Shifting Skin

by Chris Simms

  He hadn’t received any piss-take comments about working with a poof, so he concluded that no one could know. Then he remembered McCloughlin’s wink on telling Jon that he was getting a partner. Could it have been a hint?

  Five minutes later he pulled into the Platinum Inn’s car park and looked across to the greyhound stadium behind. The floodlights were on and a crackly voice was announcing the runners for the final race.

  Jon glanced around the car park. Two other cars, a Ford Mondeo and a Citroën Xara. Salesman choices. He pushed open the doors to reception. The place had obviously seen better days. The glut of cheap chain hotels in the town centre was slowly strangling it to death. Another few months and it would be boarded up, and shortly after that probably burned down by local kids.

  Behind the counter was an alarmingly thin woman. You’ve had a tough paper round, thought Jon. He held up his warrant card. ‘DI Jon Spicer. And you are?’

  ‘Dawn Poole, night manager.’

  ‘Just the person I need to speak to. Were you on duty last night?’

  ‘I’m on duty every night.’

  Jon looked around, not envying her lonely job in an area where women’s corpses were turning up, stripped of their skin.

  ‘Seems quiet. How’s business?’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s been busier.’

  ‘Who do you get staying here? Company reps, mainly?’

  ‘Mainly. Some younger sorts having a night out in Manchester. Three to a room can work out cheaper for them than a taxi home, specially if they manage to sneak in an extra mate.’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘That’s about it.’

  ‘So if I take a seat here, there’s no chance of any couples coming in to book rooms by the hour?’

  Her mouth tensed up and she pointed to the tariff sheet on the wall. ‘The rates are for the night only.’

  ‘Come on, Dawn.’ Jon leaned on the counter, sensing it wouldn’t take much to make her crumble. It never did with the mouse-like types. Usually they’d do whatever it took to keep attention off them. ‘This place is used as a knocking shop. I don’t work Vice. Help me out here and I won’t need to get them involved.’

  She crossed her arms, the bones in her elbows jutting out painfully. ‘What do you want to know?’

  That’s more like it, he thought. ‘The girls you get coming in here, do you know their names?’

  ‘Some of them.’

  ‘Ever heard of an Alexia?’

  The skin below her eyes flinched. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Jon didn’t break his stare. ‘You don’t think so? How about a yes or a no?’

  She dropped her head. ‘No, I haven’t.’

  He took a breath in. ‘Last night, someone heard something. It could have been the sound of an assault. Did you have any trouble? A girl coming out of her room looking injured?’

  ‘No.’ She was still looking down.

  ‘Look at me, please. It was around three thirty in the morning.’

  ‘No. That Fiona what’s-her-name made a report, right? Listen, she staggered in pouring with blood. I helped patch her up, gave her some booze.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘A lot. There wasn’t much left in the bottle by the time she went to bed. Probably shouldn’t have given her any, the state she was in. Totally stressed out, she was. Then she thinks she heard something in the middle of the night.’ Bony fingers fiddled with her necklace. She sighed. ‘Look, it can get pretty busy here, but I’d have noticed. Honestly.’

  ‘What about side doors? Emergency exits? Is there one at the other end of this corridor?’ He pointed through the double doors at the corridor beyond.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If someone left by that route would it set off an alarm?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t work on that door. But why would they? It leads straight out to the bin area. They’d have to walk right round the building to get back to the car park.’

  ‘My informant believes the commotion was coming from room nine. How about I take a look in it?’

  Dawn handed him a key. ‘Be my guest.’

  Jon could tell searching the room was going to be a waste of time. His eyes shifted to the clock in the back office. Quarter past ten and he was dog tired. He knew she was holding something back. Probably just afraid of him finding out that she was putting the night’s takings straight into her pocket.

  He weighed up the two women’s stories. Given the third victim’s time of death, Fiona’s emotional state and the hefty amount of booze it appeared she’d got through, he decided her claim was a waste of time. He gave the key back. ‘OK, Dawn, take care.’

  Her mouth opened with surprise. ‘That’s it?’

  Out in the car park he glanced towards the rear of the building. It was plunged in shadow and he’d have to get a torch if he was to look around properly. Bollocks to that, he thought.

  In his car, he called Fiona’s mobile. ‘It’s Jon Spicer.’

  ‘Have you been to the motel?’

  ‘I’m in the car park right now. I’ve spoken to the night manager, Dawn Poole.’

  ‘That’s her. What did she say?’ The words were slurred and

  Jon wondered how much she’d been drinking.

  ‘She didn’t notice anything suspicious last night.’

  ‘Well, did you check the room?’

  ‘It was spotless, like you said. And there was nothing round the back of the building, either.’

  ‘What about Cheshire Consorts? Did you call them?’

  ‘Yes. The owner told me there’s no Alexia on her books.’

  ‘She could be lying.’

  ‘There’s a web site. Have a look yourself. All the girls are listed there.’

  ‘So what now? I really think I heard someone being killed.’ Her voice was rising.

  ‘Fiona, there’s nothing more I can do. I’ll keep an eye on the police computer. If an unidentified female body shows up, I’ll look into it.’

  ‘That’s it? You’re not doing anything else?’

  A wave of irritation washed across him and he ran a hand through his cropped brown hair. ‘What do you suggest I do?’

  ‘I don’t know. You’re the policeman. If this was an angelic little girl or a copper’s wife, things would be different, wouldn’t they?’ Jon felt his jaw clench. ‘You think you heard something. You were traumatised and pissed.’ He paused to let the comment sink in. ‘You could contact the Missing Persons Bureau, I suppose, but without a surname I doubt they can help. I can’t think of anything else.’

  ‘So you’re washing your hands of it?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Fiona, I’m working on a big murder case. You can probably guess which one. I don’t have time for this.’ Her voice was twisted with sarcasm. ‘No, I suppose not. After all, it’s only another whore who’s disappeared.’ Jon hung up.

  *

  Ten minutes later he pushed his front door open. Claws scrabbled in the kitchen and Punch peered eagerly through the doorway. The dog gave a delighted hrrmph! through its squashed nose and bounded down the hall.

  Jon scooped the animal up and began rocking it in his arms like a baby. Punch craned forwards, trying to lick Jon’s face.

  ‘Who’s my stupid boy?’ Jon said, lifting his chin and allowing a wet tongue to lap at his throat.

  ‘I don’t know how you can stand that.’ Alice had come out of the TV room. She was wearing a dressing gown and clutching a mug in both hands.

  Jon put Punch down. ‘What a day. How are you, babe?’

  ‘Good,’ she smiled. ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘Only some crap pizza, unfortunately.’ He hung his jacket on the banister post and walked over to her. Careful not to put any pressure on her swollen stomach, he hugged her lightly. ‘How’s the bump?’

  ‘Fine. I could feel some kicking earlier. Here.’ She took his hand and placed it on her stomach, inside her dressing gown.

  ‘On the right there, that’s where the legs are.’


  They stood motionless, Punch staring up at them with a bemused look on his face. Jon was careful to maintain an inquisitive smile, although privately he felt freaked out every time something began moving independently inside Alice’s body. He kept his hand there for a few seconds longer. ‘No. The little thing must be asleep.’ With a twinge of guilty relief, he slid his hand out of her dressing gown, went into the kitchen and cracked open a beer.

  As soon as he took a seat, Punch lay down on the lino floor and rested his head on Jon’s foot.

  ‘Did you ring Fiona?’

  Jon sighed. ‘Rang her, met her and went to that motel. She’s got quite a temper, hasn’t she?’

  Alice grinned. ‘Fiona? Yes, she’s got a strong sense of right and wrong.’

  ‘So why has she stuck by a husband who knocks her around for so long?’

  Alice gave a sad frown. ‘We’ve tried to work that out in the salon many times. You should hear her with customers who don’t keep their appointments. She’s straight on the phone asking where they are, demanding to know why they haven’t shown up. But then she goes home and seems to adopt this submissive personality with her husband.’

  ‘What the hell does she see in him?’

  Alice ran her hands through her long hair. ‘I don’t think it was that bad to begin with. She’s always reluctant to talk about it – pride I suppose – but I think they were happy for a while. God knows, something happened to turn it sour.’

  He ran a finger down his beer can. ‘Has she got a problem with the booze?’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘The night manager at the motel she stayed in said she’d downed a load of brandy, and she was slurring her words on the phone tonight as well.’

  Alice nodded. ‘She turns up for work late sometimes. There’s always a legitimate excuse, but you can smell it on her some mornings. If it was a big chain salon she’d have probably lost her job by now. Lucky for her Melvyn’s happy to turn a blind eye.’

  ‘Well, she certainly believes she heard something the other night. And she certainly wasn’t happy when I said I couldn’t do much.’

  ‘Can’t you?’

  He took a long gulp, almost shuddering as the ice-cold beer went down his throat and hit his stomach. ‘I’m not convinced she heard anything more than a bit of energetic shagging.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He hooked a nail under the tab of the can, lifted it up and then let it snap back with a ping. ‘She only heard something. There’s no evidence of anything else. The night manager says she didn’t see anything, and I believe her. Didn’t believe everything she told me, but I believed her on that count. All Fiona has is this.’ He flicked the card from Cheshire Consorts on to the table. ‘It could have been lying in the room for weeks, if not months, judging by the state of the place. A name that’s probably made up, and a disconnected mobile phone number that isn’t registered to anyone.’

  Alice bit her lip. ‘Oh, well. She’s got her own life to sort out. She’ll let it drop soon, I expect.’

  Jon took another gulp of beer. ‘The other big news is that I can’t decide whether my new partner’s reporting everything I do straight back to McCloughlin.’

  Alice rolled her eyes. ‘You mean he’s still sulking about . . .’ She stopped, unwilling to refer directly to the case that had almost cost them so much last summer.

  ‘Just a hunch, but yeah.’

  Alice blew a strand of blond hair out of her eyes. ‘The arsehole.’

  He gave a rueful smile. ‘Oh, and another thing about my new partner. He’s gay.’

  ‘So?’

  Jon examined his knuckles.

  ‘Oh, please. Don’t tell me you’re scared he’ll threaten your masculinity by trying it on with you?’

  Jon picked at the can’s tab again. ‘Well, I don’t know. It makes things awkward, you have to admit.’

  ‘Why? It only makes things awkward in your head. Don’t flatter yourself. A big grunt like you with scars all over your face? He might prefer smooth-skinned, gentle types.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  Alice sighed. ‘Surely you’ve worked with other gay officers?’ Jon shook his head. ‘It’s not like your job, Ali. We don’t have people flouncing around like Melvyn.’

  ‘Not every gay man’s as camp as Melvyn. Besides, he puts a lot of that on for the blue-rinse brigade.’ She smiled. ‘The old dears reckon it’s like getting their hair done by Graham Norton.’

  ‘Yeah, well, this is the police.’

  Alice put a hand on her hip and extended one foot slightly in front of the other. Jon called it her barrister stance, because it was a posture she adopted whenever they got into one of their verbal tussles.

  They’d started seeing each other almost twelve years ago after a chance meeting in a city centre pub. Jon and several team mates were sitting at the centre table to watch the final of the 1991 Rugby World Cup on the pub’s giant screen. As the match ground its way to England’s eventual defeat at the hands of Australia, a few of his friends had got increasingly annoyed at the referee’s decisions.

  When the drinks on Alice’s table were all knocked over she had no hesitation in standing up to have a go at their entire group. Before offering to replace them, Jon had watched her feistiness with admiration. It was the first thing he’d noticed about her and whenever it reappeared he was reminded why he’d fallen in love with her.

  ‘What about all the equal opportunities stuff we’re always hearing about?’ she demanded. ‘Those posters around town...What was the headline? Something about “All walks of life walk the beat”?’

  Jon rolled his eyes, relishing every second of the exchange. The recruitment campaign posters, with their Home Office allocation of ethnic minorities in the photo, had generated plenty of jokes around the station, but not many non-white job applicants. Besides, bobbies walking the beat? They were too busy stuck at their desks completing paperwork for that.

  ‘There’s a culture in the police, Alice. You know it, I know it. It doesn’t matter how much lip-service they pay to the drive for ethnic minority officers and all that.’

  ‘And all that,’ Alice tutted. ‘Watch out, Jon, you might find yourself left behind in the last millennium.’

  ‘I don’t agree with it, Ali, but it’s life. Besides, you say society’s changing, but what you actually mean is that your experience of society’s changing. I’d say that, on the whole, the age-old prejudices are just as alive and healthy as ever.’ He thought about the poster’s headline. ‘It’s just that your walk of life doesn’t take you into contact with them.’ He gave her a glib smile and waited for her response.

  She scowled. ‘You’re bound to get racists and anti-gays in the deprived areas you get called out to. You always will until people are educated differently.’

  Jon laughed. ‘I’m not talking about housing estates. I’m talking about country estates. Those living at the top of the pile, not the bottom: the aristocracy, the establishment, the elite, whatever you want to call it.’ He pictured the huddles of senior officers, the judges, the politicians. Old, white, married and male. ‘I’m talking about people who’ve had the best educations money can buy. It’s that lot who are most against change. The system suits them just fine. After all, it was created by them, their fathers and their fathers’ fathers.’

  Alice was silent for a moment. ‘That’s depressing.’

  Jon realised he’d come out of this one on top, but the victory gave him precious little satisfaction. ‘That’s life,’ he shrugged.

  ‘Anyway, don’t worry. I’m not going to creep around the canteen whispering to everyone that Rick’s gay.’

  ‘I know that.’ She tipped her head back to yawn and saw the clock on the wall. ‘You coming to bed?’

  Jon finished his beer and nodded.

  Chapter 10

  Dawn Poole could almost see the waves of pain radiating out from the back of the patient’s throat with every swallow. Breathing was obviously still diff
icult because, after a few more sips, the straw was released.

  ‘Enough?’ Dawn asked, her concern showing in her face.

  The patient leaned back against the pillows and gave a single slow nod.

  Dawn put the carton down. ‘You’re being so brave.’ She ran her fingers gently through the short spikes of hair on the patient’s head. The haircut reminded her of a singer’s, someone who sang of bruised feelings and life’s injustices. Annie Lennox? Sinead O’Connor? She couldn’t remember.

  Bloodshot eyes turned towards the window. A finger was held up, red nail varnish contrasting with the white sheets. ‘Can you crumble a biscuit on the window sill?’

  The words were little more than a rasping whisper. Unsure if she’d heard correctly, Dawn stood. ‘Crumble biscuit on the window sill?’

  The patient nodded. ‘For a robin. It lands there.’

  She smiled uncertainly. ‘Of course, my darling.’ She took a digestive biscuit from the untouched packet and broke off a small piece. ‘Outside? Here?’ she asked.

  ‘And on the inside, too.’

  Dawn began crumbling the biscuit between her forefinger and thumb.

  Chapter 11

  Take a few moments to browse through our selection of handpicked ladies. Prices start at £150 per hour.

  Fiona stared at the computer screen. Jon was right: all the girls were listed there. She read a few of their details.

  Becky, age 19. Holly, age 20. NEW! Kim, age 20. Mel, age 22. The list went right down to women in their forties. By each name was a tab saying, More info.

  Fiona clicked on Mel’s.

  A new screen popped up giving the girl’s height, bust, dress size, hair, ethnic origin and occupation (5’6”, 34C, 10, brunette, shoulder-length straight, white British, customer service adviser).

  At the base of the screen was a subheading, Reviews. Fiona clicked on it and was taken to a different page called ‘Punter Opinion’. The report was enthusiastic but matter-of-fact, like a review of a well-designed electrical item. The punter would definitely be seeing Mel again, it concluded.