Shifting Skin

by Chris Simms

  They hailed a cab on Whitworth Street and pulled up on the petrol station forecourt a few minutes later. Jon tried the door, but it was locked. ‘Intercom service after ten,’ he said, reading the notice. ‘I hate this.’

  They held their identity cards up at the cabin window. The bald man inside reached to his left and a small speaker crackled.

  ‘Can I help you gents?’

  ‘Could you let us in? We’ll talk inside,’ Jon answered.

  The man stepped round the counter, crossed the deserted shop and opened the door.

  ‘Cheers,’ Jon said, locking it behind him. ‘Were you on duty last Thursday night?’

  ‘Yup, I’m on duty every night but Sundays and Mondays. Those nights are my weekend.’

  Rick showed him the photo of Gordon Dean while Jon got out the credit-card record. ‘We believe this man called in here at 3:08 a.m. and purchased something to the value of £9.99,’ Rick said.

  The man smiled. ‘Yeah, I sold out of three-packs that night.’

  ‘Three-packs?’

  ‘Condoms. Didn’t you see the report in the Manchester Evening News?’ He said proudly, ‘Per head of the population, Manchester has more massage parlours than any other city in Britain. And we sell more condoms than any other petrol station in the country. What with the Hurlington over there and all the saunas and working girls around Piccadilly station . . .’

  ‘So what costs £9.99?’ Jon asked.

  The man pointed behind him to a twelve-pack on the shelf.

  ‘There you go. I’d sold out of them by the end of that night, too.’

  ‘Do you remember this man? He’d had his hair cut short and his moustache shaved off.’

  He leaned over the photo. ‘No, ’fraid not.’

  Jon looked at the security monitor. ‘Is that CCTV on all the time?’

  ‘Yes. You want the tape from that night?’

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ Jon replied, impressed by the man’s willingness to help.

  ‘There’s a VCR in the back office. Can you watch it in there?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Jon. He paused at the coffee machine. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘I bring my own flask in, cheers.’

  ‘Don’t blame you,’ replied Jon, getting a couple for him and Rick.

  The tape was dated and timed, allowing them to picturesearch through until 3:05 a.m. ‘Here we go,’ said Jon, sitting back and stirring his coffee.

  The camera was set up high, looking down on to the forecourt below. Within seconds the grainy black-and-white footage revealed a Passat pulling up next to the cashpoint built into the wall by the cabin window. Gordon Dean, hair cut short and spiky and wearing a black shirt, got out first.

  Then the door on the far side of the car opened. Jon and Rick leaned forward. A woman with dark shoulder-length hair got out. From the way she walked, Jon could tell she was wearing high heels before she came round the back of the car. Now she was fully in the camera’s gaze, Jon took in her body. Quite tall, slim hips and a hard, tight arse. His eyes rose to her breasts as she turned. They were high and jutting, the type only possible with the help of surgery or a push-up bra. To his dismay, Jon felt sexual interest stirring in him. The thought of fast and dirty sex in an anonymous hotel. He suppressed the thought by saying, ‘Gordon Dean’s happily driving round town with a load of champagne in him.’

  Rick nodded, eyes on the screen as the woman caught Dean up at the cashpoint machine. She reached out a hand and cupped his buttocks. The entire time he was withdrawing money her face was out of sight, nuzzling at his neck.

  Next, she said something into his ear and disappeared back inside the car. He went to the cabin window, handed over his card and seconds later it was returned with a box of condoms.

  The tape ran on and they watched as the car moved off, started to indicate right then disappeared out of the picture.

  ‘Is it the girl in the morgue? I reckon it could be.’ Rick commented.

  ‘Time of death’s totally wrong,’ Jon answered. ‘Victim number three died early to late evening, according to the pathologist.’

  ‘There’s always a margin for error. Especially when the body’s been exposed to the coolness of the night air.’

  Jon rubbed the back of his neck. ‘OK, it’s a possibility.’

  Rick looked at the screen. ‘I get it. The £150 from the cashpoint is her charge for sex. Then she taps him for the condoms, too.’

  ‘But I thought she snaffled all the condoms she needed from

  Crimson?’

  Rick shrugged in reply.

  As they got up, Jon snapped his fingers. ‘Shit! We forgot the tape from the Novotel. That woman on reception was keeping it for us.’

  ‘I’ll bob in first thing tomorrow morning. Shall we call it a day?’

  Jon looked at his watch and saw how late it was. ‘Good idea.’

  Rick wrote a receipt for the garage’s tape and they let themselves out. The door clicked shut behind them and Rick buttoned his jacket up. ‘I’ll walk from here, I’m only five minutes away. The cab rank by Piccadilly station is probably your nearest.’

  Jon glanced at the traffic. ‘No, you’re all right. There should be plenty of cabs passing this way. Nice work tonight, mate. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  As they shook hands Rick said, ‘Cheers for that outside

  Crimson by the way.’

  Jon met his eyes. ‘My pleasure.’

  Rick let go of his hand and laughed. ‘Yeah, I got the impression it was.’

  As he wandered off Jon looked down, embarrassed that Rick had witnessed him in the alley spoiling for a fight. He found it hard enough to accept that, rather than fear or anxiety, the prospect of violence gave him a jolt of excitement. But he couldn’t deny it was there, ready to erupt whenever anger flooded his veins.

  He looked up the road, forcing his thoughts back to the investigation. Gordon Dean had signalled to turn right when he left the forecourt. The centre of town and the Novotel were to his left. He stared in the other direction, towards the roundabout and the start of the A57, leading towards the Platinum Inn and Belle Vue.

  Even if Gordon Dean had driven the hooker from the CCTV footage straight to the motel and Fiona Wilson heard her being murdered, time of death was all wrong for her to have been the third victim. But as he shifted from foot to foot, uneasiness was gathering at the back of his mind like the beginnings of a headache.

  Chapter 19

  It was the angry throb bouncing back and forth between her temples that dragged Fiona from the depths of unconsciousness. She kept her eyes shut, trying to gauge if more sleep might be enough to make it go away. But then other parts of her mind started to function. She heard the sound of traffic passing in a continual stream. The smell of stale sweat and alcohol filled the air. Her eyes were still shut but she could tell it wasn’t dark. She tried to turn over onto her back, but her arms were restrained.

  Her eyes snapped open, trying to focus. She couldn’t see. Something was covering her face and she started to panic. As she tilted her head back the material slipped from her face. A bedside table, the surface bare except for a lamp and a small foil square, almost ripped in half.

  She began to wriggle and realised her arms were only caught up in the sheet that had been covering her face. Behind her someone grunted in their sleep. Her eyes went back to the square of ripped foil. It was a condom wrapper. As she sat up and straightened her legs she could tell that she’d recently had sex. She was naked and a wave of nausea welled up. Looking over her shoulder she saw the salesman, his face pressed against the pillow and saliva glistening at the corner of his mouth. Meredith? Mercier? He was asleep next to her, a half-drunk bottle of champagne on his bedside table. Slowly she looked around. She was in a hotel room, her clothes lying in a pile on the floor next to the bed. Carefully she climbed out, scooped them up, let herself into the bathroom and locked the door.

  She just got to the sink before violently retching. Two mouthfuls of a
crid brown liquid came out and a sour, fruity smell filled her nostrils. She turned on the taps and as water started to wash the liquid away, strings of mucus-like saliva were revealed in it. She retched again.

  Her brain felt like it was clenching in on itself, sending waves of pain right down into her molars. She grabbed a glass, filled it with water and started to sip. Her stomach heaved, but it stayed down. The self-loathing that trailed her heaviest drinking sessions, like a rusting old tanker being pulled by a tug-boat, loomed over her. But this time it was compounded by shame. She wanted to curl up and cry, but not here. Anywhere but here.

  She climbed into her clothes, careful to keep her head up to minimise the pounding in her temples. A wash bag was on the shelf above the sink. Guiltily, she lifted out his toothpaste and squirted some onto her finger. She smeared it over her teeth and worked it around her mouth. Her tongue soon felt like it was burning and she thought that the pain served her right.

  Looking at herself in the mirror, she adjusted her hair and used a tissue to wipe off the smears of mascara. The bathroom door clicked loudly as she opened it. Round the corner, in the main part of the room, she heard movement and held her breath.

  ‘Jesus, what a night,’ he groaned.

  Fiona moved quickly to the door and let herself out. She eventually found a lift, walked through reception and out on to the street. Wincing in the bright light of day, she looked to her left and right. She was on Portland Street, Piccadilly Gardens and the bus terminal almost opposite. A digital clock read 8:43 a.m., cars filled the road and people hurried by, freshly showered and ready for work. Fiona folded her arms across her stomach and set off towards the bus station, eyes fixed on the pavement in front.

  After thirty metres she realised the bar where she first met him was on her right. The doors were shut and a couple of cleaners were clearing the tables of glasses, many half finished. Her stomach flipped over.

  The station was filled by a disorderly procession of buses, some trying to pull in and drop off passengers while empty ones queued to pull out. Engines revved, horns blared and exhaust fumes filled the air. Fiona felt like she could die at any moment.

  Miserably she approached a noticeboard, trying to work out how to get back to her bedsit.

  The bus dropped her off at the top of her road half an hour later. Breathing a sigh of relief, she slid the key into the front door and almost walked straight past the small pile of post with her name on.

  Dreading they were bills, she opened her room, threw the envelopes on the bed and headed straight upstairs for a shower. Quarter of an hour later she sat down, a dressing gown on and a towel wrapped round her head. She selected the handwritten envelope first. A card from everyone at the salon, wishing her the best in her new home. Looking at their signatures, a tear sprang up in her eye and she forgot her headache for a moment. But the next letters brought it back with a vengeance. Payment forms for electricity, gas and water. Recommendation to pay by Direct Debit, £5 off if she did. Fiona looked at her purse – she’d barely had enough money for the bus fare home.

  Woodenly she got to her feet and opened the cupboard above the sink. There was a couple of inches left inside the bottle of gin. She tipped it into a glass and sat down, tears springing to her eyes as she thought about the last few years of her marriage.

  As Jeff’s intimidation worsened, she’d started taking the odd nip of gin in the evenings when he was at the pub. Had fear or loneliness prompted it? Take your pick, she thought, raising a silent toast.

  The nips became larger and more frequent. Finding the money for new bottles became ever more difficult. She’d got Melvyn to pay her partly in cash, hiding her supplies under the sink or inside the big casserole dish. Places he’d never look.

  She hadn’t dared consider how much she was growing to need it. Empties were spirited out of the house in her handbag, dropped in shop bins or even the hedge if the street was quiet.

  Fiona looked at her glass and a wave of self-pity washed over her. God knows, if anyone deserves a drink it’s me. It doesn’t mean I have a problem, she thought, gulping the gin down.

  Chapter 20

  Once again Rick was in before him and Jon felt a slight pang of irritation. ‘Up with the chirp of the sparrow again.’

  ‘Where’s that expression from?’

  Jon thought for a moment. ‘My grandpa used to come out with it. Must be an Irish one.’

  ‘Yeah, you mentioned your family was originally from

  Galway.’

  ‘A little fishing village called Roundstone. Ever visited the west coast of Ireland?’

  Rick shook his head.

  ‘You should do. Catch it right and it’s the most beautiful place on earth.’

  ‘So have your family always been in the job?’

  Jon laughed. ‘No, I’m the first. My great-great-granddad moved over here with his two brothers. They all worked as navvies on the Manchester Ship Canal. My great-granddad did, too, only he supplemented his income in another way.’

  ‘Oh, yeah? Doing what?’

  Jon couldn’t keep the pride from his voice. ‘He was a champion bare-knuckle fighter. Made enough from it to get the family out of their slum in Little Ireland.’

  Rick grinned. ‘Well, that explains a few things.’

  Jon felt his face flush as he realised Rick was referring to the confrontation in the alley the previous night. ‘Bare-knuckle fighting was a big thing back then. He was a real celebrity. Anyway, never mind that. What have you got there?’

  ‘The tape from the Novotel. The receptionist had it ready in an envelope, bless her.’

  ‘Have you been through it yet?’

  ‘I wasn’t in that bloody early.’ He stood up. ‘Shall we?’

  They went through to the side room that housed the VCR unit. Jon immediately opened a window, then picked up an ashtray full of cigarette butts and placed them outside on the windowsill. Rick slid the tape in, turned the telly on and picked up the remote. The tape was time-lapse, comprising of a series of images taken at two-second intervals. The result was infuriatingly disjointed footage of the hotel foyer.

  ‘God, shall I get the paracetamol now?’ Jon sighed.

  ‘From the hotel’s records, he checked in at two seventeen p.m.,’ said Rick, turning the tape on to picture search, making the images seem even more random. After ten minutes of the machine whirring, he hit Play again. ‘There he is, still with his moustache.’

  They watched Gordon Dean check in, then vanish into a lift carrying one large bag and a protective cover for suits.

  Jon went to his notebook. ‘Right, he was the last customer at that hairdresser’s in Affleck’s Palace at about six p.m., and he was eating in Don Antonio’s by around seven.’

  Rick hit the picture search again, stopping it at 6:15. A few minutes later Gordon Dean appeared at the top of the picture, crossing the corner of the foyer on his way to the lift. His hair was short, his moustache shaved off.

  ‘I’m a different person now,’ Rick sang under his breath. Thirty-five minutes later he reappeared, now in his black shirt.

  ‘OK, so far so good,’ said Jon, consulting his notes. ‘Now, he’s out around town for the next few hours. We know he used his card at the petrol station at Ardwick Green at three oh eight a.m. Next activity is the cashpoint on Miller Street where he maxed out his card at six forty-three. After that he paid for the car park at Piccadilly station at seven oh five. That’s another thing that strikes me as odd.’

  ‘What?’ Rick pressed Pause.

  ‘That cashpoint is way out of the route you’d take driving from the Novotel to Piccadilly station. What’s wrong with the Barclays just up on Portland Street or the ones in the station itself?’

  Rick was looking blank.

  ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’

  They walked into the main room and crossed to the street map of Manchester pinned to the wall. ‘Here. Miller Street. Why drive all the way to there?’

  ‘I see what you m
ean.’

  Jon held up a finger. ‘Unless you’re avoiding city-centre cashpoints because you don’t want to be seen.’ He waved his finger in a circle over his head. ‘Manchester has the most comprehensive network of cameras in any British city. Almost every cashpoint is covered by CCTV. But I’m almost certain that one out on Miller Street isn’t.’

  ‘Why the sudden subterfuge?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Rick turned the remote over in his hand. ‘How about this? He whisks her off to a rented property somewhere, snuffs her out and removes her skin. Then he dumps her on the grass in Belle Vue. But something goes wrong, making him panic. So he empties his bank account and flees town.’

  ‘Or how about this? He picks up the condoms at the petrol station, and they head back to the Novotel and get down to business. An hour later, she’s given him such an incredible time, he thinks, Fuck it all, let’s get out a wedge of cash, jump on the train and go off somewhere to enjoy ourselves for a few days. Somewhere remote, no cashpoints anywhere near.’

  Rick rocked his head from side to side, weighing the argument up. ‘Doesn’t explain his shady behaviour. I’d say seven to one my theory’s correct.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ Jon replied. ‘That tenner’s mine.’

  Rick laughed. ‘OK, we need to scan the Novotel tape for when he got in. Some time between leaving that petrol station and visiting the Miller Street cashpoint.’

  ‘That’s almost four hours,’ Jon said, walking away. ‘I’ll get the coffees and paracetamol now.’

  They’d got to 6:04 a.m. on the videotape when it clicked to a halt. They stared at the blank screen for an instant before looking at each other.

  ‘Shit,’ they announced simultaneously.

  Rick ejected the tape and looked at the label. ‘It runs from six in the morning to the same time next day.’

  ‘So we need the next one. That’s bloody typical.’

  Rick pointed to the telephone number on the label. ‘No worries, I’ll phone her.’ He got out his mobile and keyed in the number. ‘Hello. Can I speak to Kristina, please?’ He waited for a moment. ‘Hi, Kristina, it’s DI Rick Saville. I picked up the security tape this morning...Great...Listen, we need the one from the next day, too. You’ve got it there still?...Lovely. We’ll be there shortly.’