by Chris Simms
‘So he’s had formal training of some description?’ Jon asked, relieved to look away from the mutilated corpse.
‘He’s got surgical knowledge, without a doubt. The key to surgery is all about finding a plane – the layer between the dermis, or outer layer of skin, and the sub-dermal tissue. Once you’ve found your plane, you make your incision along it and the skin lifts away quite easily. But to find your plane and keep it while navigating all the contours of the face and its delicate arrangement of muscles? That’s quite a feat.’
Jon nodded his thanks and turned away. When he got his hands on whoever was doing this, the bastard had better admit to everything straight away. Otherwise it would take more than the duty officer to stop him visiting the sick fuck in his cell and beating a confession out of him with his bare hands.
By the time McCloughlin showed up, the body was shrouded by a white tent. The pathologist and photographer were inside and flashes kept going off, making it appear like they were in there enjoying a particularly morbid party.
‘DI Spicer,’ McCloughlin announced, rubbing his hands together. ‘First to the scene again?’
The comment wasn’t accompanied by a smile. On the Chewing Gum Killer case, Jon had arrived at a crime scene ahead of McCloughlin and the observations he’d made had eventually led him to the killer. It still bristled with McCloughlin.
‘Sir, I picked up the call to your desk phone,’ Rick intervened.
McCloughlin didn’t seem bothered and Jon glanced at Rick. So, the arrangement you have with McCloughlin extends to taking his phonecalls?
‘And Jon took the opportunity of teaching you how to crack a case all by yourself?’ McCloughlin walked off without waiting for an answer.
Rick spoke from the corner of his mouth. ‘Someone got out of bed the wrong side.’
Jon’s hands were clenched tight in his pockets. ‘I guess that’s our cue to bugger off.’
As they set off back to the car Jon spotted a petite figure with tousled black hair hurrying across the grass towards him. She was struggling slightly with what looked like a large plastic toolbox: Nikki Kingston, the crime-scene manager. He’d used just to fancy her, but with what they’d gone through during the Chewing Gum Killer investigation, the bond between them had deepened to a level he’d never dare let Alice know about.
‘Nikki, you’ve got this one?’
She smiled up at him. ‘Jon Spicer. My lucky day.’ Her eyes lingered on his for another heartbeat before she turned to Rick.
Jon coughed. ‘Nikki Kingston, crime-scene manager. DS Rick Saville, my new partner.’
Rick’s businesslike exterior underwent a fractional softening, and Jon noticed a lightness in his touch as he clasped her hand.
Nikki turned back to Jon. Something was sparking in her eyes and jealousy jabbed him in the chest. ‘So, am I reporting to you?’ she asked.
He shook his head, ‘I’m on another part of the investigation. Carol Miller, mainly.’
Her eyes widened. ‘You mean this one’s connected to the
Butcher? I was just told it was a naked body in a field.’
‘It is. Except her face is about two feet away from the rest of her.’
‘Oh, Jesus,’ Nikki winced.
Jon gave her a grim smile. ‘See you in the incident room.’ She turned and started towards the crime scene again.
The walk back to their car took Jon and Rick past a makeshift ramp made from an old door and a few breezeblocks. Bicycle tyres had scoured the grass in front of it and left muddy tracks across the door’s surface. As they stepped round it Jon spotted something.
‘Nikki!’ he called.
She turned, saw the urgency of his wave and came back.
‘Is that a latex glove?’ Jon said, pointing. It lay in the long grass beneath the door, fingers slightly curled as if caught in the act of trying to crawl from their sight.
She squatted down to get a closer look. ‘Yes, and that looks like blood covering it.’ She examined the ramp. It had been knocked out of alignment with the breezeblocks. Treading carefully, she scrutinised the area around the door. Pointing to a heel mark in the muddy patch by the foot of the ramp, she said,
‘Looks like someone could have bumped into it.’
Jon looked back at the tent covering the body. With a finger he drew a line in the air back towards the road. The ramp was right in the way.
‘What are you thinking?’ asked Rick.
‘Our man dumps the body and sets off back to his vehicle. Only it’s dark. He walks full into this ramp, stumbles and drops the glove.’
Nikki was nodding with excitement, ‘Don’t go any nearer. There’s another footprint there, too. We need to get this area taped off.’ She turned towards the main crime scene.
‘Nikki!’ He caught her hand. ‘When McCloughlin asks, it was Rick who found the glove.’
‘No way,’ Rick protested. ‘It was your find.’
Jon didn’t take his eyes off Nikki. ‘You heard me?’
‘Whatever,’ Nikki replied with a frown, twisting her fingers from his grip and running away.
In the car Jon began indicating to do a U-turn, then changed his mind. ‘Let’s go for a coffee. If we get back to the incident room now, everyone’s going to be pumping us for information, and there’s no way I’m taking the wind out of McCloughlin’s sails.’
‘Why’s he got it in for you?’ Rick asked.
Jon ran a hand over his knee, wondering how much Rick knew. ‘It’s old history. I had a stroke of luck.’
‘The Chewing Gum Killer?’
Jon looked out the side window and nodded.
‘That was the favourite topic of conversation last summer in
Chester House.’
‘Well, there you go. You know already.’
‘Yeah, but it was McCloughlin’s case. He was SIO, he gave the interviews on the TV and to the press when it was all over.’
‘His case, but my collar. You know how it is,’ Jon said guardedly.
‘So why did you tell the CSM to say it was me who found the glove?’
‘We shouldn’t have even been there before him. The last thing I needed was to find what may turn out to be a crucial piece of evidence.’
‘So you got her to tell McCloughlin it was my find?’
‘Yeah,’ Jon answered, hating the fact that Saville now had something on him.
In the coffee shop, Jon tipped a sachet of white sugar into his black coffee. Rick carefully tapped half a sachet of brown sugar into his latte, then reached for the pot of chocolate powder to dust the foam on top. When he spotted Jon watching him, he suddenly changed his mind.
‘Anyway, back to the present,’ said Rick, sitting down. ‘First victim.’
Jon took a seat opposite him. ‘Angela Rowlands.’
Rick sat forwards. ‘Forty-two years old. Divorced for just under two years. Got the three-bedroom semi in Droylesden as part of the settlement. Worked part-time as a legal secretary in a solicitor’s just off Deansgate.’
Jon nodded. ‘You’ve done your homework.’
‘That’s just surface stuff. I’m hoping you know something more interesting.’
Jon took a sip of coffee and grimaced slightly with pleasure at its sharp taste. ‘Her daughter, Lucy, lives down near Castlefield, doing very well in web site design. Lucy told us her mum had been very lonely since the divorce. Hurt too. The husband dumped her for a “younger model”, to use Lucy’s words. Rowland’s stage in life: mid-forties, married for twenty years. She was in a routine. It was safe and comfy, but totally devoid of single men. Lucy had encouraged her to get out and start trying to meet someone, but apparently the idea terrified her.’
‘Don’t blame her,’ Rick leaned back. ‘Playing the field after being out of it for that long?’ He shook his head.
‘Exactly. Apparently, Lucy took her to a singles’ night at a bar in town. Lucy did very well, but her mum didn’t get a second glance. After that Lucy suggested she try dating a
gencies – but only the upmarket ones.’
Rick toyed with his drink. ‘Ones that advertise in the broadsheets?’
‘Yup. And at several hundred quid just to join, they’re not cheap.’
‘So we’ve got her coming into contact with various men, none of whom had a previous social connection with her. Have we got the list of people she had dates with?’
‘Only just. They were reluctant at first, because their members’ records are strictly confidential. Then someone pointed out to them that having the Butcher of Belle Vue on their books was probably more of a risk to their profits than a few disgruntled members. Rowland received dozens of member profiles, but only had around fifteen actual dates, we think. Each one’s being looked into now.’
Jon downed his coffee in one gulp. ‘According to Lucy, she hadn’t had much luck with any of them. Her confidence was low. Before the divorce she’d only ever dressed up for a few gin and tonics at their local every Friday. Now her wardrobe was hopelessly out of date.’ He tapped a forefinger on the table to emphasise his next point. ‘Then she mentioned to her daughter over the phone that she’d decided to do something. She sounded nervous and excited. She wouldn’t say what, just that it was something she should have done a long time ago.’
‘Did Lucy find out what she was up to?’ Jon shook his head. ‘Next time she saw her mum, it was in the mortuary. We’ve gone over her phone records and bank statements, but nothing of much help there.’
Both men were silent as they turned possibilities over. Jon looked up. ‘What about the porter selling this rowing machine? That was a surgical glove back there. They must be two a penny in hospitals. How about nipping over to Stepping Hill hospital?’
Rick looked uncomfortable. ‘Shouldn’t we run it by
McCloughlin first?’
‘Strictly speaking, yes.’
Rick hesitated before pulling out his mobile. ‘I’ll give him a quick ring, then. May as well play things by the book.’
Jon gave a noncommittal shrug as Rick made the call.
Chapter 4
Rick snapped his phone shut. ‘Yeah, he says to get over there, but stressed just for a chat. What did he think we were going to do, batter him?’
Jon knew the comment was directed at him. In McCloughlin’s view, Jon’s temper was his Achilles’ heel, a constant threat to his career.
Half an hour later Jon laid his warrant card on the counter in the main reception at Stepping Hill hospital. A different woman looked up at him.
‘Could I use the phone please?’ he asked. ‘Internal call.’
‘Here you are.’ She turned it round and put it on the counter. Jon dialled 241. He was about to give up when the phone was answered. ‘Is Pete around?’
‘Pete Gray?’
‘I don’t know his surname.’
‘Well, there’s only one Pete works in here. He’s on his way with some supplies to the surgical wards. Left two minutes ago.’
‘Cheers.’ Jon handed the phone back and looked at the site map. A very cheerful volunteer with the name ‘Sue’ on her badge pointed out the way they needed to go. Thanking her, they set off down a long corridor, passing a procession of hospital staff, patients and visitors. Soon they reached a T-junction and followed the overhead sign. At the next crossroads, they could see the surgical ward immediately in front. Jon glanced to his left; a man with a large paunch was swaggering towards them, pushing a trolley piled with boxes. As he got nearer Jon said to Rick, ‘Check out the box on top of his pile.’
The label said: Mediquip Inc. Powder-free surgical gloves. Sterile.
24 boxes of 200.
‘Pete Gray?’ Jon asked. Taking in the porter’s jet-black laquered quiff, Jon guessed he was in his late forties and clinging to the same haircut of twenty years ago. When baldness hit, it was going to hit hard. The heavy gold neck chain seemed incongruous with the simple white overalls he was wearing.
‘Yes?’ he said, slowing down.
Jon held his warrant card up. ‘DI Spicer and DS Saville, Greater Manchester Police. Once you’ve dropped that lot off, can we have a quick word?’
The porter seemed to think about this for a second, eyes fixed on Jon’s badge. Nervously he raised a hand to his chin. No wedding ring. ‘Here? What’s it about?’
‘Perhaps a café area would be more comfortable,’ Jon replied, ignoring the second question.
Pete’s eyes flicked from Jon to Rick and back again. ‘OK.’ He pushed the trolley through the double doors, Jon and
Rick watching him through the windows.
‘Him selling a rowing machine? No wonder. He obviously didn’t get much use out of it,’ Rick said quietly.
Pete re-emerged and, confidently now, led them to a quiet café area round the corner. After they’d all got a drink, Pete walked over to a table with a discarded copy of the Sun on it, peeling back the front page to stare at the page three girl beneath.
‘I wouldn’t kick her out of bed. Tits are fake, though.’
Jon studied his face. With the build-up of flab on his cheeks and below his jaw, there was a faint resemblance to a Las Vegasera Elvis. In his younger days he’d probably been quite the ladies’ man. The way he passed judgement on a topless model some thirty years younger than him suggested that he thought he still was.
‘How long have you worked here, Pete?’ Jon placed a white plastic stirrer in his upturned cup lid.
Pete finished pouring a third sachet of sugar into his coffee.
‘About eight years.’
‘Ever have to work nights? I could never get used to them when I was in uniform.’
Pete’s shoulders relaxed a little. ‘I don’t mind them, actually.’ Jon stretched his legs out to the side of the table, took a sip of coffee. Allowing a note of boredom into his voice, he said,
‘This is just routine stuff because your name was thrown up as part of an ongoing investigation – it shouldn’t take long. Were you working yesterday?’
‘Yeah, I finish at eight in the evening.’
He wasn’t quite sure why, but Jon was getting a feeling about the man. Keeping it casual, he looked away, appearing to be more interested in the Give Blood poster on the wall. He was about to ask his next question when Rick jumped in, ‘What did you do for the rest of the night?’
A wary expression slid across Pete’s face. ‘Watched a couple of videos.’
Jon tried to steer the conversation back to just a chat. ‘A couple? You a film buff?’
‘Just Elvis ones.’
‘I think I’ve only ever seen Viva Las Vegas. What else was he in?’
‘Loads.’
The man had clammed up and Jon could tell he was only going to get more tense. Cursing Rick for having jumped in so clumsily, he decided to go for it. ‘Did anyone watch them with you?’
‘No, I live alone.’ Guarded now.
‘Pete, are you into exercise?’
‘Not really.’
‘What about rowing?’ He shook his head.
‘You’ve never tried a rowing machine?’
Pete blinked. ‘Oh, yeah. I’ve tried it a couple of times.’
‘At a gym?’
‘No, I bought one. The thing’s still in my house.’
‘Must clutter the place up. Ever considered selling it?’
The stream of questions was irritating Pete and he tried to reverse the flow. ‘Why? You want to buy it?’
Jon laid his forearms on the table. ‘Did Carol Miller want to buy it?’
He watched as connections came together in the other man’s head. ‘I’ve never laid eyes on her.’
‘Was she looking to buy your rowing machine? The one you’re trying to sell on the noticeboard of the maternity ward?’ Pete ran a hand back and forth across his chin, eyes shifting to the side. ‘We spoke. She was interested, but she never followed it up.’
‘You spoke? You mean over the telephone?’
‘That’s right. She rang me – internal call.’
&nb
sp; No record of calls made on an internal phone system, Jon thought. He was considering his next question when Pete spoke first. ‘I don’t like where this is going. I’m not prepared to continue.’ He finished his coffee and got up.
Jon shrugged. ‘One last thing before you go. I’ve been meaning to see Viva Las Vegas again for a long time. Where do you hire your Elvis videos from?’ He could check on Pete Gray’s story with the shop.
‘I have my own collection.’ He walked quickly away.
Jon waited until he’d disappeared round the corner. ‘Well, that got him all shook up.’ Rick’s face was blank, completely missing the joke.
Jon pulled an evidence bag from his pocket, then, using the end of a pen, picked up the cup Pete had been drinking from and dropped it inside.
‘What are you taking that for?’ asked Rick.
‘It’ll have his prints and DNA on it.’
His partner laughed incredulously. ‘You’re not seriously thinking of trying to use that as evidence in court?’
Jon gritted his teeth and waited for the flash of annoyance to pass. ‘No. But it could come in useful if any DNA’s recovered from the third victim’s body.’
With a little shake of his head, Rick stood up.
As they crossed the canteen Jon stared at the back of Rick’s neck, thinking that his new partner had a lot to learn and deciding that he wasn’t the one who’d do the teaching.
Chapter 5
The woman shook her head. ‘Don’t worry, love. We’ve had women turn up here in just their nighties before. Barefoot and everything.’
Fiona saw the woman’s eyes shift to the cut above her eyebrow yet again. She turned away to look around the bedroom. It was more like a nun’s cell: narrow single bed, tiny table next to it, simple wardrobe in the corner. The only splash of colour was three dahlias in the vase on the bedside table.
‘Talking of nighties, we’ve got spare ones, or pyjamas if you prefer. Clothes and basic toiletries, too. A lot of people donate items.’
Fiona smiled. ‘Thank you, Hazel, you’re so kind. I don’t know what to say.’
‘You can say that we can take some photographs of your face.’
Her voice had hardened and Fiona looked at her with surprise.
