by Chris Simms
‘Yes, a silver Passat – same as me, in fact.’
‘Do you have his registration?’
Appleforth swivelled in his seat, consulted a sheet of paper pinned to his noticeboard and read out the registration.
Jon noted it down. ‘What sort of companies do you deal with?’
‘Hospitals and GP practices mainly, as you can imagine, but any sort of business in the health sector. Private surgeries, NHS clinics, even a few tattoo parlours and beauty salons, though I class them in the cosmetics sector.’
‘Tell me, do you have a contract with Stepping Hill hospital in Stockport?’ Jon asked, thinking of Pete Gray.
‘I’d have to phone the sales department.’
‘And it would be useful if we could have the list of clients Mr Dean saw in the last three days. Is that possible?’
‘Again, I’d have to ask the sales department.’
‘How old is Mr Dean?’
‘Late thirties, I’d have thought.’
‘Married?’
‘Yes.’ Appleforth looked down at his desk and rubbed a forefinger against his temple. ‘Angela, if I remember.’ Jon guessed he’d just been looking at Gordon Dean’s file.
‘Have you spoken to his wife today?’ Rick asked.
‘Yes.’ Appleforth admitted. ‘She rang earlier, very worried. When I said he hadn’t shown up for the meeting here, she said she was going to report him as missing.’ He looked at them as if they should already know this.
Rick nodded ambiguously. ‘Which station did she go to?’
‘Her local one in Stoke.’
‘I see. Mr Appleforth, we could do with speaking to her ourselves. Could you give us her phone number?’
He reached for the mouse, but his hand stayed hovering above it. ‘I’m not sure if I should give his personal details out. . .’ His eyes were calculating. ‘She said the police told her that, although he’s missing, they couldn’t treat it as anything but low priority for a few more days. How come you’re here now?’
‘Mr Appleforth.’ Jon hunched forward in his seat, shoulders suddenly tight against his jacket. The desire to move the investigation forward was nagging away at him and there was no way an officious little prick like this was going to slow things down.
‘We’re investigating a serious crime here, one the press are also very interested in. There’s reason to believe that Mr Dean, in his capacity as a sales rep for Protex, could help us. Now, I don’t want this turning into a matter for your PR department.’
Appleforth hesitated a moment longer before clicking his mouse. Sure enough, Gordon Dean’s details, including his address in Stoke, were already up on his desktop. ‘We’d appreciate being kept up to date with Mr Dean’s whereabouts.’
Jon sat back. ‘Of course.’
They were heading back out of Appleforth’s office when Jon paused in the doorway. ‘Does Mr Dean have a workstation in the building?’
‘Yes, office number five at the end of the corridor.’
‘May we take a quick look inside?’
Appleforth hesitated but, unable to think of a decent reason why not, nodded and got up. He led Jon and Rick along the silent corridor, past smoked-glass windows and shiny wooden doors. They stood back at number five, allowing him to open the door for them.
To Jon’s annoyance Appleforth used the opportunity to step in ahead of them and position himself in the corner by the window. ‘What are you looking for?’ he asked.
Jon shrugged. ‘Nothing specifically.’
The room was small, too small for three men. Jon tried to look around, but his view was obscured by Rick and Appleforth. Picking up on his look of annoyance, Rick stepped back and watched from the doorway. Immediately in front of Jon was a small desk with a computer monitor and keyboard taking up one half. A phone with a notepad occupied the opposite corner and between them sat a desk tidy. Jon looked at the three cylindrical tubes, noting each one held a different colour of biro, blue, red and black. The shallower tray at the front was filled with paperclips. Jon looked again; they were actually stacked in neat little piles of decreasing size.
He examined the rest of the room. A filing cabinet was next to Appleforth, each drawer clearly marked: A – F, G – L, M
– R, S – Z. Next to the cabinet was a bin. Jon craned forwards, it was spotlessly clean inside. His eyes wandered over the bare walls. No pictures, prints or photographs. He reached round the desk and tried the uppermost drawer. Locked. ‘Does he ever actually work here?’
Appleforth looked confused. ‘Yes. He’s on the road most of the time, but here about three times a week I’d say.’
‘And is he as neat in his personal appearance as his office suggests?’
Appleforth frowned briefly. ‘I suppose so. And we’d expect him to be, too. Protex is a medical supplies company. We need to be neat, organised, efficient.’
‘Clinical,’ Rick added from the doorway.
‘I’m sorry?’ Appleforth asked.
‘Nothing,’ Jon replied, glaring at Rick.
At that time of day the drive down to Stoke took just over an hour. Rush hour, and you could double that, Jon thought. Gordon Dean’s house was in a private development bordering agricultural land, cows dotting the fields alongside. The cluster of houses was large, all of them detached and with separate garages. They pulled to a halt outside Ravenscroft. Fake wooden timbers criss-crossed the front of the house, lattice windows adding another feeble period touch.
They’d phoned en route and Mrs Dean opened the door as they walked up the front path. She ushered them into a spacious living room dominated by pastel shades and the scent of polish. The pale pink carpet was covered in hoover marks and a yellow duster lay on the coffee table. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, removing it.
‘I need to be doing something.’ Her eyes searched theirs, seeking information from their expressions.
‘I’m afraid we haven’t anything to tell you as to your husband’s whereabouts as yet,’ Jon said, turning and gesturing to the large sofa and its plumped-up cushions.
‘Oh, sorry, please.’ She perched nervously on the edge of a matching armchair and her fingers started teasing the corners of the duster. As Jon sat down he realised the room had the same feeling of sterility as her husband’s office at Protex.
Jon took out his notebook. ‘When did you last speak to your husband, Mrs Dean?’
‘Yesterday morning, when he set off for Manchester. But he should have rung this morning. He always rings me between eight and nine if he’s staying in a hotel.’
‘And how often is that?’
‘Three or four times a month. Usually he stays in Manchester. Most of his big clients are around there, so he saves hours of driving by booking into a hotel.’
‘Does he stay in a particular one?’
‘Yes. They built a Novotel for the Commonwealth Games last summer. That’s his usual one nowadays.’
‘I see. Mrs Dean, this may sound silly, but have you looked in your husband’s wardrobe?’
‘Why?’ Voice defensive.
‘To see if any of his clothes are missing.’
‘Yes, I have,’ she replied with a stiff nod. ‘The hangers aren’t jangling.’
Jon wondered what she was holding back. ‘And you’ve been trying his mobile?’
‘Yes. It just rings through to answerphone.’
Thinking of the precise incisions that had been employed to remove the third victim’s face, Jon leaned forwards. ‘Mrs Dean, how did your husband come to work for a medical company? Does he have an interest in that area himself?’
‘Sorry, I don’t quite understand you.’
‘Did he read medicine or have ambitions to practise it?’
‘Oh no. He worked for a paper merchant’s before this job, a manufacturer of franking machines before that. According to Gordon, it’s all just sales at the end of the day.’
Jon glanced around. ‘Does your husband have an office here?’
She poin
ted through the archway into the adjoining dining room. ‘He plugs his laptop in there.’
Jon looked. On the table in the far corner of the room was a small printer. Two box files stood on a shelf unit beside it. ‘May we?’
Mrs Dean nodded.
As Jon crossed into the other room, he was aware of her trailing along behind. He said, ‘Could I be cheeky and ask for a cup of tea?’
‘Of course. I do apologise, I should have offered.’
Once she was out of the room Jon and Rick each took a file. They put them on the dining table, sat down, opened the lids and started flicking through. Jon’s contained plastic folders with information on Gordon Dean’s clients. Rick’s was used for receipts and literature about Protex products. Both men were so absorbed in their task, they didn’t hear Mrs Dean come back into the living room.
‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’ She was standing by the coffee table, carrying a tray with a teapot, milk jug and three cups.
Jon shook his head. ‘Not really. We’re just trying to get an idea of his typical movements.’
She put the tray down and approached them. Rick was flicking through the receipts for that month. Mrs Dean watched him, fingers of one hand massaging the thumb of the other. Jon waited for her to come out with whatever it was she wanted to say.
Eventually she spoke. ‘I had a look through his suits earlier on. I found some statements there.’
Jon raised his chin. ‘What sort of statements?’
‘Credit card ones. The bills go direct to his office, but it’s not a company credit card. They’re old statements from the last two months.’
‘Do you still have them?’
She dropped her hands to her sides. ‘I’d never go through his pockets normally...’
Jon stood up. ‘I understand, Mrs Dean, but these are special circumstances.’
She nodded in agreement. ‘They’re here.’ She opened the drawer beneath the dining table but, rather than get them out, walked back into the living room. ‘Do you take milk and sugar?’
‘One, please.’ Jon’s eyes were on the sheets of paper as Rick shook his head politely at Mrs Dean. Jon put the statements on the table and sat down. The card had taken quite a hammering. ‘Piccolino’s. That’s the new Italian near the town hall,’ he murmured.
‘Twenty-six quid. Probably a meal for one,’ Rick whispered back.
‘Via Venice, Stock, Don Antonio’s. He likes his Italian food.’ Jon pointed at an item on the list. ‘Is that a restaurant?’
‘You’ve never heard of Crimson?’ Rick’s voice was barely audible.
Jon checked that Mrs Dean was still out of earshot and whispered, ‘No. But he was there three times last month. What is it?’
‘It’s in the Gay Village, on a side road behind Canal Street. A wine-bar upstairs, cabaret and dance floor downstairs. Very trendy.’
‘With who?’
‘It started as a gay venue. There’s a drag queen called Miss
Tonguelash. All sorts go nowadays to hear her bitching.’
Jon glanced at Rick, ready to ask how he knew so much about a place in Manchester’s Gay Village. But his partner’s eyes were frozen on the statement, a red flush creeping up his neck. The words died in Jon’s throat.
Mrs Dean walked back through the archway. As she held the china cups out, they began to rattle in their saucers. Tea started to spill. ‘He’s not coming back. The bastard.’
The word seemed so foreign coming from her lips. She started to cry. Jon quickly stood up and took the drinks from her quivering hands. Rick pulled a chair out and she collapsed into it, raising a hand to her face.
Awkwardly, Jon stood to the side. Rick fetched her cup of tea and sat down next to her. Taking her hand in his, he said quietly, ‘Why do you say that, Mrs Dean?’
She looked up, tears brimming. ‘Those.’ She pointed accusingly at the credit card statements. ‘He’s been hiding something for a long time now. There’s always been something distant about him, but recently there’s been a change. He’s found someone else, I know it.’
‘How has he changed recently?’ Rick asked.
She extracted her hand from his and pulled a hanky out of her cardigan cuff. ‘His behaviour. Like he’s having a midlife crisis. He was talking about getting a motorbike, for God’s sake. And he got a tattoo. Of all things.’
Jon sat down. ‘What sort of tattoo?’
‘A ladybird, on his shoulder. What came over him? He’s thirty-nine.’
Jon looked at the framed photo on the wall: Mrs Dean standing stiffly next to a thin man with a sweeping side parting and feeble moustache, the Eiffel Tower rising into the sky behind them. They were in the city of romance but a good ten inches separated them.
Jon searched the walls for photos of children. There were none. ‘Mrs Dean, is there anyone Gordon may have gone to? A close friend, a son, a daughter?’
‘We don’t have children,’ she replied, the corner of her left eye beginning to tick. ‘I’ve already called all the people I could think of. No one’s heard from him.’
Jon’s eyes went back to the snap of them in Paris. ‘Mrs Dean, it would be a great help if we could have a recent photo of your husband.’
They drove back up the M6 in the last light of day. Jon’s mind switching between Gordon Dean’s disappearance and Rick’s intimate knowledge of a bar in the Gay Village. Was the bloke a homosexual? Something odd was definitely going on.
As they approached the Knutsford services the sky darkened and, minutes later, drops of rain started hitting their windscreen.
‘Welcome to Manchester,’ Jon commented with ironic cheer.
The manager at the Novotel was a woman of around forty, with wiry ginger hair fighting to break free from a cluster of hairclips. ‘How may I help you?’ An Eastern European accent added a brusqueness to her greeting.
Jon checked her name tag. ‘Hello, Kristina. I’m DI Spicer, this is DS Saville.’ The enthusiastic way she responded to the sight of their warrant cards surprised him. Perhaps it was something to do with attitudes to authority in her native country. She listened to their request, then looked at the computer before confirming that Gordon Dean had booked in the day before. ‘The room is now occupied by another guest.’
‘So Mr Dean checked out. Can you tell me at what time?’ asked Jon.
‘It is not possible to say. Many guests leave the key in the door, others drop it in the box at the end of the counter. The room is paid for at check-in and should be vacated by eleven the next morning.’
‘Can you tell us if anything was left in his room? Bags, a laptop, that sort of thing?’ Rick asked.
‘I will check Lost Property.’ She disappeared into the back room, returning a minute later. ‘No, nothing from his room.’
Jon pondered the information. Gordon must have returned at some stage, packed his things and moved on. He pointed to the CCTV camera above the entrance. ‘Do you keep the tapes from previous days?’
She nodded. ‘For the last two weeks only. But I would need permission from head office before you can take one. They are shut now, I’m sorry.’
Jon tapped a finger on the counter. More and more, he suspected that Gordon Dean had simply eloped. However, he knew McCloughlin would be tracking him closely on this one.
‘Actually, Kristina, we could seize the tape as evidence here and now. But don’t worry, I’m happy if you could just put in a request for us to borrow yesterday’s.’
Chapter 9
Jon clicked his biro shut and dropped it on the pile of paper and messages on his desk. Among them was a note saying the check he’d requested on the mobile phone number Fiona Wilson had given him had shown it to be a pay-as-you-go: untraceable. It was almost ten o’clock at night and the incident room was nearly empty.
‘I’m calling it a day,’ he announced.
Rick stretched his arms above his head. ‘Yeah, good idea.’ He pushed a batch of forms aside. ‘This can wait until tomorrow. I’d n
ever have believed getting someone’s credit-card records would take so long.’
‘That’s data protection,’ Jon replied. ‘Lots more paperwork for us.’ As he got up he saw the card from Cheshire Consorts on his desk. Shit, he’d promised Fiona he’d have a word at the motel. ‘One more job to do,’ he said, sitting down again.
Rick was hesitating, jacket draped over an arm.
‘That favour for my other half’s friend? I said I’d check the motel she stayed in. You get on.’ Jon nodded towards the door.
‘Oh. OK, see you tomorrow.’
Jon tried to look up the number for the motel but couldn’t find it in the Yellow Pages. However, a quick visit wouldn’t take him too far out of his way.
In the deserted car park he was surprised to see Rick standing by his vehicle. Jon was parked almost next to it. ‘Car not starting?’
Rick flicked a distracted glance at his Golf. ‘No, it’s fine. I just wanted to get something sorted out.’
This’ll be interesting, thought Jon, crossing his arms.
Rick’s chest filled out slightly as he nervously breathed in.
‘Back at Gordon Dean’s house, you looked at me when I was describing that place called Crimson.’
Jon nodded, surprised that this wasn’t about McCloughlin. Rick swallowed. ‘I hope the fact that I’m gay won’t affect how we work together.’
Jon was suddenly relieved that it was dark: Rick couldn’t see his blush. ‘No. Of course not.’
Rick continued facing him a moment longer. ‘Good. It’s best that we dealt with it straight away.’
‘Absolutely. And it’s really not an issue for me,’ Jon replied, hearing his language slipping into the politically correct. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘See you tomorrow.’
Simultaneously they unlocked their cars, opened the doors and got in. As Jon turned the ignition key, he heard Rick’s engine start, too. Both sets of lights came on together. Jon leaned forward and gestured to Rick. The other car drove quickly away. Jon sat back in his seat. Jesus, his partner had just admitted he was gay. He wondered if it was common knowledge around the incident room.
Despite all the anti-discrimination regulations, homosexuality was still something plenty of his colleagues regarded as a laughable affliction. They were usually the same officers who believed most blacks were thieving, lazy niggers.
