Shifting Skin

by Chris Simms

  ‘Yes. Three thirty-six, to be exact.’

  An image of the killer had just started to materialise in his head. Blurred and indistinct maybe, but just enough to create a tingle in his veins. It was a sensation he found completely addictive. Now the hazy silhouette evaporated like a mirage. His lips tensed in regret. ‘Fiona, I’m telling you this in confidence. The body found at just after six this morning. It had been there all night, not placed there just before dawn.’

  Fiona frowned. ‘But I heard...What I heard, it wasn’t just sex.’ Her jaw set tight. ‘I really think I heard someone being killed.’

  Jon took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling, wondering how much brandy she’d shared with the receptionist. Halogen bulbs glared down at him.

  ‘And I found this.’ Fiona patted her pockets and pulled out a slightly crumpled business card. ‘It was under the bed.’

  ‘Under which bed?’

  ‘The one in the next room. Number nine. The door hadn’t shut properly. I looked around it this morning.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And it was spotless. The bed looked like no one had slept in it. The bathroom was immaculate. Everything had been wiped clean – to destroy evidence, I suppose. This was the only thing there. Oh, and the spare blanket was missing, too.’

  The card was still in her outstretched hand, shaking slightly. Jon looked at it. It could have been lying there for days. ‘Fiona, you were attacked by your husband last night. You mentioned you had quite a bit of brandy with the night receptionist—’

  ‘Don’t say I imagined it!’ she hissed.

  ‘I’m not. I’m certain you heard something. But this motel

  – it’s used on an hourly basis by prostitutes and their clients. All sorts are going on. Doors banging, people coming and going right through the night.’

  ‘I heard what I heard.’ The card was thrust defiantly towards him.

  Reluctantly Jon took it, read the printed writing then flipped it over.

  Fiona jabbed a finger at the scrawled biro. ‘I tried her number. A man answered. He hung up on me and when I tried again the number had gone dead.’

  Jon raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Go on. Try it yourself.’

  As he took his mobile out he got a surreptitious look at his watch. This was taking up too much time. He rang the number. It went through to a number unavailable announcement.

  ‘See?’ Fiona insisted. Her voice was beginning to grate. ‘He’s stolen her stuff. The phone’s probably been shoved down some drain by now.’

  ‘OK.’ Jon got ready to stand up. ‘This Platinum Inn. I’ll stop by and ask some questions, I’ll speak to Cheshire Consorts and I’ll check who this mobile number is registered to.’

  Fiona relaxed a little. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’ve really got to go. I’ll call you. Have you got a mobile?’ She gave him her number.

  *

  When he walked into the incident room on the top floor of Longsight station, a new buzz was in the air.

  Rick was at his desk, a couple of other officers complimenting him on spotting the glove. Jon saw the look of pleasure on his face, the easy way he was taking credit for the find. You’ll go far in this job, he thought.

  As he got to their desks Rick finally saw him. ‘It was blood on that glove.’

  Jon sat down. ‘That’s great news. Anything on who the girl is?’

  ‘No. She’s been fingerprinted and a DNA sample’s been taken. All missing reports for young female adults are being checked now, and word’s gone out to the neighbouring forces to do the same.’

  ‘Door-to-door around Belle Vue?’

  ‘As we speak.’

  The other two officers moved off and Rick quietly said,

  ‘McCloughlin announced that I’d found the glove to the whole room. It’s been a good way of meeting everyone.’

  That surprised Jon, and he thought that maybe there was no link between Rick and McCloughlin. But then he realised Rick could easily have told McCloughlin the true story and the announcement to the incident room could be just McCloughlin keeping up the pretence. ‘What about that footprint?’

  ‘The CSM – what was her name?’

  ‘Nikki Kingston,’ Jon replied, slightly irritated at the defensive note in his voice.

  ‘Apparently, she shoved a bucket over it and sent for a casting kit.’

  Jon grinned in admiration of her efficiency.

  ‘But the best is yet to come,’ Rick carried on.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The glove. She’s testing it for fingerprints, something about amino acid deposits in sweat showing up on latex. If whoever dropped that glove is on NAFIS, we could have his name and address in a few hours.’

  Jon looked around. ‘No wonder everyone’s looking so happy.’

  Rick stood up. ‘I’m desperate for a leak.’

  Jon waited until Rick had gone out, then picked up the phone and dialled Nikki’s number. ‘Nikki, it’s Jon. This glove.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Jon. Anyone else and I’d tell them to call back later. It’s right in front of me. We’ve already lifted a partial from the wrist where he gripped it to pull it on.’

  ‘Enough for a match?’

  ‘No. But there should be others – on the inside at the fingertips, for instance. If he wasn’t wearing them long enough to get them all smudged, they could prove useful.’

  ‘Great. Listen, can you tell me who made the glove? Can you see the word “Mediquip” on it?’

  ‘Hang on. There’s something on the back.’ Her words were drawn out and Jon could tell she was squinting, face inches from the glove. ‘Yes. It says “Size 8” and “Mediquip Inc”. Good news?’

  ‘Could well be,’ Jon replied, trying to suppress the excitement in his voice. He placed the bag with Pete Gray’s cup in on the desk. ‘Last thing, Nikki,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Can you run a couple of tests on a cup for me? Fingerprints and, hopefully, saliva for DNA.’

  ‘Are you taking the piss?’

  ‘I don’t mean straight away,’ he protested. ‘Just when you get the chance.’

  She sighed. ‘You owe me. Big time. Where’s it come from, anyway?’

  ‘A suspect left it behind at an interview.’

  ‘So this is an unofficial test?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Jon smiled. ‘If it links him to what I’m hoping, we’ll pull him in on something else and then run a DNA mouth swab in line with the Police and Criminal Evidence Act.’ Seeing Rick coming back in, he quickly hid the cup in his drawer. ‘Right, I’ll leave you to it.’

  ‘Sure there’s nothing else?’ she said sarcastically.

  ‘No, that’ll do for the moment. Cheers.’ He hung up as Rick sat down. ‘I’ve just spoken to the CSM. The glove you found at the crime scene was made by a company called Mediquip.’

  Rick raised a finger. ‘Same as the ones Pete Gray was wheeling to the surgical ward.’

  Jon winked. ‘Have a check on the PNC, see if he’s got any priors. I’ll see what the internet has on Mediquip.’

  Less than a minute later, Jon was reading out the company’s home page in an American accent. ‘Mediquip is one of the world’s leading manufacturers of latex and vinyl gloves for surgical and medical use. Our factory employs the very latest quality control standards in order to produce a range of gloves recognised across the globe for their reliability.’ A row of thumbnail-sized photos popped up across the the screen. ‘Powder-free vinyl. PE gloves for industrial use. Powder-free in natural colour. Latex surgical sterilised by EO gas. Copolymer sterile latex. Pre-powdered nitrile examination.’ He scanned the column on the left of the screen. ‘Here we go: suppliers.’ He keyed ‘United Kingdom’ into the search field. Four names came up, one based in Manchester: Protex Ltd, Unit 15, Europa Business Park, Denton.

  Rick’s eyes were on his own screen. ‘Pete Gray. Cautioned for sexual harassment back in eighty-nine. Was going to court, but charges were dropped by his then wife, Helen Gray. The
re’s an addendum to contact the Domestic Violence Unit for more information.’

  He called the unit and got them to pull their intelligence file on Pete Gray. There were two other incidents involving violence towards females, one in 1993 and another in 1999. Neither had resulted in a caution or conviction.

  ‘So he’s not had his DNA added to the national database,’ Rick announced, hanging up the phone.

  ‘Looks like he has an attitude problem with the ladies, though,’ Jon replied, printing off the contact details for Protex. ‘OK. I think it’s time for a word with McCloughlin.’

  As he got up, he saw the business card for Cheshire Consorts lying on his desk. Flipping it over, he looked at the mobile phone number scrawled there and groaned. He’d assured Fiona that he’d look into it, and now he’d have to waste valuable time keeping his promise.

  ‘Two seconds, I just need to do a favour for a colleague of my girlfriend. She thinks she heard someone being strangled in the room next to her in a motel last night.’

  Rick smirked at Jon’s tone. ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘Belle Vue,’ Jon replied, picking up the phone.

  ‘Really? Near where the body was this morning?’

  Jon nodded. ‘Yeah, but don’t get excited. Whatever she thinks she heard, it was at three thirty in the morning. The third victim’s time of death was hours before that.’

  He called the communications liaison office. ‘DI Spicer here. Could you run a check on a mobile phone number for me, please?’

  Next he flipped the card over and rang Cheshire Consorts itself. ‘Hello, this is DI Spicer from Greater Manchester Police. Who am I speaking to, please?’

  ‘Joanne Perkins. Are you on duty, Detective Inspector, or is this call for leisure purposes?’

  But for a calculating note, the voice was very seductive. Jon imagined long, shimmering blond hair, arched eyebrows and full red lips. ‘I’m on duty, yes. Could I speak to the manager or owner, please?’

  ‘You are. I’m manager and owner.’

  ‘Ms Perkins—’

  ‘Please, call me “Miss”. You’ll find we’re feminine, not feminist, at Cheshire Consorts.’

  Jon smiled; the lady was good. ‘Miss Perkins. Do you have a girl on your books called Alexia?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘A possible missing person. We have reason to believe she worked as an escort for your company.’

  A cigarette lighter flicked and breath was exhaled against the mouthpiece. He could almost feel the smoke washing over his face. ‘No surname?’

  Jon shook his head. ‘Afraid not.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ The answer was too abrupt.

  ‘Have any girls failed to check back with you since their last job?’

  ‘DI Spicer, I’m not their nanny. The customer gives his credit card number to me, I send the girl to him. Apart from passing a percentage of his payment to the girl, I’m out of the equation.’ That was more like it, Jon thought. Cold and selfish. He guessed her experience of customers wasn’t limited to just the management side of things. ‘And you’re sure no one of that name works for you? It sounds like an alias to me.’

  ‘All my girls use aliases. Go to Cheshire Consorts dot com. They’re all listed there. Now this is a business line. I really must go.’

  Jon made sure he got the phone down first. Small recompense for being brushed off. A few seconds later he knocked on McCloughlin’s door, opened it and let Rick step in first. McCloughlin’s face lit up. ‘DS Saville.’ His eyes moved to Jon.

  ‘And DI Spicer.’ Less enthusiasm in his voice. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘Sir,’ Jon began, ‘we spoke to Pete Gray, the porter at Stepping Hill hospital.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘As soon as Carol Miller was mentioned, his mouth clammed shut. In fact, he got up and walked away, not prepared to talk any further.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  Rick spoke up. ‘He was arrested for sexual harassment in

  1989. His ex-wife.’

  McCloughlin inclined his head. ‘And I can tell you have more.’

  Jon nodded. ‘When we saw him at the hospital, Rick noticed he was wheeling a box of surgical gloves. They’re manufactured by a US company called Mediquip, but distributed in this region by a British firm called Protex Ltd.’

  McCloughlin’s eyes lingered suspiciously on Jon before turning to Rick. ‘Have you called Protex yet? We could do with knowing who the area rep is, at least.’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Rick. ‘We—I’ve only just got the information.’

  McCloughlin obviously sensed Rick wasn’t being straight. He pushed his phone across the desk. ‘Make the call.’

  Rick looked down. The only thing on his lap was Pete Gray’s record. Sheepishly he looked at Jon. ‘I think you have the company’s details?’

  Jon whipped the sheet out from his notebook. From the corner of his eye he saw McCloughlin’s lip beginning to curl.

  Rick called the number, introduced himself and asked to speak to the sales rep for the north-west. He started jotting information down. ‘Since when?...I see...And his name’s Gordon Dean?

  ... Where was he staying?...OK...No, if we hear anything we’ll call back.’ He hung up, looking baffled. ‘It appears he’s vanished. He was staying in Manchester, seeing clients around town yesterday. Since then they’ve been trying to contact him. He missed a big sales meeting this morning.’

  Without lifting his forearm from his desk, McCloughlin pointed a finger at the door. ‘A blood-spattered glove is dropped at a murder scene and the area rep for that company goes missing the very next morning? I don’t need to tell you which lead to pursue, gentlemen.’

  As they made for the door, McCloughlin called Jon back. Without looking up, he said, ‘Next time, don’t use your partner to front up information that you’ve sourced. Understood?’

  ‘Sir.’ Jon closed the door quietly behind him.

  Chapter 7

  The body in the bed didn’t move.

  Sunlight slanted in through the open window, spilling across the crumpled white sheets and creating a lunar landscape of miniature ravines. Silence dominated the room, pierced at regular intervals by a thin whistle. It came from the bandages encasing the patient’s face.

  Eventually a hand slid upwards. A forefinger and thumb picked delicately at the nostril holes and shoulders flinched as pain lanced outwards. After a few moments the patient tried again, this time successfully getting the tip of a varnished nail into a nostril that still throbbed from where the blows had landed. A large flake of dried blood was prised away and a sob of self-pity was released.

  The hand fell back on to the sheet as a soft whirring came from the window. A robin had alighted on the metal arm holding the window open. Head cocked to one side, it surveyed the room with a keen eye.

  From the bed, a pair of swollen and bloodshot eyes looked back, hungry for company of any kind. The patient tried to encourage the bird forward with a kissing sound, tears spilling over the layers of gauze.

  Chapter 8

  Immaculate grass borders flanked the entrance to the Europa Business Park. The spotless white gates were open and, as soon as they turned in, the car tyres seemed to start gliding over the smooth tarmac. A large sign stood at a fork in the road. Rick’s eyes moved over it. ‘Units ten to twenty. Right turn.’

  Jon spun the wheel and they followed the gently curving avenue. Side roads branched off to low buildings made from a type of corrugated material that appeared to come in only three colours: blue, green and white. Protex Ltd had chosen white.

  They parked in one of the spaces reserved for visitors directly in front of reception. Grey glass doors slid silently open as they approached them and they stepped into a foyer which was tidy to the point of being unwelcoming. A photo of a proudly beaming man was on their right. Directly below it a brass plaque: Keith Bradley founded this company in 1973.

  And doesn’t his tie just show it, thought Jon, making an effort not to wince at the ug
ly splashes of colour jumping off the man’s chest.

  Photos of various gloves lined the wall, each one bathed in coloured lighting to add interest to a totally lifeless product.

  A young woman with a headset cutting into her wavy brown hair nodded to them from behind the reception desk. ‘Can I help you?’

  They held up their warrant cards and her smile slipped.

  ‘Could we speak to your head of human resources, please?’ Jon asked.

  ‘One moment.’ She pressed a button on the switchboard.

  ‘Martin, I have two policemen wishing to speak with you.’ She listened for a second, then looked up. ‘Could I ask what it’s in relation to?’

  Jon leaned closer and, for the benefit of the person on the other end of the line, said loudly, ‘Gordon Dean.’

  The receptionist listened again. ‘He’ll be right down. Please take a seat.’

  Jon glanced at the chairs. Like everything else, they were stiff and unused. He remained standing. A minute later footsteps could be heard on the stairs. A middle-aged man in shirt and tie walked over to them. ‘Martin Appleforth, head of HR.’ He hesitated, not knowing who to shake hands with first.

  Jon stepped forward. ‘DI Spicer and DS Saville.’

  Appleforth’s office was slightly too warm. The blinds on the end window were lowered, but sunlight cut through the gaps, one sliver dissecting the photo of a plain-looking woman trying to smile in some crowded beauty spot.

  ‘I hope Gordon’s all right? Has something happened?’ He positioned his pen in the exact midpoint of a Protex notepad.

  ‘We’re not sure at present,’ answered Jon, unbuttoning his jacket. ‘What sort of employee is he?’

  Appleforth turned one palm upwards, as if the necessary information would drop into it. ‘Hard-working, reliable. He’s been with us for around eight years.’

  ‘And his sales patch is the whole of the north-west?’

  ‘The Manchester area and south into Cheshire. Another rep takes care of the Liverpool area and up into the Lake District as far as the Scottish border.’

  ‘So Mr Dean has a company car?’ asked Rick.