by Chris Simms
‘No.’ He felt a blush creeping up his neck. Shit!
‘It was,’ she smiled, a note of triumph in her voice. ‘You were feeling jealous! Even if he wasn’t gay, he’s not my type.’ Her eyes went to Jon’s scarred hands, travelled up to his lips, then his eyes. ‘I like my men a bit rougher at the edges.’
Jon looked away. ‘I’ve been following up a bit of a lead, but in my own time.’
‘So?’
‘I didn’t let him know. Or rather, I just did let him know and he spat his dummy out.’
‘Well, there you go. Gay men can get a bit emotional.’
Jon sprang to his defence. ‘No, it was fair enough. I wasn’t being straight with him.’ A look bounced between them. ‘If you know what I mean.’
‘I think so,’ she smirked.
Jon took a gulp of his drink. ‘Actually, the lead has to do with the tests I asked you to run. So come on, what’s this hot news you have for me?’
She reached for her briefcase. ‘You asked me to run an ACEV on the fingerprints and a DNA analysis on a plastic cup.’
‘That’s right.’
‘I didn’t come back with anything conclusive on the fingerprints.’
‘You said you’d recovered a partial from the inside of that glove we found by the third victim’s body.’
‘Yes, but it was only a partial. Comparing it to the couple on the cup you gave me resulted in, as I said, nothing conclusive. A couple of points matched, but that’s nowhere near enough, as you know. However, I ran the print through NAFIS. You do know the owner has a record?’
‘Yes, don’t worry.’
‘OK. Are you ready for the good news?’
‘Go on.’
‘The DNA test from the plastic cup was successful, although not with anything from the scene of the third victim.’
‘But?’
‘You still owe me another drink, yeah?’
‘Yes! Come on, what is it?’
‘I ran it against the DNA samples recovered from Carol Miller and Angela Rowlands.’
‘And?’ Jon crossed his fingers.
‘It matches the DNA found on the vaginal swab from Angela
Rowlands.’
Jon clenched his fists tight as he leaned forwards. ‘Yes! This means a guy I’ve got my eye on has been in contact with two of the Butcher’s victims. Nikki, I could kiss you.’
Before he could move, she brought her lips up against his. A hand slid along his jaw, round the back of his neck, and he felt the softness of her tongue probing his lips. For a second he remained still, his nerves zinging. Then he pulled back.
Her eyes slowly opened. ‘You really haven’t been smoking.’
‘I’d better get those drinks,’ he whispered hoarsely. Nikki smiled.
He stood at the bar, mind racing. A raw desire for sex was threatening to overwhelm him and he knew that staying for another drink would lead to the point of no return.
The barman came over. ‘Same again?’
Jon hesitated, hand on the fiver in his pocket. ‘Yes, please.’ As the drinks were poured, Jon tried to focus on Nikki’s revelation. It had to make Pete Gray the prime suspect. They had enough to haul him in there and then. He paid for the drinks and carried them over to the table. But the look of hurt on Rick’s face refused to fade in his mind. After putting the drinks down, he said, ‘Nikki, I’m really sorry to do this, but I’ve got to catch Rick up and let him know the news.’
She looked at him, a half-smile on her face. But when she saw he was serious, her expression turned sour. ‘Go on, then, off you run,’ she said, waving a hand dismissively towards the door.
Chapter 25
In the glow of the streetlights the drizzle swirled in the air like pollen. It drifted helplessly, pushed and pulled by erratic currents of air, finding its way beneath the umbrellas of the few people walking the pavements, coating their clothes in a damp layer.
Fiona paused long enough outside the bar to scan its windows for drink offers. Then she rounded the corner into Minshull Street. A couple of girls were out and she walked towards the first, who was sheltering under the overhang of a seventies office building, the doorway of which stank of piss.
After listening to Fiona’s question, she sucked deeply on her cigarette and shook her head. Fiona thanked her and set off towards the other girl. She was huddling in a doorway on the other side of the street.
Fiona was halfway across the road when she noticed a car rapidly approaching. She had to jump over a large puddle to make it on to the pavement in time. A split second later it drove into the water, sending a cold sheet splashing against the backs of her legs.
‘Whore!’ a male voice yelled through the vehicle’s open window as it sped away.
‘Fucking wanker!’ the girl screeched back, jabbing her middle finger up.
Fiona tried to brush the worst off, but her trousers were soaked.
‘You all right?’ asked the girl.
‘I’ll survive,’ replied Fiona a little shakily. ‘I was coming over to have a word. I’m looking for Alexia.’
‘You just missed her. She’s had enough for the night, said she was off to the bus station to get some chewing gum, then going home.’
‘Really? A girl around my height, about twenty, reddishbrown hair?’ Fiona asked, already setting off towards Chorlton Street.
‘Brown, red, bleached – she changes it all the time.’
Fiona half jogged along the side street. Soon the bright lights of the recently revamped bus station came into view. A couple of National Express coaches idled in their bays behind the barriers, a miserable clutch of passengers waiting to be let on.
She approached the doors, eyes scanning the main hall. The newsagent’s was long shut and Fiona was afraid she’d missed her quarry. But then she saw the vending machines in the corner. A young girl was standing at them, counting out change in the palm of her hand.
She was taller than Fiona, but wearing heels and a miniskirt. Her thin legs were mottled with bluish marks, the same way Emily’s had been whenever she got cold. Fiona could see she was shivering, her hair soaking wet with rain.
‘The ten twenty-eight National Express service to Glasgow Buchanan bus station is now ready to board. Please proceed to bay number four.’
Fiona was right behind the girl as she pushed coins into the slot and pressed the buttons. A coil of wire rotated forward, releasing a packet of gum into the abyss. It clattered into the tray at the bottom of the machine and the girl leaned forward to pluck it out, one knee bending more than the other. As she turned around their eyes met and the girl began to move past.
‘Alexia?’ Fiona said in a whisper, having to hold back the torrent of apologies trying to escape her.
The girl paused. ‘Huh?’
‘I was in the next room at the Platinum Inn. I heard you being attacked. Oh God, I’m so sorry I did nothing to help.’ Tears made her vision swim. ‘Are you OK? I was so afraid, so afraid for you . . .’
The girl was frowning. ‘What the fuck are you on about?’
‘Room nine of the Platinum Inn. I was there, Alexia.’
‘Alicia, not Alexia. And it’s not even my real name, anyway.’
Fiona stiffened, remembering the mix-up of names with the owner of Cheshire Consorts. ‘You worked...Did you work at the Hurlington Health Club?’
Her face was becoming suspicious. ‘What if I did?’
‘I’m trying to find a girl called Alexia. I think something terrible might have happened to her.’
She was moving away now. ‘Yeah? Tell me something new.’ The bitter laugh should never have come from someone her age.
Fiona crumpled into one of the plastic seats. Her surge of optimism had been sucked away, leaving her with a dry despair. Looking at the time, she got to her feet. The twenty-four-hour Spar was only five minutes away – she was sure they sold alcohol right up until eleven.
Twenty minutes later Fiona pulled up outside the Platinum Inn. The car park had t
hree other vehicles in it. She walked towards the doors, her handbag heavy in her hand. Dawn’s smile faltered when she saw Fiona’s expression. She looked like she couldn’t decide whether to scream or cry. ‘Are you OK?’
Fiona lifted the neck of the bottle of gin clear of her handbag.
‘Fancy a nightcap? I really need one.’
They sat side by side, each holding a full glass in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. Dawn watched the twin streams of smoke twisting up from their fingers. ‘So it was all a mix-up of names?’
Fiona sighed, took a long sip and sighed again. ‘I don’t know. But yes, it seems that I’ve been chasing a girl called Alicia, not Alexia. The owner of Cheshire Consorts was a bit confused about what the girl she interviewed was called.’
‘But didn’t the card you found here have “Alexia” written on the back?’
‘Yes.’
‘So surely an Alexia visited her?’
‘Not necessarily,’ Fiona replied, dragging on her cigarette.
‘The owner said there’s loads of her cards floating around town. The one I found could easily have belonged to a punter.’
‘What about the Hurlington Health Club? The woman there gave you the same description.’
‘The woman there didn’t listen to a word I said. She wouldn’t even turn the bloody vacuum cleaner off to talk to me properly. There is an Alexia out there somewhere, but who knows what she looks like? What a mess.’ She took another drag and breathed out in exasperation, a veil of smoke spreading before her.
Dawn clinked her glass. ‘You did your best. Can’t ask for more than that.’ She regarded Fiona, waiting for a reaction.
Fiona stared miserably at the other wall, her bottom lip slightly red from where she’d been worrying it with her teeth.
Dawn’s eyes travelled to the cut that emerged from Fiona’s eyebrow. Despite the expert application of make-up, she could see it would leave an ugly scar. ‘How’s your eyebrow? Still sore?’
Fiona continued staring straight ahead.
‘Fiona, hello! Anyone in?’ She waved a hand in front of
Fiona’s face.
‘Sorry. What?’ Fiona blinked.
‘Your eyebrow. Will you get a professional to look at it?’ Fiona smiled bleakly. ‘A private hospital? I could never afford that.’
Dawn stubbed her cigarette out. ‘There are other options.’
‘Like what?’
Dawn shrugged. ‘You know I mentioned the person I’m with?’
‘Your companion?’
‘Yes,’ Dawn smiled. ‘My companion. Our relationship, it’s quite complicated. He’s having surgery to change his...appearance. He’s never been comfortable with how he is. I’m sure you’ll meet him one day.’
She cleared her throat and waved a hand weakly, not prepared to elaborate. At least, not yet. ‘Anyway, what I’m trying to say is, the doctor treating him does it all for cash. And cheaply, too. I think he enjoys the challenge.’
She registered Fiona’s sceptical look. ‘He’s no quack. He has his own clinic and really knows his stuff.’ She winked at Fiona.
‘Pretty dishy, too, in an older-man sort of way.’
‘How old?’ asked Fiona, looking more interested.
‘Late fifties, I suppose. Why don’t you ring him, explain your circumstances? I honestly believe he’d treat you. Probably even let you pay him when you can. It’s worth a try, don’t you reckon?’
Fiona traced a finger over the raised line of damaged tissue.
‘He can get rid of something like this?’
‘God, yes,’ Dawn said eagerly. ‘I’ve seen what he can do. It’s amazing.’ She got up, stumbling as the alcohol pulsed in her head. ‘He’s called Dr O’Connor. I’ll write his address down.’
Fiona drained her drink. ‘OK. No harm in just popping in, is there?’
The next morning Fiona turned over in bed and looked around. To her relief she found herself in the tiny room that was home. The bottle of gin on the table acted like a magnet on her eyes. Immediately she started to fret about the fact that she didn’t have enough money to buy another. Kicking the duvet off, she pulled her dressing gown on and shuffled over to the door. Peeping out into the hallway she saw some post on the shelf. Two letters for her, both looking ominously official.
Back in her bedsit, she made herself a coffee and sat at the table. The letters lay at her elbow, but she didn’t dare open them in case they were demands for money. Chin resting on the heel of one hand, she watched the curls of steam rising from the coffee. There was no milk in the fridge, her bread had run out the day before, and her packet of cigarettes was empty.
Her mind went back to waking up in the salesman’s hotel room. She finally admitted that she’d only slept with him because he was a way of procuring more drink.
Was it so bad? She’d had a great time, forgotten all her worries for a while.
Far better, in fact, than any time she’d spent with her husband in years. Bitterly, she thought about their marriage. How many times had she endured sex with him through no will or desire of her own? And for what? A stifled existence behind the façade of a respectable house, her money rationed and her movements controlled.
Christ, the night with the salesman was a pleasure in comparison. At least he’d treated her with respect.
She stared at the empty gin bottle then picked up her purse. There at the back was the number for Cheshire Consorts. She remembered Joanne’s phone conversation with the escort girl. A hundred and fifty quid an hour. It seemed so respectable, so above-board. They met in hotels and the men paid by credit card, for God’s sake. There was a world of difference between that and the poor wretches she’d seen working Minshull Street in all weathers.
She tried to turn her mobile on but remembered the battery had died days ago. Searching in her purse, she found just enough money for the payphone in the hall.
‘Hello. Joanne? It’s Fiona Wilson here. I came to see you just over a week ago...’
‘Yes, I remember. What can I do for you, Fiona?’
She took a deep breath to quell the tremors in her throat.
‘Well, when I saw you, you mentioned that when I’d sorted myself out . . .’
‘I did. And have you? Is the bruising on your face gone?’
‘Yes,’ Fiona whispered, fingers touching the cut on her forehead.
‘How about your wardrobe?’
‘I’ve been home and collected all my clothes.’
‘So you’re in your own place now?’
‘Yes.’
Silence for a second. ‘Then I’d like you to come and see me.’
Fiona said nothing.
‘Fiona? Are you still there?’
‘Yes.’
She heard Joanne light a cigarette. ‘Fiona, the girls who work for me have made a rational choice to do so. They’re paying their way through nursing college, saving the fees for law school, getting together a deposit for a house. It’s not a permanent job, it’s a stepping stone to something better. They are in control at all times and they most certainly are not whores.’
She arrived just before lunch, having made herself up and put on a simple black dress that suited casual or more formal occasions.
Joanne opened the door and smiled. 'Well, that's some change from the lady I saw two weeks ago.'
Fiona smiled back, trying to look confident and relaxed.
'Don't worry,' Joanne said, showing her inside. 'A lot of men find a touch of nerves very attractive.'
Chapter 26
The enquiry room was hot with bodies. Much longer like this and the condensation will start dripping from the ceiling, Jon thought as he opened a window.
The hum of voices started to die down as McCloughlin’s door opened. He stepped out, followed by a thin man with long strands of greying hair swept across his head. Perched on his nose was a pair of rimless glasses that gave a clear view of his feminine eyelashes. Dr Neville Heath. Jon thought back to last summer and
concluded that he should have stuck with the black frames he’d had then. After the two men had passed his desk he whispered to Rick, ‘Thought it wouldn’t be long before this guy got involved.’
Rick swivelled in his seat to regard McCloughlin and his companion, who took up position side by side at the top of the room. McCloughlin glared at the last two officers still speaking. Their conversation withered under his gaze.
‘Right, people, as you all know, Gordon Dean’s body was discovered yesterday. However, there is nothing to prove he killed any of our three victims, so this investigation is very much ongoing.’ He waved the murmurs down. ‘In fact, I want you to assume Gordon Dean wasn’t the killer. Which means we have to redouble our efforts until we find out who is. To this end, I’d like to introduce Dr Neville Heath. He’s a criminal psychologist and has been lecturing at Manchester University since some of you were in primary school. Dr Heath has been over all the information we’ve gathered so far. He isn’t aware of any suspects we’re pursuing – alive or dead – so whatever profiles he produces are not biased by our own suspicions. I think you’ll agree he has some interesting thoughts to share.’
Jon’s eyes turned to the doctor. If you’ve been lecturing for so long, he wondered, how can talking to us lot make you look so uncomfortable? This isn’t the sort of case for someone with a nervous disposition.
‘Hello,’ the doctor said, looking down at his notes, failing to make eye contact.
The room remained silent.
Dr Heath glanced anxiously at McCloughlin. ‘Actually, I haven’t produced any profiles quite yet. More a number of observations that could be helpful.’
McCloughlin nodded politely, his expression saying: get on with it.
Registering the look, Dr Heath turned to the room. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘The first thing I’d normally do in a case where more than one crime is being carried out by a person is map the locations where the attacks have occurred and draw a circle round them. It’s been frequently found that the criminal lives within that circle, often towards its centre. That’s because criminals – especially burglars, rapists and murderers – usually start offending in their own neighbourhood, where they’re familiar with their surroundings, before moving further afield as their confidence grows.’
