by Chris Simms
As the lift rose silently, Rick said, ‘I’ve heard of the Paragon Group. Big ads at the back of women’s magazines. Must cost a fortune.’
The doors opened on a plush foyer, the green of tropical palms complemented by walls washed with a subtle turquoise paint. The carpet was pale blue, the lighting recessed. The result was very soothing. Trust us, you’re in good hands, Jon thought.
The receptionist wore a starched white tunic and her hair was pulled back so tightly it looked like the follicles might bleed. As they approached her desk, she reached for a couple of forms.
Rick stepped up, his warrant card out. ‘DS Saville and DI Spicer. May we speak to whoever orders your medical supplies, please.’
She looked confused. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you’d just popped in to enquire about, er...We don’t have much here.’
‘If whoever orders your medical examination gloves could spare us a minute.’
‘Oh, that’s our head nurse. She’s with someone at the moment. Please help yourself to coffee.’ She gestured towards an open door. A pot of coffee was in the corner of the room and satellite television played softly on a plasma screen mounted on the wall. A middle-aged woman squirmed with embarrassment as they stepped in. She pulled her magazine tight into her lap, and kept her head bowed over it.
Jesus, you’d have thought it was a sexual diseases clinic, Jon thought as they sat down. He picked up a brochure. It was printed on expensive stock, plenty of white space between the words. Printing costs had obviously not been a problem.
‘Here you go,’ Rick said, holding a woman’s magazine out. The Paragon Group’s ad dominated the page. A nude woman was sitting on a polished wooden floor. Her legs and arms were artfully crossed, screening a figure that was faultless. Below it the locations of the group’s centres were listed. Every major city seemed to have one.
‘Big business,’ Rick stated.
Jon turned to the brochure’s contents page. Surgery for the face and body, liposuction, hair transplants, tummy tucks, reshaping and enhancing of genitalia. Curious to see how revealing the images might be, he flicked to an inner page. The photo was harmless: a woman gazed off to the side, a benign smile playing at the edge of her mouth. Ear reshaping, lip reduction and enlargement, chin implants.
‘Gentlemen, please come through.’
A statuesque woman in what might have been her mid-thirties stood in the doorway. The same crisp outfit as the receptionist. She led them into an examination room.
‘You have a question about our examination gloves?’ She picked up a box from the corner of her desk. The label said: Powder-free surgical gloves. Non-sterile latex.
‘Actually, it’s about the person who supplies them,’ Rick said. Her immaculately painted lips contracted to form the word
‘Oh?’
‘Gordon Dean, he works for Protex,’ Rick continued.
‘Mr Dean, yes. He was here two days ago.’
‘At what time?’
‘About quarter past three, I’d guess.’
‘And did he stay for long?’
‘About three minutes.’
‘Did you chat to him? How did he seem?’
‘Chat with him?’ The suggestion seemed to bemuse her. ‘No. I signed for the delivery and he left.’
Jon saw this was going nowhere. He looked around. ‘What goes on here, then?’
Her eyes turned to him. ‘In terms of what?’
‘Treatments. Have you got surgical theatres and doctors hidden away here? It seems very quiet.’
She shook her head. ‘The only things performed here are non-surgical procedures requiring, at most, local anaesthetic. Botox injections and laser treatments, for instance. The primary function of this office is for consultations. An initial one with myself or another nurse, then one with a surgeon. Once the paperwork is complete, the patient will see their surgeon for a further pre-operative medical examination and briefing prior to the procedure at a local private hospital nearby. We rent the theatres from them.’
‘Who are your surgeons, then?’ Jon asked.
‘Is this part of the original reason for your visit today or merely curiosity on your part, Detective Inspector?’ There was a challenging, almost provocative, look in her eyes.
Jon stared back at her for a moment. ‘A bit of both, I suppose.’
‘Our surgeons are employed from a variety of backgrounds. But if you’re concerned as to their credentials, as some prospective patients are, I can assure you they possess all the necessary qualifications.’
‘Fascinating,’ Jon replied, irritated by her brittle manner.
The woman seemed to sense this. She leaned forwards to assess him, then turned to Rick. ‘You have very good skin. Do you use a moisturising regime?’
‘I do.’ Rick smiled uncertainly.
She nodded, then turned back to Jon. ‘And you, DI Spicer? I suspect that you don’t.’ She raised a forefinger and touched the skin at the outer edge of her eye sockets. ‘Your starbursts show when you speak.’
Wrong-footed by the sudden turn in conversation, Jon was about to ask if that was the new name for laughter lines, but she carried on. ‘The scar above your left eyebrow and the bump in your nose – where it has been broken, I presume – are both easily remedied nowadays. We could take years off your face with some very simple procedures.’
Her eyes continued to probe him, and Jon realised she was searching for flaws, imperfections, anything which might trigger an insecurity she could play on. He was thankful that his hair hadn’t started to thin.
‘Just imagine how delighted your wife would be.’
‘I’m not married,’ Jon said.
‘Many of the men we treat find improvements to their face do their career prospects no harm, either.’
Jon shook his head. ‘Are you a nurse or a saleswoman?’
‘Just something for you to think about.’ She smiled and handed him a business card.
Jon glanced at it, then dropped it back on her desk. ‘No, you’re all right, thanks,’ he said, walking out.
As they headed back towards St Anne’s Square an indecipherable phrase was shouted out in front of them. Jon spotted the Manchester Evening News seller and the headline on his stand: butcher still stalks belle vue.
The town hall bells started to slowly toll. The chorus came to an end and a single, funereal strike let them know it was one o’clock. Jon’s eyes flickered from the gargoyles on its gothic spires to the people around him. Not for the first time, he wondered how close the killer might be at that very moment.
Rick said, ‘Shall we get some lunch? I’m starving.’
‘Good idea,’ Jon agreed.
‘The sandwiches are excellent in there,’ Rick said, pointing at the Pret a Manger further down the street.
Jon groaned inwardly, thinking of the variety of breads and choices of fancy fillings. He nodded towards a Gregg’s bakers on their side of the road. ‘They do a decent bacon barm in there.’ Now distaste showed in Rick’s face. ‘Aren’t those places a bit
... you know...?’
Jon looked at him. ‘If you mean they do no-nonsense stuff without ripping you off, yes.’
Rick glanced in and spotted a couple of construction workers still wearing their hard hats in the queue. ‘Shall we just meet back at the car?’
‘Your money,’ Jon replied. Rick crossed the road, and Jon went into Gregg’s.
He ordered two bacon barms with brown sauce and a cup of coffee, then wandered into the square. Rick was already sitting on a bench in front of the ancient church overlooking the square, enjoying the intermittent bursts of sun breaking through the broken cloud above.
Deciding there was no immediate danger of being doused in a sudden spring shower, Jon sat next to him. As he did so he glanced across towards the glass-panelled corner of the Marks & Spencer’s built on the site where the IRA bomb had gone off in 1996.
His mind went back to the event and the years leading up to it. He didn’t sup
pose there ever was an ideal time for becoming a copper. He’d joined in 1991 at the age of twenty-one, suddenly finding himself patrolling the streets in a policeman’s uniform. He’d kept on expecting members of the public to laughingly point at him in disbelief.
The city’s nightclubbing scene was then in its prime and the place was known throughout the world as Madchester. But, as the nineties wore on, venues like the Hacienda were increasingly being taken over by gangs from Cheetham Hill and Salford. Every night was turning into a scrabble for the police station’s bullet-proof vests as they were repeatedly called out to shootings. The gangs didn’t care who died in their battle to control the lucrative drugs trade, and the press had started to call the city Gunchester.
Many of his colleagues had spent their weekends working undercover in nightclubs and bars, shitting themselves as they tried to gather evidence of drug dealing so the places could be shut down. Even now the thought made Jon almost laugh with relief – thanks to his conspicuous size, and the fact he was playing for the Greater Manchester Police rugby team each Saturday afternoon, it was a role he was spared.
As the Madchester period began to stutter and fizzle the city had seemed to be searching for a new identity. He remembered mentions of somewhere called Canal Street, rumours of it being a safe drinking haven for gays. Sankey’s Soap opened in Ancoats. Alice started raving about a local band called Oasis and suddenly Manchester appeared to have rediscovered its spirit.
Then came the coded phone call on the fifteenth of June. A bomb was set to go off in one of the city’s busiest shopping areas, just as the Saturday crowds were pouring in.
He remembered running down Market Street in his bobby’s uniform, one hand holding his helmet on his head, the other furiously waving members of the public away from the Arndale. Intelligence was shaky and he had no idea when the bomb might go off. The only times he’d sweated so much was on the rugby pitch.
Within an hour they’d cleared an area in the immediate vicinity of a large white van. He was keeping the crowds back from the cordon tape at the far end of Market Street when the thing went off. It was the loudest noise he’d ever heard, a roar that jarred the air so violently it made him stagger. Then came the cascade of glass. Even a good four hundred metres away, shards rained down all around them. Miraculously, no one was killed, but the centre of the city had been devastated.
He looked towards the gleaming building. Another example of how the city had evolved and adapted from its origins as the world’s first industrial city.
As he bit into his large flat roll, he spotted Rick sipping from an absurdly small bottle. ‘What’s in there?’
‘Banana and mango smoothie.’
Jon shook his head, thinking of Alice’s love of reducing perfectly good fruit and vegetables to mush. ‘You should meet my missus.’
It was just a short drive to the next address on the list. The building was on the Rochdale Road, imposing and dark. They parked in the rear yard, next to a brand-new Range Rover.
‘Jesus, there’s some money to be made in this game,’ observed Jon.
They walked back on to the main road, clangs from a construction site clearly audible over the sound of traffic rushing past. Rick gestured to several cranes that towered like sentinels over the nearby roofs. ‘Something major’s going on over there.’
‘That’s Ancoats,’ Jon replied. ‘It’s received huge amounts of regeneration money from the EU. The place is finally getting a facelift.’
Rick checked the printout and then the brass plaque by the door. ‘This is it. ‘The Beauty Centre, Dr O’Connor.’
Jon looked dubiously at the stone surrounding the door. It was stained almost black by exhaust fumes.
Rick had to buzz twice before a voice sounded on the intercom.
‘Who is it?’ A faint Irish accent, the voice casual and friendly.
Jon was surprised; compared to the glossy organisation they’d just come from, it was hardly a businesslike greeting.
‘DS Saville and DI Spicer, Greater Manchester Police.’
Plastic clattered as the handset was dropped. ‘Sod it! Sorry, come right up.’
They exchanged a look as the door clicked open, allowing them to enter a softly lit lobby. The air was slightly musty and Jon looked down at the deep-red carpet at his feet. The groundfloor doors were all plastered over and Jon guessed the rooms on the other sides were offices of companies in the adjoining buildings. The only way to go was up the stairs, and the heavy carpeting completely muffled their footsteps as they climbed. At regular intervals were facial portraits of models, a small notice below each photograph. Collagen. Restylane. Hylaform. Laser skin resurfacing. Temporary wrinkle filler. Cool touch laser.
Jon nodded knowingly at Rick, ‘Non-surgical procedures only.’
At the top of the stairs was a short corridor with two doors leading off. The one marked ‘Treatment Room’ was closed, the other open.
‘Please come in,’ the same voice called from inside.
They entered an office that looked like it should have belonged to a lawyer. A huge wooden desk dominated the end of the room, rows of books weighing down the shelves behind it. The daylight that made it through the windows seemed to be instantly soaked up by the red carpet and wooden wall panels.
A distinguished-looking man was seated behind the desk, wiping the handset of the intercom phone with a cloth for cleaning glasses. ‘Slippery bugger. Hope it didn’t sound too loud your end. Take a seat, why don’t you.’
Jon drank in the Irish lilt. As they walked across the room, he took in the doctor’s full head of white hair, guessing he was in
his late fifties. Closer, he reassessed the doctor’s age. If he was approaching sixty, he wore his years incredibly well. His jawline was firm, the skin around his eyes smooth.
When he smiled, his teeth were perfect. ‘How can I be of help?’
Rick took out his sheet of paper. ‘Do you run this place all on your own, Dr O’Connor?’
‘I have a nurse on the days we carry out procedures. But there’s no point in paying her to be here when it’s just paperwork that I’m tidying up.’
‘Perhaps we should be talking to her. It’s about whoever orders your medical supplies.’
‘I do a lot of that myself.’
‘Including medical gloves?’
‘Indeed.’
‘We’re trying to ascertain the recent movements of a sales rep from Protex.’
‘Young Gordon Dean? He was in here only two days ago.’ He plucked a tangerine from the pile of fruit in a polished wooden bowl on his desk, then nodded towards it. ‘Gentlemen?’
Jon and Rick shook their heads and the doctor held up a finger. ‘Five pieces a day.’ He leaned forwards conspiratorially.
‘If more people kept to that little maxim there’d be a lot less work for me.’ He dropped the peel into a bin and popped a segment of tangerine into his mouth.
‘How did Gordon Dean seem to you?’ Jon asked.
‘His usual cheerful self.’
‘He normally strikes you as happy?’
‘He does. Seems to enjoy his work visits to Manchester, at least.’
‘How about non-work issues? His personal life, for instance?’ The doctor paused. ‘He’s married, I gather. No children, though I don’t know why. I’m not sure what answers you’re looking for.’
Jon smiled. ‘Neither are we. We’re just trying to get an idea of him.’
‘He’s in trouble, I take it?’
‘No. We just need to trace him. He seems to have disappeared.
The last time you saw him, was there anything out of the ordinary? Was he agitated or preoccupied, perhaps?’
O’Connor shook his head.
‘Was he here for long?’
‘No longer than usual. He left at about three o’clock.’
‘Did you chat at all?’
‘We talked about the current best dining options in
Manchester.’
�
�Those being?’
‘Gordon loves his Italian food. He mentioned he was staying over in Manchester, so I recommended a place I visited the other day. Piccolino’s. Have you tried it?’
Rick and Jon shook their heads.
‘Ah, Gordon had. I think he was eating at one of his regular places. A person’s name. Now let me think.’ He closed his eyes.
‘Don Antonio’s?’ Jon asked.
The doctor clicked his fingers, opening his eyes and bowing his head fractionally at Jon. ‘Don Antonio’s. I’ve not been there myself. Have you?’
‘No, but I think we will be.’ Jon started to get up, but paused.
‘We’ve just come from the offices of the Paragon Group. What do you think of them?’
The silence was a second too long before he answered. ‘A very efficient organisation.’
Jon sank back in his seat. ‘And your personal, not professional, opinion?’
Dr O’Connor looked into Jon’s eyes. ‘My confidential personal opinion?’
‘Won’t go further than us three,’ Jon replied.
‘A bunch of mercenary money-grabbers.’
‘Go on,’ said Jon.
‘They’ll employ anyone as long as they have one ethic.’ Jon raised his eyebrows in encouragement.
‘That they’re prepared to treat anyone, regardless of need or suitability.’
‘You mean surgery?’ asked Rick.
O’Connor nodded. ‘Their staff all have medical qualifications
and a basic knowledge of cosmetic surgery. But they don’t need any sort of track history – actually, they don’t need any history or experience at all. Add to that the fact that this is an industry woefully lacking in regulations. New procedures and techniques are appearing all the time, and all too often they’re driven by profit rather than patient well-being. Not, in my opinion, a healthy state of affairs.’
‘So you’ve never applied to work for them?’
O’Connor snorted. ‘Absolutely not. The reverse, as a matter of fact. They’ve tried to buy me out once or twice, but I’m not interested. I’ve also had doctors approach me looking for work. I’ve turned them away due to their lack of experience, only to hear they’re employed by Paragon weeks later.’
