by Chris Simms
He crossed the road to a florist’s and ordered a big bouquet of flowers. Once the girl had curled a sheet of cellophane round them, she asked if he’d like a message added.
‘Actually, the lady doesn’t even know me. But we got talking once in the queue for the sandwich shop and, well, it sounds silly I know, but I think I’ve found my soulmate.’ He feigned embarrassment and was pleased to see the girl’s face soften. Would the stupid cows ever give up on their absurd faith in fairytale romance? ‘I was wondering, could you carry them to that beauty salon across the road for me? I’ll pay your standard delivery costs.’
She looked over his shoulder, an intrigued expression on her face. ‘To that one? Melvyn’s Salon?’
‘Yes, that’s where she works. I’ve been plucking up the courage to do this for days.’
‘OK,’ she smiled. ‘But you do know it’ll be £12.50?’
‘A small price to pay, believe me. The lady’s name is Fiona. Fiona Wilson.’
After writing down his message, she carried the bouquet across the road and into the salon. When she walked in, Zoe’s eyes widened in hope at the huge spray of flowers.
‘Hi, there,’ the florist announced cheerfully. ‘A bouquet for
Fiona Wilson.’
Zoe looked disappointed. ‘She’s taking some time off work.’ The florist’s shoulders slumped. ‘Oh. Well...that’s a shame.’
She turned towards the door.
‘Hang on!’ Zoe exclaimed. ‘Her home address is here somewhere.’ She opened the appointments book and turned to a load of loose bits of paper at the back. ‘Yes, I thought it was. They can go to Flat 2, 15 Ridley Place, Fallowfield. Here, I’ll write it out for you.’
‘Thank you.’ The florist took the piece of paper.
Back in her shop she felt a surge of sympathy over her customer’s concerned expression. ‘Don’t worry. She’s off work for a while, but I’ve got her home address.’
‘Really?’ Jeff Wilson replied. ‘That’s smashing.’
When they walked into the tiny tattoo parlour, Jake was sitting behind the desk, blowing smoke rings at the ceiling. Jon hooked a finger through one and then withdrew it, the gesture making the pale loop bend and waver.
‘Gents, good to see you again.’ Jake sat up, not bothering with any clever comments. Jon stood aside to allow Rick up to the desk.
‘Jake, we won’t take up any of your time. The girl who picked the Betty Boop tattoo on the same day as Gordon Dean was in here getting his ladybird. Is this her?’
He laid the photo on the desk.
Jake leaned forwards and studied it. With his head still bowed, he said, ‘She’s the Butcher’s third victim, isn’t she?’
Jon and Rick said nothing and he looked up. ‘The papers said she had a distinctive tattoo on her lower abdomen. It’s her, right?’
‘We’re not at liberty to say,’ Rick replied, voice tight.
Jake’s eyes narrowed and moved to Jon. ‘It is. That’s heavy shit.’ He let out a whistle and picked the photo up. ‘Yes. I’m pretty certain that’s her. She’s got the line of earrings and everything.’
‘What happened that day?’ asked Rick. ‘Think back. You finished the Maori armband. You showed the customer out. Gordon Dean and this girl are sitting here.’ He pointed to the two stools. ‘Their thighs must have been practically touching. What did they say?’
Jake shut his eyes and started twiddling the rod in his nose.
‘Nothing. I took the armband guy’s cash and then said Gordon Dean was next. He stood up, squeezed round her knees. She smiled and wished him good luck.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘Just thanked her, I think.’
‘And afterwards? You’ve completed Gordon’s ladybird tattoo. You show him back through the curtains . . .’
‘Yeah, she’s still sat there.’ Jake opened his eyes and looked at the empty stool. ‘Dean pays me, says he’ll call again soon. Then he wishes her luck, says she’s made the right choice, and walks out.’
‘The right choice?’ said Jon, pushing himself clear of the doorframe.
‘Yeah, the right choice.’
Despite the street being bathed in cold sunshine, a flurry of raindrops started to fall around them. Squinting, Jon looked up but could only spot a few tiny clouds in the sky. Then a breeze whipped up from nowhere and the air abruptly cleared. Jon looked back down, thinking that nothing felt quite right.
‘There’s something in this,’ Rick said, holding up a hand and testing the texture of the air between a forefinger and thumb.
Jon kept silent, desperate to get over to Stepping Hill hospital.
‘“The right choice”. What did that mean? Tattoo? Job? Decision to see him again?’ Rick frowned. ‘I want a word with that Dr O’Connor. He seemed fairly friendly with Dean.’ He set off towards the Rochdale Road.
Just give it up, will you? Jon thought, following along behind.
As they reached the Beauty Centre, the door opened and a woman who appeared to be in her late thirties stepped out. She looked like someone had just punched her mouth and, on seeing Jon’s stare, she raised a self-conscious hand to her swollen lips. She hurried past and Rick caught the door before it could shut, while Jon buzzed the intercom. ‘Dr O’Connor, it’s DI Spicer and DS Saville. Could you spare us a couple of minutes?’
‘Of course. Please come up.’ The lock clicked uselessly. Halfway up the stairs, Rick tapped a photo on the wall. ‘Her with the trout-pout we just passed? That’s what she’d had.’
Jon looked at the image of a woman with puckered, glossy lips. The words below read, Softform. For enhancing lips and eradicating deep wrinkles.
Jon shuddered. Why did women feel the need to do this to themselves? If it was to attract men, it did nothing for him.
O’Connor rose to his feet and extended a hand across his desk as they entered his office. After they’d shaken, he gestured to the pair of chairs and sat down. ‘Officers, how can I help?’
Rick reached into his pocket. ‘Doctor, we’re still following up leads regarding Gordon Dean’s disappearance.’
The doctor crossed his legs. ‘Any progress?’
‘The investigation is ongoing,’ Rick replied. ‘However, we’re still trying to fill in some of his movements after he last saw you.’
At that moment they heard the door across the corridor open, and a woman came into the room. Mid-forties, hair tied back.
Poking out from beneath her coat was the hem of a starched white dress. ‘Sorry to disturb you, Doctor. Everything’s locked up.’
‘Good, then I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he smiled.
‘See you tomorrow.’ She disappeared down the stairs.
‘Jenny Palmer,’ said O’Connor, ‘my nursing assistant. Wonderful woman.’
Rick nodded. ‘Did Mr Dean ever mention any lady friends in Manchester?’
The doctor frowned. ‘No. But wasn’t he married?’
‘Yes,’ Rick answered. ‘But perhaps not as happily as he might have been . . .’
The buzzer sounded on the wall. Rick waited but the doctor waved it away. ‘Kids, I imagine. I have no further appointments this morning.’ The buzzer sounded again and he leaned forward.
‘You were saying?’
Jon got up, went over to the window and looked down at the street below. The receptionist from the Platinum Inn was staring up. On seeing Jon, her eyes dropped and she scurried off down the street. He was about to ask O’Connor what was going on but changed his mind, sensing that, for the moment, it might prove more useful to keep what he’d seen to himself.
‘You seemed quite friendly with Mr Dean. Did he ever mention a girl fitting this description?’ asked Rick, putting the photo on the table.
O’Connor took it. ‘No, I’m afraid not.’ He glanced at the image again. ‘Pretty young thing, though a bit too young for Mr Dean, don’t you think?’
Rick took the piece of paper back, disappointment obvious on his face. ‘Well, thanks,
that’s all.’
They stood and shook hands again.
‘Please let me know if you hear anything about Gordon,’ said the doctor.
‘Will do,’ Rick answered after a moment’s hesitation.
Jon waited until they were outside before saying, ‘The buzzer, it was the night receptionist from a motel in Belle Vue called the Platinum Inn.’
‘How do you know that?’ asked Rick.
‘Because I spoke to her a few days ago. Favour to that friend of my girlfriend – the one who thought she heard a prostitute being killed in the next room.’
‘Oh, yeah, the one who gave you that business card? What was the name on it? Alexia?’
Jon nodded. ‘What was she doing here, I wonder? She practically ran off when she saw my face in the window.’
‘Don’t know. But Tyler Young and Gordon Dean definitely had an association. I think we should get back to those tapes.’
Jon held up his hands. ‘Hang on. We agreed to pop over to
Stepping Hill and ask Pete Gray for a voluntary DNA swab.’ Rick looked away, tapping his foot against the pavement.
Eventually he turned back. ‘One hour, OK? No more.’
At Stepping Hill hospital a grey-haired porter looked at Jon’s warrant card then tapped his tunic. ‘Twenty years in the Transport Police, me.’
‘Really?’ said Jon. ‘When did you retire?’
‘Twelve years ago. Trouble with the ticker. Mind you, I’m glad I got out, reading about how things are going for you nowadays. Can’t touch those little yobs for fear of legal action, isn’t that right?’
‘There’s ways and means.’ Jon gave the old boy a wink and got a knowing smile in return.
‘What’s that pepper spray like? Does it drop them like flies?’
‘Never used it myself, but the uniforms certainly like it.’
‘Wouldn’t have minded a can of that in my day. So, who are you looking for?’
‘Pete Gray. Is he around?’
‘It’s his day off.’ The porter put a couple of boxes of medical supplies on a small trolley.
‘Could we ask you a few questions instead?’ Jon asked.
‘Certainly, if you don’t mind talking on the move. I’ve got to get this lot over to the surgical ward. A rare trip for me.’
‘Is that so?’ Jon set off alongside the man, Rick just behind.
‘Pete usually delivers everything to the surgical wards. He’s very possessive about it.’
‘Latex gloves, for instance?’
‘Everything. He wheels everything over there.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘He loves the surgical ward. Says he’d have been a surgeon if he’d had the education.’
The back of Jon’s neck started to tingle. ‘Really? I thought he was more into learning the lyrics of Elvis songs.’
The man laughed. ‘You mean his karaoke stuff? Yes, he’s certainly a bit of a ladies’ man. In fact, I reckon the real reason he always delivers to this ward is because he fancies the medical secretaries.’
Jon smiled. ‘A bit of a skirt-chaser, then?’
The porter nodded. ‘Oh aye. I don’t believe in bragging about your love life. But then I’ve been married for forty years, so I don’t have one.’ He laughed at his own joke. ‘Bachelors like him? I suppose it’s different.’
Jon thought about Gray’s record of violence against his first wife. ‘So he’s never given marriage a go?’
‘Pete? No. Says he’s not the marrying kind. Not his thing.’ Jon flicked a glance at Rick walking just a pace behind. ‘Are there many ladies he talks about?’
‘If you believe everything he says, he’s had more than I’ve had hot dinners. It’s those singles’ nights he goes to around Manchester. Always a new story to share with us on a Monday morning.’
‘He never mentions regular girlfriends?’
‘Too busy having fun for that, according to him. Not that I believe he’s truly happy. Still sowing your wild oats at forty odd? There’s only one hole he’s filling at weekends, and that’s the great big one in his life.’
By now they’d reached the doors to the surgical ward. Jon held them open and the porter wheeled the delivery through.
‘No Pete today?’ asked the woman behind the reception desk.
‘Day off.’ He pointed at the boxes. ‘They’re only light things. Shall I leave them here?’
‘That’s fine,’ she replied, coming round the counter.
Jon helped him lift them off the trolley. As the porter made for the doors Jon said, ‘Thanks for your help.’
‘You’re finished with me, then? Rightio.’ The door swung shut.
Jon produced his warrant card and showed it to the receptionist. ‘DI Jon Spicer. Could I ask you a question or two?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s about Pete Gray who you just mentioned.’
‘Pete?’ She looked amused, but her voice held a note of caution. ‘Has he done something wrong?’
‘Nothing like that,’ Jon assured her. ‘The other porter mentioned he has quite an interest in the surgical ward.’
‘Oh, does he! You need to speak to Mr Anderson. He’s let Pete observe him in the theatre once or twice.’ Suddenly she looked concerned. ‘That’s not illegal, is it?’
‘Not as far as I’m concerned.’ She smiled with relief.
‘Is Dr Anderson in today?’ Jon asked.
‘Mr Anderson,’ she corrected him. ‘You call consultant surgeons “Mister”. Yes. He’s performing a laparotomy. Very busy.’
‘Could you find out if he’d object to me asking him one or two questions?’
‘What, now?’
‘It’s extremely important.’
Ten minutes later, Jon was standing at the end of an operating table, wearing green overalls, a facemask and surgical goggles. While a young man held apart flaps of flesh with retractors, the surgeon was delving around in someone’s stomach. Blood was being sucked away down a tube with the same sound as a child finishing a drink through a straw.
The surgeon turned to the scrub nurse. ‘Number fifteen scalpel, please, Ruth.’
She handed it to him and he leaned forward to slice something within the wound. The vicious-looking scalpel was dropped with a metallic clink into a stainless-steel kidney tray and he straightened up. ‘Pete Gray? Harmless enough fellow. Approached me in the canteen one time. Bit of an odd request, but whoever’s fault it was he left school so poorly qualified isn’t my concern. I was just pleased to see the fellow taking an interest. Yes, he’s sat in on quite a few operations, even borrowed a few of my anatomy books.’ His eyes narrowed above his facemask. ‘Still got my Gray’s Anatomy. Must remember to ask him for that back.’
‘And what sort of operations has he observed you performing?’
‘Oh, removing bowel cancers, mainly. Clearing blockages in lower intestines. Couple of abscesses, too.’ He picked the scalpel up and began cutting again.
‘Does he ask questions?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Regarding surgical techniques. How you make incisions, that sort of thing.’
‘Yes. Lots. In fact, it was usually easier for me to give a running commentary.’
Jon had heard enough. ‘Thanks very much for your help.’
As soon as he was out of the operating theatre, he yanked off the surgical clothing.
‘Well?’ said Rick expectantly, as Jon entered the reception area.
He kept his voice down and tried to keep the flow of words under control. ‘He’s been in there watching all sorts of stuff. Observing the surgeon as he opened people up, asking questions about how he does it, borrowing books on anatomy.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘Now do you believe me?’
Rick coloured slightly. ‘Yeah, I think you could be right.’
‘Come on, let’s get round to his house.’ Jon set off towards the double doors.
‘What about the boss?’ Rick called after h
im.
Jon fished out his mobile phone. ‘DCI McCloughlin please. It’s DI Spicer.’
A moment later McCloughlin came on the line. ‘Got some interesting news for me, Spicer?’
‘Yes, I have, sir. Very interesting. Pete Gray has been sitting in on operations at Stepping Hill hospital, watching the surgeon perform. Only observing, but he’s also borrowed books on anatomy.’
‘What the hell are you doing there? I instructed you to go through the CCTV footage from Piccadilly station.’
Jon shot a guilty glance at Rick. ‘We’ve been through them all sir. DS Saville and I split the tapes. Went at them most of the night and all this morning. Not a thing sir, no. I think it was a ruse. The car was parked there to make it appear Gordon Dean had fled.’
‘So where is this prostitute? We need to trace her.’
‘Rick and I believe the prostitute is still in the area. I’m sure, given time, we’ll find her. But as regards Pete Gray, I think it’s imperative we talk to him and request a DNA swab to eliminate him from the enquiry.’
‘And don’t tell me, you just happen to have a chance of speaking to him now?’
‘As it happens, we have, yes. We’re about ten minutes from his house.’
‘A chat, Spicer. And a polite request for a swab. No more, do you understand?’
‘Absolutely. Thank you, sir. We’ll keep you informed.’ He snapped the phone shut, looking relieved. ‘We’ve got the goahead.’
As they walked up the short drive Jon pointed out the stickers on the rear window of Pete Gray’s van, Shaggin’ Wagon and If it’s a-rockin’, don’t come a-knockin’.
Rick raised his eyebrows. ‘Classy.’
Jon pressed the doorbell and stepped back. They heard the jangle of keys a few moments later and the door swung open.
Pete Gray looked out at them. His hair was messed up, great greasy strands of it hanging down over his face. Nervously, he swept it back over his head.
‘Mr Gray, DI Spicer and DS Saville. We spoke to you—’
‘Yeah, I remember. What do you want?’
‘Could we come in for a quick word?’ Jon took a step towards the open door.