by Chris Simms
Jon stepped behind her and spread his fingers across her swollen belly. ‘I quite like you with a bit of a pot.’
She laid her hands over his, leaned back against his chest and turned her head to look up at him. ‘Will you still like it when it’s just a saggy fold of flesh?’
Jon made an effort to smile. ‘Of course. It will be a part of you.’
She squeezed his hands. ‘And what about the pelvic floor stuff? Pissing in my knickers every time I run up the stairs?’
She had plunged him into something he had no knowledge of and he tried to drop his hands away. She clutched them tight, laughter rippling through her. ‘It’s all part of the process. You’d better get used to this sort of stuff. Just be thankful it won’t be you in a few week’s time, legs up in stirrups, squeezing out a great big bundle of joy.’
Jon grinned. ‘You know I’d share the pain with you if I could.’
‘Yeah, right.’ She released his hands and headed out of the room, trailing the scrap of newspaper behind her.
Jon put the paint tray back on the table, eyes drawn once again to the clot of congealing paint. A conversation with Carol Miller’s mum began playing in his head. He’d asked what her daughter’s state of mind had been like. How happy she was. The old lady had replied that her daughter had been unhappy with her weight ever since giving birth to Davey. She’d tried all sorts of diets but never succeeded in removing the two stone her pregnancy had left her with. At the time Jon had begun to screen out the answer, letting the mother ramble to a conclusion, his next question already lined up. But now he scrutinised her words more carefully.
The old lady had said Carol had tried Weight Watchers and a soup diet, but recently she’d returned from work having spotted something that had given her fresh hope.
‘Ali?’ he called. ‘Your mate Chloe’s ab cruncher. You said she’d sold it on the noticeboard at her hospital.’
‘Yeah.’ Her voice floated up from the front room.
Jon stared down at the classified section of the newspaper. Buffered up against the last column of the ‘Health and Beauty’ entries was the start of the ‘Personal Services’ section: ad after ad of massage parlours, adult saunas and escort services. He looked back at ‘Health and Beauty’, seeing the unwanted mountain bikes, exercise bikes, mini-steppers, rowing machines, power sliders and flexi steps. He smiled cynically at the two sections’ proximity: if attempts at making yourself look good failed, you only had to travel across the page and buy yourself a shag.
In the front room he crouched down to stroke his boxer dog’s ears. ‘This noticeboard, is it in the hospital reception or something?’
Alice put the torn-off corner of newspaper on the table. ‘No, it’s in the staff room of A and E, I think. I know all sorts of stuff gets pinned up there. It’s how she found her flat. One of the consultants was advertising.’
‘Do you reckon every hospital department has one?’
‘I’d have thought most would. Why, what’s on your mind?’ He made his voice sound casual, ‘Nothing much. It just started
off a train of thought.’
‘About this case you’re on?’ Her voice had dropped a notch. The previous year, Jon’s hunt for the Chewing Gum Killer had placed his family in extreme danger. The nature of his work was an area they both still skirted round nervously.
Jon nodded and stood up. ‘I just need to pop out. I won’t be long.’
Alice’s eyes slid to the clock on the video. ‘Half past eight at night? Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’
But the thought was an itch he couldn’t ignore. ‘I’ll be back in no time.’
She let out a long sigh and Punch glanced up, sensing her frustration as it billowed across the room. ‘Well, at least wash the paint off your hands.’
He stood at the kitchen sink, one hand under the stream of water, watching the curls of red snaking down the plug hole. So far his delving into Carol Miller’s life had revealed very little. She hadn’t been seeing anyone since her husband had disappeared two months after the baby was born. The grandmother had found herself looking after Davey a lot more than she had planned – Carol’s income had plummeted and she’d been forced back into midwifery as a locum, filling in last-minute staff shortages at Stepping Hill hospital’s maternity ward. Usually that meant weekends and evenings.
Although she still had the terraced house in Bredbury, the rent was getting harder and harder to meet. The grandmother had been expecting Carol to ask about moving back in very soon. Until, that is, she turned up in a Belle Vue park with large portions of her skin cut off.
He dried his hands on the tea towel, pulled a jacket on over his old rugby shirt, then tucked his warrant card into the breast pocket. On his way to the front door he paused at the door into the front room. Punch’s big brown eyes watched him dolefully. Alice kept staring at the magazine on her lap.
‘Want anything from the shop at the garage?’ he asked.
‘No thanks.’
‘OK, I won’t be long.’ He bent over the arm of the sofa and dropped an awkward kiss on the top of her head.
He pulled up in the car park of Stepping Hill hospital twenty minutes later, then followed the signs directing him to the maternity suite.
The front doors were locked; a notice instructed him to buzz the intercom if the time was outside normal office hours. A camera stared down at him from its wire cage above the door. Jon got his warrant card out, held it towards the lens and pressed the button.
His arm was beginning to ache by the time a crackly voice said, ‘Hello?’
‘DI Spicer, Greater Manchester Police.’ He pushed the door but it remained locked.
‘Yes?’ the voice said.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Jon muttered under his breath before looking up and saying, ‘I’m investigating the murder of Carol Miller.’
‘Oh.’ The lock buzzed open.
The foyer smelled fresh, the painted walls almost pristine. He wondered if the maternity ward they would be going to for their baby’s birth at Withington hospital would be so recently decorated.
A sign by the lifts told him that reception was on the third floor. As he waited for the lift to arrive blue light began to flicker across the walls around him. He turned to see an ambulance pulling up in the emergency bay outside. The driver jumped out and jogged round to the rear of the vehicle. Seconds later the back doors were thrown open and a gurney was wheeled out. The mouth of the woman lying on it was drawn tight and Jon could hear her moans, low and guttural, through the glass. Two male paramedics started pushing her towards the doors, the woman’s partner flapping along behind, a large bag hanging from his arm.
As they wheeled her into the foyer the lift arrived. ‘Hold the doors!’ one of the paramedics called. Then he looked down,
‘Nearly there. Keep breathing and don’t, whatever you do, start to push.’
Jon had stepped into the lift and he kept his finger on the button with two arrows pointing away from each other.
‘Cheers, mate,’ one of the paramedics said with a smile. ‘This pair of charlies’ – he nodded jovially at the couple – ‘didn’t want to bother anyone by coming in early. Waited until her contractions were nice and close. A bit too close, though!’
Damp hair plastering her forehead, the woman was deaf to his attempt at humour, eyes tightly shut, focus directed entirely inwards. The moaning began again and Jon saw a glance of concern flit between the two paramedics. He wondered if he could jump back out of the lift, but the doors were sliding shut.
Jon looked at her partner, searching for clues as to how he should handle himself when it was his turn. The man began to brush strands of hair from her forehead and Jon thought what a futile gesture of comfort it was. But what else could he do? He was no more part of the process, no more able to share in what she was going through, than the rest of them. Jesus, thought Jon, everything about parenthood scares me shitless.
‘God,’ she growled. Her tone was masculine, like so
meone straining to lift a barbell in a gym. She began a shallow and desperate panting and her eyes snapped open, the look in them giving Jon the impression of a wild animal in pain. Her eyes settled on him for a second before shutting again, and somehow he felt guilty for being a man.
At last the lift came to a halt and the doors opened. A midwife was waiting for them and the group sped off to the nearest delivery room. Jon found himself alone in a corridor plastered with thank you cards and badly taken snaps of women lying on beds, tiny babies clutched in their arms. He leaned closer for a better look, alarmed at the lines of exhaustion on so many of the new mums’ pale faces. Except for the pride shining out from their sunken eyes, they looked ideally suited to a hospital ward. And the babies. So small, so fragile. Dough-like features as if their faces had not yet formed, and some with plastic nasal tubes taped to their tiny cheeks. Not for the first time he looked at his thick fingers with their network of nicks and cuts from rugby matches and thought he was the last person on earth suited to this sort of thing.
‘Can I help you?’
Guiltily he dropped his hands to his sides and looked at the bird-like woman who had appeared silently at his side. ‘DI Jon Spicer.’ He started fumbling for his ID, uncomfortably aware that he was wearing trainers, paint-flecked tracksuit bottoms and an old rugby shirt beneath his jacket.
‘I just spoke to someone on the intercom about—’
‘Yes, I heard. I’m Sister Cooper.’ In order to meet his eyes she had to bend her head back. ‘They certainly breed them big in the police nowadays.’ Her eyes snagged on the bump in the bridge of his nose before dropping to the club badge on his chest, where they found an explanation for his injury. ‘Rugby player?’
Jon nodded, never sure whether the admission would bring a knowing smile or a wary look.
Sister Cooper smiled. ‘So was my husband. He’s confined to criticising it from his armchair nowadays.’
‘Oh well,’ said Jon. ‘I suppose you get to spend more time with him at the weekends now.’
‘More’s the shame,’ she rolled her eyes theatrically. ‘Always under my feet, he is. Like a lost puppy, now he doesn’t play.’
Jon laughed.
‘Please.’ She waved him on down the corridor and into a staff room. A couple of other midwives were sitting on the padded blue seats that lined two sides of the room. ‘Do you need to speak in private?’
The midwives had obviously been tipped off he was coming and were already beginning to stand. ‘No, that’s fine,’ said Jon, gesturing. ‘Please don’t get up. I just need to check something.’ He moved a copy of the local newspaper out of the way and took a seat, aware of the fact that his towering form didn’t exactly encourage a relaxed atmosphere. ‘I was talking to Carol Miller’s mother and she mentioned Carol was trying to lose a bit of weight. She said Carol had come back from work excited about discovering a new way to regain her shape. I’m interested to know if you have a staff noticeboard where people advertise things for sale.’
‘It’s right behind you.’ Sister Cooper pointed above his head.
Jon craned round and saw a noticeboard plastered with pieces of paper. He stood up and started to scan them.
Salsa lessons. Spanish teacher. Thursday evenings.
Panasonic video camera.
Income tax and preparation of accounts.
Garden maintenance and lawn-mowing services.
Britax Excel 3 in 1 travel system.
‘Did she mention anything to any of you?’ he asked over his shoulder.
One of the midwives said, ‘Yes. Is there an ad for a rowing machine up there? One time she was talking about how effective rowing machines are for burning off calories.’
All three of them joined him and they began searching through the notices together. Within two minutes they’d checked the entire board, but without success.
Jon was about to give up when Sister Cooper announced,
‘Here you are.’ She was lifting up a large sheet with a photo of a Nissan Micra for sale. Beneath it was a plain postcard.
York Sprinter Rower. Computer screen showing strokes, time, distance, calories. Cost £139, will accept £80. Never used. Call ext. 241 and ask for Pete.
Jon removed it, hoping none of the women had seen the extension number. ‘I just need to borrow this. Thanks very much for your help. I won’t take up any more of your time.’ Hoping his exit wasn’t too abrupt, he started for the door.
‘DI Spicer?’ It was Sister Cooper’s voice. He turned round.
‘How are Davey and the grandmother? Are they coping?’
‘Social services are helping out. Apparently there’s a cousin as well. . .’ His voice fell away.
Sister Cooper gave a tight smile and Jon retreated from the room, a woman’s shrieks following him all the way to the end of the corridor.
Outside he walked round to the hospital’s main reception and approached a woman behind the desk. Discreetly he placed his warrant card on the formica surface and asked if there was a list of internal phone numbers he could look at. She opened a drawer and removed a clipboard with several sheets of A4 pinned to the front. He traced a finger down the columns, searching for extension . Eventually he found it within the section headed
‘Porter’s lodge.’
Shifting Skin - Chapter 2
She found herself lying on the kitchen floor, blood clogging the vision in her right eye, cheek pressed against the fake marble tile. There was a piece of pasta beneath the cooker and she wondered whether the small brush in the cupboard under the sink would be able to reach it. He hated mess. Her face was one big blot of pain. Bottles clinked in the front room.
What’s happened to our marriage? she thought. It was good once. It was normal. If only we still had Emily, things wouldn’t have ended up like this.
Slowly she got to her knees, feeling as if the weight of her skull had trebled. Drips of blood fell onto the floor with a steady ticking sound. Reaching up, she curled her fingers over the edge of the sink and got stiffly to her feet. The J-cloth smelled faintly of sour milk as she dabbed the blood from her eye.
‘Taped over Man United. Stupid bitch.’
It wouldn’t be long before he came for her again, rage restoked by the alcohol. She opened the cupboard door, leaned forward and tried to reach the floor cleaner, spotting her gin hidden behind the bleach just before her vision darkened. She heard a bottle bang down on the coffee table in the front room, followed by a sharp intake of breath.
He was really going for it. She changed her mind about cleaning up, knowing how the whisky set his demons free. Following a routine that was getting more and more frequent, she grabbed her handbag off the top of the fridge and unbolted the back door.
As she walked unsteadily to her car she thought about how their life had gone wrong. He’d always got a bit lively after a drink or two. Things would get knocked over in the front room if his football team let in a stupid goal. She’d seen the occasional flash of aggression in the pub. Not enough to attract other people’s attention. Just sneers at young and boisterous groups. People he felt were lacking in respect.
But he hadn’t drunk enough for her to perceive it as a problem. That only happened when his career started to stall. As he was passed over for promotion again and again, the resentment began to build, a dark anger at the world. Trying to get him to talk about it only led to accusations of being a nag.
As she reversed out of the drive he appeared on the front doorstep. The surprise on his face turned to a snarl and he staggered across the lawn. ‘Where are you going?’
Her hands were shaking as she got into first gear and accelerated away, the whisky bottle bursting against the back windscreen.
As usual she drove aimlessly, the occasional heaving sob doubling her over the steering wheel. The bleeding above her right eye had started again and the tissue box in the glove compartment was empty. Looking around, she realised she was driving through Belle Vue. The bright lights of a bingo
hall were on her left and she turned into the car park, pulled up next to an empty coach and walked towards the entrance. A ripple of nudges went through a group of elderly women in the foyer and they stared at her through the plate-glass windows.
‘Can I use your toilets, please?’ she asked the red-coated man at the door.
He looked her up and down. A woman in her late thirties with messed-up hair and a bloodied face. ‘Are you a member?’
‘I’m sorry?’ she replied, taken aback by his callousness.
‘Have you got your membership card with you?’ She shut her eyes. ‘I just want to use your toilets.’
‘It’s members only.’
She opened her eyes, saw his look of undisguised distaste. Shame suddenly filled her and she turned away from him. There was a motel on the other side of the car park, its neon-lit sign advertising rooms for £39.95 a night. She set off across the tarmac, trying to keep some dignity in her step.
A low hedge separated the two properties and she squeezed through a gap into a dark and empty car park. Directly behind the building she was just able to make out the greyhound racing stadium, unlit floodlights looming in the dark. She pushed open the motel’s front door, immediately noticing an ashtray on the counter overflowing with butts. To her side was a rack for holding pamphlets. ‘Manchester’s Attractions’, said the card at the top, but the shelves below were empty.
She pinged the bell, then immediately placed her hand on the metal dome to stop its sharp echo. The office door opened slightly and a thin woman with lank brown hair slid through the gap. Her pale, narrow face emphasised her large brown eyes, which moved around like those of a frightened deer.
The woman who had just walked in off the car park was immediately reminded of a girl from her school. She’d come from a poor home and always wore second-hand uniforms and jumble-sale shoes. Her stick legs were never clad in tights, and during cold weather the skin almost went blue. The girl constantly suffered from a runny nose – colds in winter, hay fever in summer. As a result, a hanky was always pressed to her face and the playground joke was that her thinness resulted from her losing so much fluid through her nose.