Shifting Skin

by Chris Simms

  He stood up and began to gently knead the back of Fiona’s neck. ‘Listen, love. About work. We can cover for you. Once you’re feeling better and you’ve settled into your new place, give me a call. We could always come round for a little housewarming do.’

  Fiona leaned back and closed her eyes. ‘I don’t know what to say, Melvyn, except I’ll make it up to you.’ Suddenly she tensed and her eyes snapped open. ‘If he comes looking for me, you mustn’t say a thing.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Fiona.’ Melvyn lowered his hands. ‘I thought I’d trapped a nerve. Don’t worry. If that fat bastard comes in, I’ll tell him you don’t work here any more.’

  Fiona smiled.

  After they’d finished their cups of tea, Alice caught Fiona on the street outside. ‘Jon said you spoke to him,’ she said, slightly out of breath with the effort of taking just a few quick steps.

  Fiona’s face tightened. ‘Yes. I’m sorry that I lost my temper.’

  ‘That’s all right. He’s used to it in his job.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I had good reason. If you’d heard what I heard, Alice...It’s right here.’ She tapped behind her ear. ‘I can’t get the noise out of my head. And no one cares. I know your Jon’s busy, but no one cares what happened. Well, I do. I’m going to find out what happened to her. The poor thing is little more than a child.’ She looked off into the distance.

  ‘Who?’ Alice said.

  Fiona blinked. ‘Oh. I talked to the woman at the escort agency. She does remember someone, though whether she was called Alexia or Alicia I’m not really sure. Whoever she was, the woman wouldn’t take her on. Suspected a drug habit and sent her back to the streets, even though she was barely twenty.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know. Try and find out what happened to her.’

  ‘But you don’t know if you’re even looking for the right girl.’

  Fiona shrugged. ‘I just need to find out if she’s OK.’ Alice was frowning with confusion. ‘How?’

  ‘Well, if she was sent back to the streets, I could start asking the girls who work there.’

  ‘Prostitutes?’

  Fiona nodded. ‘Someone must know her.’

  ‘Fiona, be careful. Until they catch this man . . .’

  ‘I’ve shared a house with a monster for long enough. I can watch out for myself, don’t you worry,’ she replied, not feeling the bravado she was trying to show.

  Chapter 14

  Tentatively, she inched the door open and looked inside. The curtains had been opened and morning sunlight was streaming in. The air in the room reflected the temperature outside, and she realised the window was open as far as it would go.

  The patient was half sitting up in bed, bandaged face directed to the world beyond the window, tips of spiky hair catching the sun’s rays.

  Seeing him staring off to the side like that reminded Dawn Poole of how they’d first met. It was in the hair care aisle of Boots just over four years ago. She had seen him scrutinising the bottles, a slimly built man not much bigger than her. He looked strangely helpless. He’d sensed her watching and turned awkwardly to face her.

  His clumsy request for advice about hair dye had almost made her laugh. She’d assumed he was buying it for his elderly mother or some other female relative. As she explained the different choices that were available, the mixture of vulnerability and embarrassment in his face started to interest her. She wasn’t used to a man relying on her for help and then attentively listening to everything she had to say. Normally in her relationships it was the other way round.

  She gave him a couple of tips on how best to apply the colouring, and enjoyed the feeling of being needed as he eagerly absorbed her advice. Then he had surprised her by tentatively asking about how to apply false eyelashes.

  Realising he was asking for the benefit of himself and not someone else, she had offered to let him know about applying false nails, too. He’d accepted with a smile.

  An hour later they were sitting in a coffee shop, him with a large bag of make-up on the seat next to him.

  ‘He came right into the room just now.’

  The words were whispered with hardly any movement of the lips and Dawn was reminded of a novice trying to master the art of ventriloquism.

  ‘Who?’ she replied, walking into the room and sitting on the end of the bed.

  ‘The robin. I put some crumbs on the bed. He hopped right in and ate them. So beautiful, so delicate.’

  She could tell the bandages hid the beginnings of a smile. The feeling of foreboding that had been building since the policeman questioned her dissipated slightly and was replaced by a warm glow of admiration.

  She couldn’t imagine the pain he was going through. Knowing that she wouldn’t have been able to endure it, she took one hand in hers and stroked the smooth skin. ‘It’s good to see you looking happier.’

  The patient was still looking out of the window. ‘Speaking, eating, sleeping. Everything still hurts. But now I feel it’s worth it again. Worth it for who I’m going to be.’

  Dawn nodded. ‘That’s the attitude. You know, I’m happy just to be out of that miserable motel. The place is falling apart. If it gets inspected, they’ll close it straight off.’ She hooked a strand of hair over her ear. ‘Your dressings are due to be changed later on. I’m sure he’ll bring some more painkillers, too.’ The room was silent as she judged how to articulate the next sentence. She opted for a casual tone. ‘A policeman called at the motel a few nights ago.’

  Eyes swivelled towards her, blood still caught in the lower half of their orbits.

  ‘He was asking questions. Someone thought they heard choking coming from one of the rooms. Choking like the person was in serious trouble.’

  She waited for a response, but nothing came.

  ‘I told him no one came to me needing help.’ She glanced up seeking affirmation, but the patient had turned back to the window.

  She reached into the bag and got out some women’s magazines and a copy of the local paper. The outside column of the front page was devoted to conjecture about the Butcher's latest victim, who still remained unidentified. 'I brought you some things to read.'

  Chapter 15

  At 11:17 the next day Jon’s computer pinged. Someone had entered the registration of Gordon Dean’s car in the Police National Computer’s database of stolen or abandoned vehicles. The system had then matched it to the flag he’d left earlier and relayed the alert to his computer.

  He raised a hand and clicked his fingers at Rick. ‘Bingo! There’s a silver Passat at Piccadilly train station that has outstayed its welcome in the short-term car park. Registration matches our man’s.’

  The car-park attendant looked at their identities with surprise. ‘I was just going to get it towed.’

  ‘No need for now,’ Jon replied. ‘Where is it?’

  He led them up to the third floor, Jon’s head barely clearing the low concrete ceiling.

  ‘Over in the corner. See it?’

  ‘Cheers.’

  They walked over and peered in through the windows. Rick leaned across the bonnet to see on to the dashboard. ‘Ticket purchased at five past seven in the morning five days ago. Fits with him checking out of the Novotel and coming straight here.’

  Jon checked the back seat. ‘Empty. What do you reckon, then?’

  ‘Seems a bit early to be catching a train,’ Rick replied.

  ‘Unless you’re catching a train to catch a plane. They’re practically round the clock to the airport.’

  ‘Why not just drive there?’

  ‘True.’ Jon put his hand in his jacket pocket and hooked his fingers under the driver’s door handle. To his surprise, it opened.

  ‘That’s a result.’ He leaned inside; the interior was filled with the chemical smell of a cheap air freshener.

  Rick used the same trick to open the passenger door without leaving any prints. He crouched down and popped open the glove compartment with the en
d of a pen. A tin of mints, a pile of compliments slips and an A to Z of Manchester.

  Jon pointed at the music system. A tape was poking out of the cassette deck. ‘That’s a blank tape. Something could have been recorded on it.’ He took an evidence bag out of his pocket, pulled it over his hand, removed the tape and placed it in his pocket. Then he pulled up the lever for the boot. Inside were a few crushed boxes of latex gloves, a picnic blanket and a golfing umbrella, the Protex logo just visible among its folds.

  ‘Something heavy squashed those boxes,’ Rick observed.

  ‘Yeah,’ Jon nodded. ‘And my money’s on it being some wellpacked suitcases.’

  Rick put his hands on his knees to push himself upright, then stopped. His head angled to one side and he got down on one knee to lean forwards into the boot. ‘Hello, this doesn’t look like Mrs Dean’s taste in cosmetics.’

  ‘What?’ Jon asked, trying to look in.

  Rick took out a set of keys and used the tip of one to hook the tiny object up. It stuck to the jagged edge like an exotic insect clinging on for dear life.

  ‘What is that?’ Jon frowned.

  Rick studied it, rapt as an entomologist discovering a new species. ‘A false eyelash. And look at the size of it. That’s a real beauty.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Jon agreed, now able to see it. ‘Normal habitat, streetus prostitutus.’ He produced another evidence bag from his pocket.

  As Rick dropped it in he said, ‘The thought of this is making me feel ill, but I wonder if its mate is in the pile of skin that used to be victim number three’s face?’

  Jon nodded grimly. ‘We’d better go over the autopsy report.’

  ‘Maybe he’s washing their faces, stripping off all their makeup before stripping off their skin.’

  Jon weighed up the comment. Try as he might, the impression he was forming of Gordon Dean didn’t fit with that of a killer. Unlike the thought of Pete Gray. Now there was a man he’d like to take somewhere private, a place where he could exert some real pressure. He stopped the thought right there, worried at how easily his mind could switch to the contemplation of violence. ‘Let’s see what’s on this tape.’

  Back in their own car, he turned the ignition key until the dashboard lights came on. Then, using an evidence bag as a glove, he carefully slid the cassette into the machine.

  It was a recording taken from the radio, the DJ speaking loud and fast, Manchester accent easily apparent. ‘OK, people, as I promised before the break, here’s the tune that’s setting the airwaves on fire at the moment. I heard a whisper from their record company that it’s not being released until well into next year, so until then you’ll just have to keep tuned to Galaxy FM, because we can’t get enough of playing it here.’

  A faint chorus of trumpets rapidly grew in strength. Nodding in time as the drumbeat started up, Rick said, ‘It’s called “Lola’s Theme” – can’t remember who it’s by.’

  By now the music was in full flow, female vocals blending with the uplifting tune. The trumpets built higher, reaching a crescendo as the triumphant chorus kicked in.

  I’m a different person, yeah, Turned my world around, I’m a different person, yeah, Turned my world around.

  When they walked into the incident room, the receiver waved a sheet of paper at them. ‘Gordon Dean’s most recent credit-card transactions.’

  ‘Cheers, Graham.’ Jon made his way to his desk and laid the paper on it. He and Rick both went straight to the transactions on the night when Dean disappeared.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ whistled Rick.

  Jon made a quick mental calculation. ‘That’s over a grand and a half in one night.’

  Rick sat down to study the transactions more carefully. ‘Don

  Antonio’s, like Doctor O’Connor said. And Crimson – surprise, surprise. Between those, a few drinks in Taurus and a stop in Natterjacks. He was certainly hitting the pubs and clubs around Canal Street.’

  ‘Are these all places you know?’ Jon realised he’d lowered his voice slightly.

  Rick nodded. ‘Gay ones, on the whole – Natterjacks gets quite a mixed crowd. But look at those last three transactions.

  £150 from a cashpoint, £9.99 from what looks to be a garage and then another £1,100 from another cashpoint.’

  Jon pointed at the date. ‘The final one is from the next morning at six forty-three. That one must have maxed his card out, then, twenty minutes later, he’s buying a ticket for the car park at Piccadilly station.’

  ‘So he deliberately cleared his bank account,’ Rick murmured.

  Jon dropped a ten-pound note on the table. ‘That says he’s holed up in a cottage somewhere, probably in the sack right now.’

  Rick matched his money. ‘You’re on.’

  ‘OK, I’ll ring Visa for the exact locations of those two last cashpoints. Shall we drop by Don Antonio’s?’

  In the dull light of day the Hurlington Health Club looked almost innocent, only the blacked out windows jarring as odd.

  Relieved that the place was so much less imposing than the first time she’d tried to visit, Fiona went up the pathway. The door opened into a room dimly lit by a variety of flame-effect lamps. An aquarium bubbled in the left-hand corner, the water glowing with crystalline light that spilled out across darkly coloured sofas.

  A young woman wearing a towelling dressing gown was sprinkling fish food in. She turned round, a look of surprise across her face.

  ‘Cindy, someone’s here!’ Heavy accent, Russian perhaps. Fiona looked at the counter to her right, empty except for a swipe machine and a pot crammed with cheap biros, cellophane from the stationery shop still clinging to its lower half. A vacuum cleaner came on and an overweight woman with hair coiled on top of her head straightened up behind the counter. The girl by the aquarium slumped on a sofa and perched her bare feet against the rim of the glass coffee table.

  ‘Hello, I’m hoping you can help me.’ Fiona stepped off the doormat, almost shouting to make herself heard above the vacuum’s aggravating whine.

  ‘You what?’ The fat woman’s lips remained slightly apart as if the weight of her chins was pulling her lower jaw down.

  ‘I’m trying to find a young woman,’ Fiona replied selfconsciously as the woman registered the cut to her eyebrow.

  She carried on hoovering and Fiona wanted to rip the machine’s plug from the wall. ‘I think she works here. Or did recently.’

  Still the woman said nothing and Fiona felt her words were being absorbed without impression by her bulk. ‘Her name is Alexia.’

  ‘She’s not working here any more,’ the woman snapped without looking up.

  ‘Why? What happened?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Me? Just someone who knew her once.’ The woman’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. Clearly, the answer wasn’t good enough. Fiona resorted to a lie. ‘I’m a friend of her mother’s. We’re very worried about her.’

  ‘A friend? Who do you work for, social services?’

  ‘No, I’m a beauty therapist.’

  Fiona saw the woman look at her hands. She’d given herself a manicure the day before. Since her face was a mess, something needed to look good.

  ‘She did herself no favours by tapping up regulars with her phone number.’ She stopped pushing the vacuum in order to jut a thumb towards the door. ‘I told her to sling her hook.’

  ‘Where might she have gone?’

  The woman swivelled a paw of a hand so her thumb pointed to the floor. ‘Only one place she was heading for. Back to the streets.’ She shuffled towards Fiona, thrusting the machine back and forth before her.

  Fiona retreated a step. ‘Which ones?’

  ‘Which ones?’ The woman repeated. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Which streets?’ Fiona asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Try Minshull, for starters.’

  ‘Minshull Street. Thanks.’

  Fiona opened the door and was bathed in dull grey daylight.

  ‘What did this gir
l look like?’

  ‘I thought you knew her,’ the fat woman said.

  Fiona retreated on to the front step. ‘Shoulder-length hair? Chestnut brown? My height? Thin?’

  The woman was looking at the doormat, running the vacuum over it. ‘That’s her,’ she said dismissively, moving the machine back on to the carpet and letting the door swing shut.

  Copies of the autopsy report on the Butcher’s third victim were doing the rounds of the incident room, several detectives chewing sandwiches as they digested its details.

  ‘Same as the other two,’ Jon commented. ‘Evidence of being strangled. Blood in the surrounding tissues and fascia suggests he began to remove her skin within minutes of her death.’

  Rick was hunched over his photocopied sheets. ‘Well, at least she wasn’t alive for it. Substantially more flesh taken off, too. And her missing teeth had been removed shortly after her death. Not wrenched out, removed professionally.’

  ‘So along with surgical skills he’s got some knowledge of dentistry. Fuck, what are we dealing with here?’ Jon asked, an ominous shadow passing over him.

  Rick looked up, face slightly pale. ‘Why would he take out a selection of her teeth?’

  ‘I reckon he’s covering his tracks,’ Jon said. ‘He’s making it as hard as possible to identify her. No face, only a few teeth to compare against dental records – he doesn’t want to get caught.’ Rick looked down again. ‘Because he wants to carry on. Jesus.’ He turned to the photos of the skin itself. The first image was of it piled up next to the corpse on the waste ground. Jon glanced across the table then turned away as memories of having to eat tripe at his grandma’s flashed up in his mind. ‘No mention of false eyelashes.’

  Rick flipped the photo over. The next one was the same pile of skin in the morgue. The pathologist had then taken the pieces of flesh and fitted them together like a grotesque jigsaw.

  He turned to the section titled, ‘Distinguishing Features’.

  ‘Row of four piercing holes in the upper right ear. Tattoo on the lower left abdomen.’

  Jon looked up. ‘What of ?’

  ‘Betty Boop. Three inches high.’