Shifting Skin

by Chris Simms

  ‘Performing full surgical procedures?’ Jon asked.

  ‘Full surgical procedures.’

  ‘As opposed to what you perform here?’

  ‘Correct. I specialise in aesthetic medicine – laser treatments, botox and filler injections, on the whole. Nothing more than skin deep. But the industry’s expanding at an incredible rate. Everyone wants a slice of the action, to employ the prevalent terminology. Dentists now offer Botox treatments on the side. Got a medical qualification and a syringe? Then join the party. There are rich pickings for all.’

  Jon contemplated the doctor’s words. ‘Going back to the surgical side of things, how many people would you say are employed in the industry?’

  ‘Nationwide or just Manchester?’

  Jon toyed with the idea of letting the doctor know which investigation they were on, suspecting that he’d soon guess.

  ‘Manchester for starters.’

  O’Connor frowned. ‘Well, Paragon and their three main competitors have a total of around twelve doctors on their books, I’d say. Some of those work as surgeons in local NHS hospitals and do the private stuff on the side to boost their incomes. Of course, if you were going under the knife, that’s the type of surgeon you want. In addition, they employ several who do private cosmetic work full time. Those guys may do a couple of days a week in Manchester, one in Leeds and one in Liverpool.

  They go where the business is. I’d hesitate to say how many of them are in Manchester altogether. Fifty, maybe?’

  ‘Thanks for your time, Doctor,’ Jon said, getting to his feet.

  Out on the street Jon wrinkled his nose as a noisy lorry roared past, leaving a light haze of exhaust fumes in its wake. ‘We’d better recommend to McCloughlin that all surgeons employed by the likes of the Paragon Group are traced and interviewed.’

  ‘Should be easy to check the alibis of the travelling ones,’ Rick said.

  ‘True,’ Jon agreed. ‘Let’s see Gordon Dean’s appointments list again.’

  Rick got the sheet of paper out, holding it taut against the buffets of air created by passing traffic.

  Jon pointed to the final appointment of the morning. ‘Jake’s, in Affleck’s Palace. That’s a tattoo artist.’ He looked towards Great Ancoats Street. ‘It’s only over there. Shall we get it done?’

  ‘Why not?’ Rick folded the sheet up.

  Jon led the way across the main road and into the jumble of narrow streets and derelict cloth shops that made up the Northern Quarter. Soon they rounded the corner of a multi-storey car park, the smell of curry filling the air.

  Rick looked at the little café with its never-ending menu painted on the windows. ‘That must be the sixth one of those places we’ve passed.’

  Jon nodded. ‘This is where Manchester’s first curry houses sprang up, serving lunch to all the Indian workers from the mills and warehouses that used to thrive around here. It was only after they’d made enough money from these places that the owners opened up other premises out in Rusholme.’

  ‘You mean the curry mile?’ Rick said, referring to the stretch of road just outside the city centre crammed with dozens of glitzy Indian restaurants.

  ‘That’s the one,’ said Jon. He pointed across another car park to a hulking old warehouse with strange flower-like lamps attached to its walls. ‘And that’s Affleck’s Palace.’

  They walked past a row of market stalls selling fruit and vegetables, and stopped by a side entrance to the Palace. Rick looked at a montage of broken tiles mounted on the wall. Blue fragments spelled out, And on the 6th day, God created MANchester. He smiled. ‘What is this place?’

  ‘Affleck’s Palace? Come and take a look.’

  They pushed through the doors and found themselves in a room crammed with racks of old denims, corduroy jackets and military-style clothing. Joe Strummer bellowed that they should know their rights, the music unbalanced by the heavier beats of an Eminem track coming from the next room. They went through a doorway into a narrow space lined with T-shirts. Rick pointed out the lettering on one: Fat people are hard to kidnap. ‘Strange, but true I suppose,’ he said.

  ‘Just about sums this place up,’ Jon answered. He was about to point out another that read, Roll me in chocolate and throw me to the lesbians, but changed his mind.

  They crossed into another room, this one piled high with memorabilia. A seventies-style telephone with a blue neon dial glowed from its position on an impossibly chunky Betamax video recorder which sat next to a ZX Spectrum. Finding a flight of stairs, Jon scanned the list of stalls. ‘Jake’s, third floor.’

  When they reached a relatively quieter landing, Rick took the opportunity to speak. ‘What a bizarre place.’

  ‘Yeah, it hasn’t changed in years. In fact, most of the stuff for sale looks like it hasn’t changed in years, either.’

  They emerged on to the third floor, the sound of the Fun Lovin’ Criminals booming out from a stall selling semi-precious stones and wind chimes. Jon pointed down the narrow aisle. ‘It’s in the corner I think.’

  They passed through four more zones of music before reaching a stall which differed from the rest in that it had a glass front. Jake’s Body Works. 2 for 1 on all piercings. Close-up photos of tattoos filled the windows, most so fresh they were fringed by angry red skin.

  Jon leaned closer, trying to work out the part of the body each image had been drawn on. Nipples, pubic regions and stomach buttons emerged from the patterns. They went inside. There was barely enough room for both of them to stand, but at least the cacophony of music outside dropped a fraction.

  A man sat in the corner, shaved head bowed over a manga comic. He looked up, face glinting with clusters of studs. They protruded from his ears, lips, cheeks, nostrils and eyebrows. One ran through the upper part of his nose and Jon wondered how it didn’t make him go cross-eyed.

  He folded his comic shut. ‘A Prince Albert, gentlemen?’

  Jon was unsure what he meant, but knew from the man’s expression they’d been sussed immediately for police.

  He took out his ID card anyway. ‘DI Spicer and DS Saville.’

  ‘You don’t say,’ he interrupted, eyes moving to Rick for a second. ‘I’m Jake.’ He waved a hand so covered in tattoos, it was almost blue. ‘You’ll be wanting a seat before we get started.’

  The comment was phrased so Jon wasn’t sure if the man was referring to them asking questions or getting a Prince Albert, whatever that was. A mischievous light danced in Jake’s eyes and Jon wondered just how much pressure would be required to rip the bolt out of the bridge of his nose.

  Rick sat down on one of the stools and said, ‘We’re trying to trace the movements of Gordon Dean. You purchase your medical examination gloves from him.’

  Jake’s eyes were still on Jon, who remained standing by the door. ‘Ease up, man. I’m only fooling around.’

  Jon raised and then dropped the corners of his mouth, the smile over in a blink.

  Jake turned his attention to Rick. ‘Gordon? He was in here two days ago.’ He shook his head and laughed.

  ‘Why’s that funny?’ Rick said, half smiling, too.

  Jake clicked a tongue stud against his teeth. ‘He was just passing through. He was on a voyage.’

  If the man’s eyes hadn’t been so alert, Jon would have guessed he was on something.

  ‘What sort of voyage?’ Rick asked. Jake leaned back. ‘Self-discovery.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘You tell me. After all, you’re looking for him. I just spied him off my port bow, heading God knows where. Perhaps you know more about the course he was plotting.’

  Jon shook his head. ‘Jake, you’re making me feel seasick. Just let us know why you thought he was on a voyage.’

  Jake burst out laughing. ‘OK, man, I like your style. For a start, he came back after his other appointments for another tattoo.’ He twisted round, took a large book off the shelf by his head and opened it up. ‘This little baby. Right on his left arse cheek.’ H
e tapped a design of a pudgy red imp with red skin, horns and a trident.

  ‘You did his first tattoo?’ asked Jon. ‘The ladybird?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Jake looked up and his smile faltered. ‘You’ve seen it? Don’t tell me he’s in the morgue?’

  ‘Why? Is that where you’d expect him to turn up?’ Jon held his eyes.

  Jake’s shoulders shifted. ‘No. The guy was excited, a bit hyper even. But it was more . . .’ He grasped at the air. ‘Positive, you know? He was bursting with energy. He’s not dead, is he?’

  ‘As I said, we’re trying to trace his movements. We don’t know where he is.’

  Rick said, ‘So he was bursting with energy.’

  ‘Yeah, like he’d just had some good news. Grinning all the time.’

  ‘Didn’t say why, though?’

  ‘No. But he was on a mission. Said he was getting a haircut, too. That horrific side parting of his was going.’

  ‘Did he say where was he getting it cut?’ Rick said, pen and notebook out.

  ‘Zaney’s, downstairs.’

  They clattered down the wooden steps, the incessant music and claustrophobic atmosphere beginning to get to Jon.

  ‘Yeah,’ said the hairdresser, sweeping a mane of crimson hair off her shoulder, ‘he was my last customer. Left just before six. Don’t get to lop fringes like his off very often.’

  ‘What sort of cut did you give him?’

  ‘The chopped look. Grade two back and sides, a bit longer on top. All messed up and spiky. He took a pot of extra-strong styling gel to make sure it stayed that way. Oh, and he let me get rid of that moustache, too.’

  ‘Did he say what he was doing, why the sudden drastic change in hairstyle?’ Rick asked.

  ‘Nah. Just gave me a good tip and skipped on out the door.’

  Rick rubbed his hands as they walked back to their car. ‘A voyage of self-discovery. You reckon he was manic? About to go off the rails?’

  Jon’s hands were in his pockets, eyes on the pavement in front. ‘I don’t think so. He was still seeing clients, chasing sales targets. Did you notice his house? There was something dead about it. I think the wife’s right – Gordon was on the verge of getting out.’

  ‘Yeah, but to do what? I think he was building up to something. Maybe it was his next murder.’

  Jon looked away. ‘Just a gut reaction, but I can’t see it.’ Rick remained silent.

  ‘You don’t agree?’ Jon asked after a few seconds.

  ‘He was hiding a completely different side of himself from his wife. Maybe he was hiding a lot of rage, too. That tattooist said he was bubbling with excitement. Could have been with the prospect of skinning another woman.’

  Jon jangled the change in his pocket, still not convinced. ‘By the way, what’s a Prince Albert?’

  Rick snorted, but kept looking ahead. ‘It’s a ring. One that goes down your Jap’s eye and out under the rim of your fireman’s helmet.’

  ‘Oh, sweet Jesus,’ Jon groaned.

  Chapter 13

  Cathy whispered, ‘It’s ringing.’

  Fiona stood on the other side of the desk. She took the tip of a finger out of her mouth and, anxiously chewing a fragment of nail, hissed, ‘Don’t forget to say it’s a personal call if she asks.’

  ‘I know,’ Cathy mouthed. ‘Hello, could I have the fax number for Jeff Wilson, please?’ She jotted a number down. ‘And is he in the office at the moment? . . . OK, thanks.’ She leaned towards the phone in readiness to replace the handset. ‘Sorry?...No, it’s a personal call...No, that’s OK, there’s no message... No, really, it’s not important.’

  She hung up and said, ‘Jesus, she was desperate to get my name.’

  ‘It’s him,’ Fiona said knowingly. ‘He goes mad if you fail to take a name and number when someone calls. It was the same for me at home – even though he refused to take messages for me. My friends gave up trying eventually.’

  The comment made Cathy look exhausted. ‘Fucking men. Anyway, he’s in a meeting until lunch.’

  Fiona nodded, but didn’t move.

  ‘Well, go, then!’ Cathy shoved her towards the door.

  ‘Yes, sorry.’ She whipped the car keys from her pocket and rushed outside. In her car she immediately began to fret again. What if the meeting was cancelled and his PA said someone had rung asking where he was? Would he guess it was her and rush home?

  The mid-morning traffic was light, allowing Fiona to reach the house with reassuring speed. The driveway was empty, but she parked slightly further down the road, ready for a quick getaway if needed. At the mouth of the driveway she paused. If he did reappear and find her, she didn’t know what he’d do. But he won’t be drunk, she assured herself, using the knowledge to summon up enough resolve to approach the front door.

  It opened to reveal that morning’s post on the doormat. He’s at work, she told herself, stepping inside and bolting the door behind her. She hurried through to the kitchen and unlocked the back door. Her escape route prepared, she went upstairs.

  She pulled the big suitcase out from under the bed, opened the wardrobe and hastily started to fold clothes. Then she dragged it across to the dressing table and used her forearm to sweep all her bottles and pots into it. They cascaded onto her clothes, perfume bottles clinking. The noise was brief, but lasted long enough for her to imagine it could have masked the sound of his car pulling up. She looked from the window and saw an empty street. Breathing a sigh of relief, she rushed into the bathroom for all her toiletries.

  The suitcase bumped down the stairs and she hauled it into the kitchen. He kept control of all their finances, including her wages from the beauty salon. But she knew some emergency cash was hidden in the biscuit tin. She flipped off the lid only to see a handwritten note: Rot in hell, you whore.

  She flung the lid against the cooker, a cry of frustration escaping her. Looking around the kitchen, she yanked open the cupboard under the sink. The bottle of gin went into her suitcase, then she grabbed the bleach and squirted it all over the contents of the fridge. After flinging the empty bottle in the sink, she lifted up her suitcase and staggered round the side of the house.

  She could hear a vehicle slowly approaching. She crouched down behind the wheelie bin. A driving instructor’s car, teenager at the wheel. Breathing out, she dragged the suitcase across the lawn and along the pavement to her car. Only when she was actually pulling away did she dare to believe she’d got away with it.

  Her next stop was Melvyn’s beauty salon. She parked round the back, then rummaged in the suitcase for her concealing cream. After touching it over her bruises, she walked round to the front of the salon and went in.

  Melvyn glanced in the mirror, a segment of wet hair between two fingers. He met her eyes, and his scissors paused for a moment. ‘Where’ve you been, you bitch?’

  Behind him, Janice also paused, halfway through plucking a woman’s eyebrow.

  Oh Jesus, he’s genuinely annoyed. Fiona’s knees felt like they were about to buckle as Melvyn looked back down at his customer’s head. But then he turned to face her again, a big grin on his face. ‘Come here, you gorgeous woman!’

  The scissors were discarded and he crossed the floor with small steps, jeans hanging off his hips. Hugging her with unusual force, he whispered in her ear, ‘Did that bastard do that to your face?’

  He pulled back to get eye contact and Fiona nodded, hand going to her eyebrow as tears welled up.

  ‘Right!’ He gestured to a girl sweeping up strands of hair.

  ‘Zoe, get that kettle on and bring out the posh biscuits. You’

  – he took Fiona’s shoulders and directed her towards a chair

  – ‘put your feet up and relax. It’s time you had some pampering.’

  Fiona fell into the chair, laughter bubbling in her voice.

  ‘Melvyn, really. You don’t need—’

  ‘Don’t tell me what to do in my bloody salon.’ Fingers adjusting his straggles of highlighted hair.
‘By the way, Zoe, Fiona. Fiona, Zoe. She’s with us on a work placement for a fortnight.’

  He went back to his customer, and Zoe smiled uncertainly from under a low-hanging fringe. ‘Would you like tea or coffee?’

  Alice came out of her side room. Her smile didn’t falter when she saw how Fiona looked. ‘Hiya, babe, good to have you back.’ Slowly, she crossed the room and carefully lowered herself into a seat beside Fiona. ‘You OK?’

  Fiona nodded too vigorously. ‘I’ve left him. For good, this time.’

  ‘You go, girl,’ Melvyn called – his customer looked totally bemused at the goings-on.

  ‘How are you?’ Fiona said, looking at Alice’s huge stomach. Alice’s face was glowing. ‘Great, thanks. Where are you staying?’

  ‘It’s not that far away. Some really decent people live there.’ She swallowed back her shame. ‘It’s a refuge, you know.’

  Alice nodded. ‘Listen, we’ve got a spare room. It’s going to be the nursery, so if you can put up with a few cans of paint while Jon finishes decorating it . . .’

  Fiona laid a hand on Alice’s forearm. ‘That’s so kind, but I really want to make a go of it on my own.’

  ‘I understand. But if you feel different, the offer’s open.’ She looked back towards her room. ‘Customer’s waiting. See you in a bit?’ She pushed herself to her feet.

  Ten minutes later Melvyn finished with his customer. He slumped down beside Fiona and picked up the carton of biscuits.

  ‘Is that all that’s left? Zoe, grab a tenner from the till and get us some nice ones from Marks and Sparks.’ He turned to Fiona. ‘So you’ve really moved out?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m getting my own place. I can’t stay where I am much longer. Actually...’ She paused awkwardly. ‘You know it’s pay day next week?’

  Melvyn held up a finger. ‘Of course, love. You can have your money, and some extra, too. You’ll need it for the deposit on your flat.’