.’
‘How did he seem? What was his mood like?’
Johnson considered. ‘Kind of grim but determined, is how I’d put it. He didn’t smile at all, and he seemed kind of – preoccupied, if you like. Following his own thoughts. Not the sort of mood you get a tattoo in, and I half thought he’d back out when it came to it, but he knew his own mind all right. Quite confident. So I show him the books and he picked out the tiger right away. Then he asked for a snake round his ankle. I said everyone had snakes and wouldn’t he like something a bit different. I showed him the dragon and explained how it could wind round, and he liked that idea, and went for it.’
He ran a finger absently over the design – he had a workman’s hands, not an artist’s: strong, blunt, steady. Hands you’d trust.
‘Well, when we get in the back room, he takes off his jacket, and he’s got a short-sleeve shirt on, and I see he’s got no other tattoos – not visible ones, anyway – so I reckon he’s an ink virgin. That’s what we call ’em. Well, it’s a longish job, and you don’t sit there in silence, do you? So I try to get him chatting. He wasn’t big on answers, just yes and no, not volunteering anything. I ask if he’s had a tattoo before and he says no, and gives a sort of look, like as if he wishes he wasn’t doing it now. So I ask what he wants ’em for. And he says, “Oh, just an idea I had”, and then he changes the subject and starts asking me about the trade. He had a lot of very intelligent questions, not the usual daft stuff people generally ask, and I tell you, he got me talking like it was a chat show. It wasn’t until afterwards I thought, he was just stopping me asking him questions. But it was skilfully done.’
Atherton nodded thoughtfully. ‘Did he tell you his name?’
‘No, it never came up.’
‘Don’t you take names and addresses of your customers?’
‘Not generally. There’s no need.’
‘How did he pay?’
‘Cash. That’s the usual thing. I gave him my little talk about aftercare and gave him a leaflet, sold him a tub of tattoo goo, took the cash and away he went.’
Atherton got out the mugshot and handed it to him. ‘Is that the man?’
‘Yes, that’s him – but I think his hair was different. Maybe darker. And cut a different way.’ He looked up anxiously. ‘This photo – is he—?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid he was found dead. It looks like suicide.’
‘Oh dear me.’ Johnson seemed genuinely upset. ‘Oh deary me. That nice lad? What a dreadful thing. But why would he do it? He seemed all right. A bit dour, maybe, but not nervous or depressed. The opposite, really
‘Alone?’
‘Eh? Oh yes. He walked in off the street and I took one look at his clothes and thought, hello, he’s come to the wrong shop. Like you, y’see, he didn’t look the type. Cords and a jacket, he had on, and very nice shoes – most people round here are in jeans and trainers, and a lot of them through my door are covered in piercings. But he was a tall, good-looking bloke. Money coming out of every pore, that’s the way he looked to me. Kind you’d expect to see in Berkshire driving a Range Rover towing a horse trailer, you get my drift?’
‘Yes,’ said Atherton. ‘Very graphic.’
He seemed pleased. ‘I notice things,’ he said. ‘You have to in this trade. You get all sorts – junkies looking to rob you, kids on a dare their mums and dads don’t know about, girls egging each other on, dating couples. You have to give them advice as well as the work. Practically an agony aunt, me.’
‘Go on,’ Atherton prompted.
‘Anyway, he wasn’t the usual sort of person that comes in, that’s what I’m saying, which is why I remember him.’
‘How did he seem? What was his mood like?’
Johnson considered. ‘Kind of grim but determined, is how I’d put it. He didn’t smile at all, and he seemed kind of – preoccupied, if you like. Following his own thoughts. Not the sort of mood you get a tattoo in, and I half thought he’d back out when it came to it, but he knew his own mind all right. Quite confident. So I show him the books and he picked out the tiger right away. Then he asked for a snake round his ankle. I said everyone had snakes and wouldn’t he like something a bit different. I showed him the dragon and explained how it could wind round, and he liked that idea, and went for it.’
He ran a finger absently over the design – he had a workman’s hands, not an artist’s: strong, blunt, steady. Hands you’d trust.
‘Well, when we get in the back room, he takes off his jacket, and he’s got a short-sleeve shirt on, and I see he’s got no other tattoos – not visible ones, anyway – so I reckon he’s an ink virgin. That’s what we call ’em. Well, it’s a longish job, and you don’t sit there in silence, do you? So I try to get him chatting. He wasn’t big on answers, just yes and no, not volunteering anything. I ask if he’s had a tattoo before and he says no, and gives a sort of look, like as if he wishes he wasn’t doing it now. So I ask what he wants ’em for. And he says, “Oh, just an idea I had”, and then he changes the subject and starts asking me about the trade. He had a lot of very intelligent questions, not the usual daft stuff people generally ask, and I tell you, he got me talking like it was a chat show. It wasn’t until afterwards I thought, he was just stopping me asking him questions. But it was skilfully done.’
Atherton nodded thoughtfully. ‘Did he tell you his name?’
‘No, it never came up.’
‘Don’t you take names and addresses of your customers?’
‘Not generally. There’s no need.’
‘How did he pay?’
‘Cash. That’s the usual thing. I gave him my little talk about aftercare and gave him a leaflet, sold him a tub of tattoo goo, took the cash and away he went.’
Atherton got out the mugshot and handed it to him. ‘Is that the man?’
‘Yes, that’s him – but I think his hair was different. Maybe darker. And cut a different way.’ He looked up anxiously. ‘This photo – is he—?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid he was found dead. It looks like suicide.’
‘Oh dear me.’ Johnson seemed genuinely upset. ‘Oh deary me. That nice lad? What a dreadful thing. But why would he do it? He seemed all right. A bit dour, maybe, but not nervous or depressed. The opposite, really
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