Page 55 of The Killer’s Mark

‘You don’t know the tattooist?’ Poe said.

She shook her head. ‘I’ve never seen work of this quality before.’

Poe wasn’t disappointed. It had been a long shot, but sometimes they paid off.

‘Do you mind if I take a picture?’ She took out her iPhone. ‘I can show it to the next mansplainer who tells me the soles of the feet can’t be tattooed.’

‘Kill the screen, Tilly,’ Poe said.

It took her less than a second. Poe suspected she’d installed one of the MI5 kill switches he knew they used.

‘Sorry, Indica, I can’t let you take photographs. I don’t even want you talking about the tattoo. It didn’t end well for the last person.’

‘Oh?’

‘Asshole cops arrested Poe for his murder yesterday.’

‘Thanks, Esmerée,’ Poe said. ‘That was very helpful.’

‘I haven’t heard about this,’ Indica said.

‘It wasn’t in Carlisle; it was in London. The case we’re working on took me there.’

‘OK, you can put it back up, Tilly. I won’t take a photograph.’

‘Do tattooists sometimes sign their work?’ Poe asked.

‘Some do. I don’t. The ones who do might use their initials or they might have a calling card. There’s a guy from one of the big LA studios always puts a skull in his tattoos. Sometimes it’s so small you need a magnifying glass to see it.’

‘Has this happened here?’

‘A skull?’

‘A calling card.’

Indica studied the tattoo again. ‘There’s no way to tell. Not without seeing other examples of their work.’

‘There’s no way to identify the tattooist then?’

‘Not from the tattoo,’ she said. ‘But you’re missing the point.’ She gestured towards the screen. ‘Whoever did this is an artist. And I mean a real artist. Like trained. You don’t find them through their tattoos, Poe. You find them through their art. Someone will recognise their work. Their style. They’re too good not to be known. I’d place a call to the Royal College of Art. Start there.’

Poe thought she was right. An artist as talented as this wouldn’t have restricted themself to tattoos. It was probably a sideline. Art boffins were ten-a-penny, though. He imagined he could ask twenty of them the same question and get twenty different opinions. No, he needed to speak to someone who could take ego out of the equation.

Luckily, he knew just the man.

Chapter 45

With four police officers and one civilian, the Metropolitan Police’s Art and Antiquities Unit was tiny compared to those of other countries. Italy’s Carabinieri Command for the Protection of Cultural Heritage had four sections and twelve regional offices. More than one hundred agents worked for the FBI Art Crime Team. France’s catchily named Central Office for the Fight against Illegal Trafficking of Cultural Property had more than thirty full-time members of staff.

But the Art and Antiquities Unit was feisty. The staff punched above their weight. And given that the UK’s art market was the second biggest in the world, they’d had some remarkable successes. Poe had met with them a few years back during a case. He’d wanted their valuation on an oliphant – an Egyptian hunting horn, intricately carved and over a thousand years old.

The cops tended to rotate in and out. Sometimes they were led by a detective inspector, most of the time it was a sergeant. It didn’t matter to Poe; it was the civilian he wanted to talk to. A crusty old fart called Eric Stryker. Stryker’s particular area of expertise was ancient manuscripts, but his real value to the unit was his little black book. It contained the names of the world’s eminent art experts and was why the five-person unit was as successful as it was. When they had a case, they consulted with the very best.

Poe called him.

‘This isn’t a good time, Sergeant Poe,’ Stryker said. ‘I have a fake Roman bronze bust that is almost indistinguishable from the original. The forger even melted ancient coins to cast the sculpture. He must be stopped. I can’t be dealing with serial killers at the minute, I’m afraid. This is much more important.’

Poe let him rant. Stryker started every conversation this way. In his world, the past trumped the present every time. After a minute, he blew himself out. Poe told him what he had. And what he needed.