Shifting Skin

by Chris Simms

  Trying not to appear too eager, Fiona extended her cup, watching the rich chestnut liquid as it glugged from the bottle. As she took a thankful sip, more tears spilled silently down her cheeks. ‘Is that how you escaped? By going to a women’s refuge?’

  ‘More than once,’ Dawn replied, taking a generous sip herself.

  ‘I’d begun to believe that I was one of those women who always fall for the bastards of this world.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now I’m happy. You know what I reckon is most important? Companionship. A partner in life who treats you as equal. To be honest, sex isn’t really that important.’

  Fiona almost shuddered at the thought of what her drunken husband would do to her in the bedroom.

  The outer doors of the motel opened, and low voices sounded in the foyer.

  ‘Dawn!’ A woman calling. ‘You back there?’

  ‘Two seconds,’ Dawn whispered, getting up. ‘Yeah, hang on.’ She hurried into the reception area.

  ‘Got a spare room?’ The woman’s voice again.

  ‘Yup. For the night or . . .?’

  ‘An hour.’

  Fiona leaned forwards to see out the door. The woman was standing on the other side of the counter, hair tied in a ponytail, long red nails tapping impatiently on the fake wooden surface. Next to her was a man in a suit, looking awkward.

  ‘That’s twenty pounds,’ Dawn said to him.

  ‘Ah. Right.’ He fumbled for his wallet. The money was handed over, but Dawn didn’t open the till. Instead the notes went straight into her back pocket. She passed the woman a key.

  ‘Number four’s free.’

  The couple went out through the doors and Dawn came back into the office. Fiona looked at her inquisitively and she shrugged. ‘That conglomerate? I couldn’t live on what they pay me. It’s the only way to make ends meet.’

  Fiona’s mind was working, ‘Earlier on, when you asked if it was a john, you meant a...You thought I was a . . .’

  Dawn looked embarrassed. ‘I wasn’t sure. Your clothes weren’t right, but most women who book in here are working girls. I’m sorry. As soon as you started speaking, I could tell you weren’t.’

  Fiona took a gulp of her drink, suddenly realising why the man in the bingo hall had been so callous earlier. She laughed at how her life had shifted.

  ‘What?’ asked Dawn, smiling nervously.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Fiona. ‘It’s just that if anyone had told me this morning that I’d be sipping brandy in a brothel in Belle Vue tonight, I’d have thought them mad.’

  Dawn’s face relaxed and she held the bottle out again.

  Fiona extended her cup but, before tipping the bottle, Dawn said, ‘So you’ll stay here tonight?’

  Fiona felt like she was teetering on the edge of a cliff. ‘What are these refuge places like?’

  ‘Heaven compared to what you’re suffering at home.’

  Fiona took a deep breath. ‘OK. I’ll give it a go.’

  Dawn’s face broke into a smile and she topped up Fiona’s cup with brandy.

  Fiona wrapped a towel round herself and tried to step out of the shower. The brandy was coursing through her veins and she had to grab at the shower curtain. A couple of hoops were ripped off before she regained her balance. Wiping steam from the bathroom mirror, she looked at her face. Aside from the injuries, a good-looking woman with wavy brown collar-length hair looked back.

  ‘You can do it,’ she said slowly, words slightly slurred. ‘You can leave him.’

  The ice had reduced the swelling a bit and she hoped the bruising wouldn’t be too obvious. She wished she had her makeup bag with her. Instead, all she had was a miniature toothbrush and tiny tube of toothpaste Dawn had found in a desk drawer.

  Not surprisingly, acting as night manager of a run-down brothel wasn’t Dawn’s life ambition. As they had worked their way through far too much brandy, she had outlined her plan to emigrate with her partner to Holland, as soon as they’d put enough money aside. Renting rooms out by the hour was going a long way towards letting them realise their plan.

  Fiona hung the towel on the rail, then, not trusting her balance, sat on the toilet to put her knickers back on. Carefully she walked across to the bed, peeled back the bedclothes and climbed in. The sheets had worn thin from washing, but they were cool and clean. She flicked the light off and let her head fall to the side.

  She woke with a start some time later, certain that someone had opened the door. Her head was spinning and she had to feel at her sides to make sure she was still lying in bed. Keeping absolutely still, she heard a set of room keys fall to the carpet. But the sound was from the next room, not hers. Jesus, the walls were thin.

  Groggily, she got up on one elbow and pressed a button on her watch. Its face lit up: 3:36 a.m.

  A feminine giggle, the door shut and then she heard a man’s voice, words indistinct. The bed creaked as someone sat on it. The woman said something, words impossible to make out. Shoes hit the floor and a belt jangled loudly as it was clumsily unbuckled. Fiona’s eyes widened. Surely it wasn’t a prostitute and her client?

  She could hear the murmur of voices, and the bed creaked as they moved about on it. Fiona lay back and started breathing slowly, unable to resist trying to listen. Silence for a few minutes, then the bed began to creak rhythmically. The man started to grunt lightly. Oh God, they were having sex and she could hear everything. Fiona raised her hands to her ears, squirming.

  He began grunting more loudly, then said something and the creaking stopped. Her voice now. More creaking and Fiona guessed they were changing positions. The belt buckle jangled once more. Fiona shut her eyes, embarrassed yet fascinated by the noises. Now the creaking started again, accompanied by gasping. Their movements got wilder and she wondered what the man had requested. Jesus, it was starting to sound like a wrestling match. The headboard started banging against the wall and the gasping was replaced by a stifled moan. Fiona opened her eyes. It wasn’t the sound of pleasure. The moan changed to a choking noise. Fiona sat up, all attention. In the darkness it felt like the bed was lurching away from under her. The girl was fighting for breath. Was he strangling her? She listened as the movements and noises became weaker. Finally they stopped.

  Fiona kept absolutely still, nausea building in her stomach. The belt buckle again, then the bed creaking. A single pair of footsteps crossed the room. The bathroom taps came on for a while. Fiona willed someone to say something. If they started speaking again, she would know the girl was all right. The foot- steps came back across the room.

  Still no talking. The bed creaked, there was a grunt of effort and then something heavy thudded to the floor. Fiona slipped out of bed, heart racing. The footsteps moved around for a while before they crossed the room, slower, more laborious. Concentrating on keeping her balance, she tiptoed over to her door and peered through the spyhole. Like a nightmare sequence in a horror film, the fish-eye lens gave a distorted view of the corridor. She heard the door to the next room open and her view was suddenly filled by brown material. She glimpsed wavy chestnut hair, then he was gone. Moments later the door at the other end of the corridor from reception banged shut.

  She went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. Had she really just heard a prostitute being murdered? Two glasses were by the sink and she filled one, gulped the water down. Her eyes were bloodshot and her head felt full of cotton wool. She drank another glass, then went back to bed. A chill went through her and she drew the covers up. The person had been carrying something over his shoulder, obscuring Fiona’s view of his face. But whatever he was carrying, it was heavy.

  She should go and tell Dawn. She’d started to fold the covers back when the doors from reception burst open. Drunken laughter. Someone running down the corridor, turning and running back. A key turned and a door slammed shut. Fiona sank back down in the bed. Everything seemed worse at night, she told herself. At home innocent rattles became the sounds of burglars testing the pa
tio doors, the creak of wood the sound of a rapist’s foot on the stairs. She decided to wait until morning, see if daylight could put things in perspective. Uneasily, she lay back and closed her eyes.

  As soon as her watch reached six thirty, Fiona climbed out of bed, wincing as the action set off a pounding in her head. She drew the curtains. Weak daylight filtered into the room, the streetlights lining the A57 still on. Mist filled the bingo hall’s car park. Thank God, her car was still there, the only vehicle left. She examined her face in the bathroom mirror. The cut above her eyebrow still looked nasty: some swelling remained and the beginnings of a bruise was gathering below the skin, screaming that she was married to a wife beater. While she dressed, nose wrinkling at the stale smell trapped in her clothes, she thought over what had happened in the night. She decided to tell Dawn, see what she reckoned.

  Out in the corridor Fiona looked uneasily at the next room. The door hadn’t shut properly. She pushed with her fingertips and it swung open. The room was identical to the one she’d slept in. She walked nervously past the bathroom doorway into the main part of the room. The top blanket was stretched tautly across the bed, the pillows plumped up.

  Nothing looked as if it had been touched. Fiona glanced into the bathroom. The sink was bone dry, every surface wiped clean. The possibility that she had imagined the entire thing occurred and, fearful of seeing an abused woman with the beginnings of madness staring back at her, Fiona avoided her reflection in the mirror.

  No. She couldn’t deny the glimpsed figure passing across the view from her spyhole. Staring at the bed once again, she thought of the object on his shoulder. It had been wrapped in something brown – the same shade as the blanket covering the bed. Fiona turned and checked the top shelf of the flimsy wardrobe. One spare pillow, but no spare blanket. The discovery gave her suspicions some foundation and she got down on her hands and knees, scanned under the bed. A small white object lay against the skirting board. The tips of her fingers just reached it and she slid it out from the shadows.

  Looping curled script gave the business card an exclusive air:

  Cheshire Consorts. Evening companions for the discerning gentleman.

  Fiona flicked the card over. Scrawled in biro on the back was the name Alexia, followed by a mobile phone number.

  She went to the window, eager for a glimpse of normal life going on outside the horrible scenario unfurling before her. The daylight was getting stronger, more cars flowing past on the A57 towards the city centre. Back out in the corridor, she saw Dawn emerge from the room nearest reception and dump a pile of sheets into a linen cart.

  ‘I was just coming to give you a knock. The day manager’s due any minute. I need you out of here.’

  Fiona hurried down the corridor, gulping back the emotion that threatened to erupt as tears. ‘Dawn, I know this sounds mad but, I think I heard someone being strangled last night.’

  ‘Where? Outside your window?’

  ‘No. In the next room.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I could hear everything through the walls.’ She breathed deeply, forcing herself to slow down. ‘A couple came in just after three thirty this morning. At first the sounds were them, you know, having sex. But then they changed to choking. It was horrible. I’m certain he killed her. Not a word was said after the struggling stopped. I heard him moving around the room, there was a loud bump and then he walked across the view from my spyhole, carrying something wrapped in a blanket over his shoulder.’

  ‘I’d have seen him come through reception,’ Dawn stated flatly.

  ‘He went out the other way, through the fire-escape door at the other end of the corridor.’

  Dawn’s eyes skittered nervously towards the door to room number nine. ‘No, I don’t think anyone was in that room last night. Listen, Fiona, you’ve got to leave. I could lose my job here.’ She opened the doors to reception and beckoned. ‘Come on.’

  Fiona hesitated, looking back down the corridor, wondering if the sounds could have come from another room. She pressed her fingers against her temples, trying to suppress the ache pulsating through her skull. ‘But Dawn, that door wasn’t properly shut. I looked inside and the spare blanket is missing.’

  Dawn’s voice was agitated. ‘Half the spare blankets are missing in this place. Please, you’ve got to go.’ Her hand flapped more desperately.

  Fiona walked reluctantly through the double doors and across the reception area to the exit. Dawn produced a sheet of paper.

  ‘Here. This place is run by decent people. I rang last night after you went to bed. They’re expecting you to call.’

  She looked at the number, knowing she had nowhere else to go. ‘Thank you, Dawn. You’ve been so kind.’ As she folded the paper into her pocket she felt the business card in there already.

  ‘Look! There was this as well. Under the bed.’

  But Dawn’s eyes were on the main road. ‘That’s him.’ Fiona looked, saw a silver Volvo turning into the car park.

  ‘Take care, Fiona.’ The outer doors swung shut.

  Chapter 3

  ‘Come on, boy.’ The man waited as his elderly labrador climbed slowly down the front steps and on to the garden path.

  Once on the pavement the man glanced towards the A57 and the park on the other side. Ever since the lady’s body had been found there he’d been put off walking his dog around its litter-strewn confines.

  Instead he turned in the other direction, walking along Mount Road, the greyhound racing stadium on his right. This early in the morning the neighbourhood was unusually quiet. Mist filled the street and, as he paused to light a cigarette, the only sound was the scrape of the match and the drip of water hitting the damp pavement as it fell from the glistening tree to his side.

  The man continued past a shop. Tip-Top Electricals, all appliances bought and sold. Fridges. Freezers. Washing Machines.

  After a couple of boarded-up houses he came to the offices that stood on the corner of the grassy area around which he now walked his dog. Belle Vue Housing Offices said the graffiti-covered sign, a few crocuses flowering in the bare earth beneath it. The building’s windows were clad in metal grilles, and a spiked rail ran below all the gutters.

  The sun had seemed about to come out, but now its promising glow faded once again. The morning felt heavy and subdued, as if waiting for something to give it a kick-start. He breathed out smoke and it soon churned to a stop in the motionless air above his head, hanging there like a phantom.

  His dog began to pull excitedly at the lead. ‘Bit eager today, Prince,’ he said, not sharing that enthusiasm. He undid the clip and watched the animal disappear into the thick haze.

  He stepped over the tyre tracks joy-riders had gouged in the grass, and walked for a short while. ‘Prince!’

  No response.

  He waited half a minute, then tried again. Tutting, he cut across the verge in the direction the dog had vanished, soon spotting paw-prints in the dew-covered grass. As he moved forwards the mist seemed to recede at the same pace, never allowing him to see more than about fifteen metres ahead. Eventually he discerned a dark form in front of him. ‘Prince,’ he said impatiently,

  ‘what are you doing?’

  Prince’s head was down, nuzzling a discarded white sack.

  ‘Come on, will you.’

  The dog looked up, a bluish loop in its teeth.

  The man squinted, then walked closer. It wasn’t a sack. It was a corpse, white skin ending at an expanse of red where the abdomen began. The swathe of raw flesh continued upwards to where the person’s face should have been.

  The dog began to slink guiltily away, the section of intestine dangling from its jaws.

  Jon Spicer walked into the incident room expecting to be one of the first people in. But there was a man sitting at the desk opposite his. Late twenties, dark brown hair that had been freshly cut, crisp pale-blue shirt. So this is my new partner, Jon thought.

  The day before, his boss, Detective
Chief Inspector McCloughlin, had mentioned with a meaningful wink that he was being paired up with someone. New resources had been released to the murder investigation and Rick Saville, promoted to detective sergeant only a few months before, was one of seven new officers assigned to it. McCloughlin had described him as

  ‘slick’. Scrutinising him from across the room, Jon wasn’t sure if the word applied to his ability as an officer or to his appearance.

  He thought about the meaning of McCloughlin’s wink. Last summer he’d fallen out with the DCI over the Chewing Gum Killer investigation. Jon suspected Rick Saville had been paired with him to report everything they did back to McCloughlin.

  Easy, he told himself. Reserve judgement. As he crossed the room Saville glanced up, spotted him and immediately began to rise.

  ‘In early,’ said Jon, taking his suit jacket off and hanging it on the back of his chair. ‘Rick Saville, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah. Good to meet you.’ Not overdoing his smile.

  Jon shook the sergeant’s hand, feeling slightly less pressure returned. Jon kept his grip, waiting for the subtle press of fingers that would indicate membership of the Masons. Nothing happened. Maybe he was a DS this early in his career because he actually merited the rank.

  ‘Where are you joining us from?’

  Rick sat down. ‘I’ve just completed a stint at Chester House

  – a project for reducing bureaucracy.’

  ‘And did it amount to anything, apart from producing more paperwork?’

  Rick smiled briefly, though his eyes remained guarded. ‘Not really.’

  ‘I take it you’re on the accelerated promotion scheme, then?’

  He nodded. ‘I did my two years’ probationary down in Chester, but all the action’s up here, so I applied for the fast track with Greater Manchester Police as soon as I could.’

  ‘Graduate?’

  ‘Yes, Exeter University. History and Law. You?’