Painted Skins

by Matt Hilton

  Contents

  Cover

  A List of Recent Titles by Matt Hilton

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Acknowledgements

  A List of Recent Titles by Matt Hilton

  Recent titles in the Joe Hunter Series

  RULES OF HONOUR

  RED STRIPES

  THE LAWLESS KIND

  THE DEVIL’S ANVIL

  Tess Grey Series

  BLOOD TRACKS *

  PAINTED SKINS *

  * available from Severn House

  PAINTED SKINS

  A Tess Grey Thriller

  Matt Hilton

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2016 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  This eBook edition first published in 2016 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  Copyright © 2016 by Matt Hilton.

  The right of Matt Hilton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8650-7 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-752-4 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-816-2 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  ONE

  She wasn’t running away. She was hurtling towards a new chapter of her life. She wasn’t physically running, she was driving, but it was an acceptable metaphor for her purpose. She often thought in metaphors and similes. It was how she had endured her teens and early twenties, by replacing drudgery with bright and shiny fantasy. Who would be Cinderella in the cold ashes, if you didn’t believe you’d ever go to the ball?

  If she recounted her life in the pages of a book then surely the first chapter would be a tale of misery, but in the best tradition of storytelling the worm was about to turn. Actually, she had turned, bucked the miserable trend she’d been held prisoner to. She’d twisted the plot and was now setting off on a brand-new wild adventure. Who knew, maybe there was a handsome prince waiting on the next page. Not that she was dependent on finding a new man: she could do fine without one cluttering her plans for the immediate future.

  Having headed south and circumvented Boston, with a brief stop to eat in Auburn, she was now somewhere west of Worcester, Massachusetts, following the turnpike towards the state of New York, planning on reaching Springfield before she made her next stop. She was many miles from home, and for the past ten or fifteen had avoided looking in her mirrors. That part of her life was behind her now. No looking back. No regrets and good riddance. Her gaze was fixed on the road ahead, though there was little to be seen beyond her headlights but for the distant demon-eyed squint of another vehicle’s taillights. Even as she concentrated on the distant lights, the blinkers came on and the vehicle took an off route. Now her way west was clear, and she pressed her foot a little harder on the gas pedal.

  There’d been a hot spell back home. Unusual for Maine this late in the season, but the weather was on the change. A front was pushing down from Canada and with it heavy showers and squalls: soon the fragmented leading edge would be followed by heavier and sustained cumulus, bringing with it prolonged rain and likely snow. She’d be glad to see the back of inclement winters; things would be so much balmier where she was heading.

  She had no work lined up, but she was confident in her ability to snag a job soon after arriving in California. She was experienced, could lend her hand to most things. If she had to she’d take a job waiting, or tending bars, whatever, until something better came along. She’d enough money to get by on for now, so she wasn’t worried.

  Road signs were briefly illuminated as she whizzed past. Monson; Palmer; and not too far ahead Ludlow, and she thought that perhaps a short stop in her journey wouldn’t be too inconvenient. She’d been sipping juice from a sports bottle but now her bladder felt the size of a cantaloupe. A bathroom break and a few snacks were in order. She began watching for a gas station or rest stop. If all else failed she’d pull into the suburbs of Ludlow.

  Distracted, she didn’t notice the vehicle that joined the road behind her, and because she astutely refused to look in her mirrors didn’t note its fast approach. Only when its lights blazed on high beam, filling the interior of her car, did she realize just how close to her fender it had come.

  Her first concern was that she was speeding and this was a highway patrol vehicle. She checked. She was doing fifty-seven, not excessive. Perhaps the cop had been lurking by the highway, bored and begging for something to do to fill his shift, and she was the first motorist to come along, and he’d pounced. But would a cop drive so dangerously close without flicking on his gumball lights?

  She nudged her brake pedal.

  The following vehicle didn’t back off. Nor did it overtake when there was plenty of room to manoeuvre and nothing coming the opposite way.

  She gave her car some throttle, pulled away ten yards. The vehicle matched her speed, and again the glare invaded her car. Whoever was behind the wheel flicked the lights up and down, and she blinked at the strobe effect that left ghosts dancing in her vision.

  ‘Idiot!’ she snapped. But to be honest, she couldn’t say if it were at the reckless driver or at her foolishness at mak
ing this journey alone, without protection. Sometimes, she knew, lone women drivers could be vulnerable; she’d simply never considered that she could be the vulnerable one.

  She switched on her blinker, slowed, hoping this would force the driver to pull around her and continue. Her fender was shunted. She was jerked in her lap belt, head nodding, and emitted an involuntary croak of alarm. Before she could further voice her dismay, her car was shunted again and the steering wheel was snatched from her grip. She grappled for control but the car veered right, the tyres hitting the grit separating asphalt from the soft grass shoulder. A rut in the dirt caught and held the tyres, but only for a moment. When she tried to force the car towards the road again the back end fishtailed. The following vehicle bore in, its front fender striking the back end and forcing her car into a wider arc. It hit the grass, the entire frame juddering, and the noise was colossal as divots of mud kicked for the heavens.

  Trees loomed in her vision. Then one filled the windshield, and this time the impact was resounding. She was thrown forward in her seat, chest against the wheel, her forehead cracking solidly against the glass. When she slumped back she was dazed but it was too soon to feel pain. The flash of agony came moments later, and when it arrived it was accompanied by a rushing gale through her hearing. Her eyes were closed, mouth hanging open. An invisible elephant was sitting on her shoulders. Her head lolled, and she forced open her eyelids. Lights still blazed, and after images danced in her vision.

  The engine still whirred, and steam belched over the hood, obscuring the tree from sight. As if being guided by another, she reached for the ignition. She was mindful of fire, and switched off the engine. She looked around, too stunned to make sense of anything, only that she was in a bad position. She groped for the door handle, but was held in place by the lap belt. The airbag on her steering column had failed. The car was old, ill maintained: how did you ever know to trust something that had never been tested? She struggled to unclip the belt, felt it pop open, and she leaned against the door. Blood trickled from her hairline. She reached tentatively and found a gaping gash in her scalp. She pulled at the handle with blood-slick fingers.

  The door was yanked wide and she almost tumbled out.

  Hands grasped her.

  Not the hands of a saviour. These hands dug in painfully, ensuring she’d no way to pull free. She was yanked out as savagely as the door had been forced open, and dragged a few yards from the wreck of her car.

  Still confused, her thoughts in a whirl, pain now wracking her from head to foot, she blinked at the figure looming over her. He’d transferred one hand to the front of her shirt, drawing the material into a tight fist. His other arm was raised, and in it a heavy flashlight. Its beam dug at the dome of the night sky. Then swooped down in a tight arc, and she knew the truth of it.

  She had run from drudgery, directly into the arms of terror.

  This was not a fresh chapter in her life. This was the end of her story. And there was no hope of a sequel.

  TWO

  Without warning, rain battered down with scatter-shot fury, sending pedestrians running for cover under the awnings on Wharf Street. But the downpour was short-lived and did little to ease the heat, making the atmosphere more humid as the rain evaporated, with tendrils of steam rising from the overheated asphalt. People checked from doorways, their palms held out, then took tentative steps, before spilling again on to the sidewalks. It was early fall in Portland, Maine, and the heatwave was unexpected. Autumnal colours already patchworked the foliage, so the searing heat should have been welcomed, but most only grumbled.

  Sitting with the window rolled down, Tess Grey felt a breeze teasing her, but it did a poor job of cooling the interior of the muscle car. The sunlight sent flaming razorblades through the windshield. Her exposed skin prickled. She’d donned shades against the glare. She adjusted in the bucket seat, averting her face from the harshest of the glare but without taking her attention off the bar’s front door.

  The crowd parted like the Red Sea before Moses when Po strode for the car. Nicolas ‘Po’ Villere was tall, dark haired, with a weathered face and turquoise eyes. He was a man whose every move appeared languid, until he was angered, then something changed. People knew to get out of his way, even if they didn’t understand why, beyond a primal instinct that warned them he shouldn’t be provoked. He was an ex-con, and admittedly a killer, but he was a good man. Tess was fourteen years his junior, and her background was on the opposite side of the law-enforcement fence. They were an unusual pairing, but the old adage that opposites attract was true: Tess was his employer, but they were full partners in another sense.

  He’d left his Mustang double-parked, Tess ready to fend off any ticket-happy cops from the passenger seat, and headed inside the bar. Tess hadn’t been confident he’d find the person they were looking for, and from the stern set of his features she was right.

  ‘Where next?’ she asked as he slid into the driver’s seat.

  ‘We should go speak to Max again; there was something he was holding back.’

  ‘You want to twist his arm?’

  ‘I tried being nice, maybe I should use a different approach.’

  ‘Good cop, bad cop, all in one.’ She smiled at him. ‘Maybe I should be the bad cop this time?’

  ‘You know how Max treats women,’ said Po. ‘If he comes his crap with you I might just end up hurting him.’

  ‘My hero,’ Tess said. ‘Thanks, but I think I’m capable of handling an a-hole the likes of Maxwell Carter.’

  ‘F’sure,’ said Po, ‘but then he’ll get hurt even more. We need him still able to speak.’

  ‘My right hook isn’t what it used to be,’ she reassured him, and couldn’t help a discreet rub of the scar tissue banding her wrist.

  Po didn’t comment. She was no less fierce because she was carrying an old wound.

  He started the muscle car and pulled out, some in the crowd now watching the growling Mustang with as much wariness as they had its driver.

  ‘Could all be a wild-goose chase,’ Tess said, relishing the breeze that buffeted her through the open window.

  ‘Do you think she’s dead?’ Po asked, as if the answer were a foregone conclusion.

  ‘Too early to tell, Po.’ If she were pushed on it, Tess would admit it was a probability that Jasmine Reed was dead – whether or not her body would ever be found was the real question. ‘People go missing for all kind of reasons, not all of them bad.’

  ‘Most of them are. You don’t hear ’bout too many happy folks disappearing without a trace.’

  Tess again rubbed distractedly at the scar on her wrist. She’d no argument.

  ‘How long is it she’s been gone now?’ Po made a mental calculation. ‘Sixteen days?’

  Tess didn’t answer. Jasmine Reed had made the news, but as a twenty-four-year-old woman, and with no sign or hint of foul play involved in her disappearance, the media and the police soon lost practically all interest. She had a long record of absconding, and Portland PD hadn’t done much beyond filing a missing persons report. As a minor, or an adult with a mental or physical disability, she’d have been deemed vulnerable, and her case would have been prioritized. But Jasmine was none of those, and reserved the right to come and go at will: if she’d chosen to leave town without telling a soul, then that was her prerogative. Having been a sergeant with the Cumberland County Sheriff’s Office, Tess knew how these things worked, but it didn’t mean she had to like it.

  Stereotypical responses had greeted Jasmine’s disappearance; the general consensus being she’d met a guy and run off to parts unknown with him. It wasn’t the first time, after all. She had been raised in the system, a foster child, and a troublesome one at that. Whenever she’d been found in the past, she’d been fit and healthy, and usually with a boy. Returned to her latest foster parents, it was inevitable that a fresh report would be lodged the following weekend when she bugged out with her latest beau. However, and Tess couldn’t be the only one to th
ink about it, that was when she was a teenager. She hadn’t gone missing in the best part of the last five years. Out of the control of the state, she’d no reason to run. Dropping off the face of the earth like this was characteristic of the teenage Jasmine, not of the well-adjusted young woman she’d supposedly grown into. That she worked the bar in a strip club shouldn’t cloud anyone’s judgement of her, but it did.

  ‘We shouldn’t put this off any longer,’ Po said. ‘Max knows something, and he’s going to tell us what it is.’

  ‘He’s our best lead, it’d be stupid not to follow it as far as it goes.’

  ‘F’sure,’ said Po. He angled the car away from the Old Port where most of Portland’s nightlife was centred around Wharf and Fore Streets, heading instead for the less salubrious bar that Maxwell Carter managed on the outskirts of town. ‘So let’s go and rattle Max’s cage.’

  THREE

  Two men in pale suits sat opposite each other in what appeared at first glance to be a gilded prison. The bars were gold-coloured, but the lustre was only from paint. On closer inspection, some of the paint was chipped, and patches of tarnished metal showed where the coating was rubbed thin.

  The suits looked expensive, but on closer inspection they too showed wear. There was a sheen of perspiration on the older man’s face, and he mopped at it with a folded napkin, frustrated by the task. His prematurely greying hair looked darker than it did in daylight, also slick with sweat.

  The younger man appeared untroubled by the stifling heat, though there were dark patches under his armpits and his trousers were streaked with moisture from his palms where they nipped tightly over his thighs.

  ‘Ever thought about talking to Daryl about investing in air-conditioning, Max? It might coax in a few more customers,’ the older man said. He was called John Trojak, and he was a stranger to this type of establishment.

  ‘The dancers take off their clothes,’ said Maxwell Carter, ‘you want them to catch a chill? Anyway, when it’s hot like this the johns buy more beer. You’ve a lot to learn about this business, Johnny. It’s unlike any other.’