Shifting Skin

by Chris Simms

  Gray shifted back and glanced over his shoulder into the house. ‘Er, can you call later?’

  ‘It really won’t take long.’

  Gray rubbed his unshaven jaw with the knuckles of one hand.

  ‘It’s not a good time.’

  ‘As I said, we’ll be out of your hair in two ticks.’ Jon placed a hand against the door frame.

  He glanced at it. ‘Are you arresting me?’

  ‘Why would we do that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ His eyes shifted to Jon’s hand for a second time. ‘OK, come through to the kitchen.’

  The kitchen was at the end of a short corridor directly ahead. Before that were two doors, one on each side. Jon knew the one on the right led into the TV room, its shelves stacked with books. Pete Gray pulled the one to his left shut as he walked down the corridor.

  Jon pointed to the closed door. Then he stepped into the house and walked into the TV room on the right.

  Gray whirled round. ‘Hey! The kitchen’s down here.’

  Jon was in the centre of the room, looking at the bookshelves.

  ‘Sorry?’

  Gray walked angrily into the room. ‘You heard me. The kitchen, it’s down—’

  He heard the door across the corridor being opened and realised he was caught in between the two men.

  Jon read out some of book titles. ‘The Anatomical Drawings of Leonardo da Vinci. Andreas Vesalius: The Work of a Master. Clinical Anatomy for Medical Students, Richard S. Snell. Gray’s Anatomy. What a strange collection. What would you want with books like these?’ He took Gray’s Anatomy off the shelf.

  ‘What? Put that down.’ He looked towards the other room.

  ‘Get out of that fucking room. This is illegal!’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but you invited us in.’

  ‘Jon, in here.’ Rick’s voice was thick with suppressed emotion.

  Jon kept his eyes on Pete Gray. The man was highly agitated, but there was still red in his cheeks. Jon knew if he was about to fight or run his face would be white, the blood rushing into his arms and legs. ‘After you, sir.’ Jon extended a hand towards the corridor.

  They went into the other room. Rick had a folder open on the dining-room table and was spreading out colour photos.

  What struck Jon at first was the redness of the bodies; torsos completely stripped of their flesh, skull-like faces with eyeballs exposed, lips missing and teeth bared to the world.

  Chapter 29

  Dawn Poole paused before the bedroom door, took a slight breath in and pushed it open.

  The patient was sitting up in bed staring across the room. Rows of stitches along the jaw were merging with a light covering of stubble. The nose was still swollen from where Dr O’Connor had broken it, shaved down the bone, then reset it. Bruising lay heavy beneath the eyes. ‘Did you get them?’

  Dawn shook her head. ‘I couldn’t. That policeman was there, the one who came asking questions at the Platinum Inn.’ She realised that she was still in the doorway, nervousness rooting her to the spot. ‘He saw me and I had to walk off. What’s going on? Why was he there?’

  But her questions hadn’t been heard. The top of the sheet was being twisted in a knot, red fingernails digging deep into the folds of material. ‘I need fucking Androtone. Look at me! The hair’s coming back. I’m disgusting.’

  Meekly, Dawn stepped forwards. ‘You’ve been in bandages for days. When I had my leg in plaster for a while it was covered in hair when the cast came off.’

  ‘Your leg, not your face! Jesus!’ The patient looked wildly around, scratching at the spiky hair on his head. ‘My bust’s shrinking, too. He can’t deny me my tablets. I must have Progesterone!’

  ‘They’re not shrinking darling,’ said Dawn, looking at the swelling under his nightgown.

  ‘You’re lying! In there.’ A hand flapped towards the chest of drawers. ‘Second drawer down.’

  ‘Alex, you’re scaring me.’

  His eyes met hers. ‘Listen, it’s not my fault. It’s the testosterone. It’s flooding me like poison.’ Wretchedly, he clutched a hand between his legs. ‘Oh God, the sooner we go to Holland and I get the full operation...Now, please, the drawer?’

  Dawn took a few more tentative steps into the room, increasingly alarmed at the aggressive way he was ordering her around. It had never happened before. At the start of their relationship she’d found things awkward, not knowing if they were stumbling towards something that would involve sex. Then, one night, he had gently resisted her hesitant advance, telling her that, although he loved her, it was as a soulmate. More than friends, but not quite lovers.

  She was just glad to know one way or another, and actually quite relieved they could continue together as companions without the confusion. As the trust between them grew, he’d begun to describe his dream of being more than a transvestite, of becoming an actual woman.

  She’d been shocked and worried. Was the operation dangerous? Would he want to leave her once the transformation was complete? But she soon realised that, in many ways, he needed her more. As a physical carer after each painful stage of surgery and as an emotional carer as he struggled with feelings of selfdoubt and despair.

  Cost was the hardest part. He’d never had more than the most basic jobs, same for her. She’d reacted with horror to his suggestion that he go on the game. But he told her that he’d done it before. He’d worked as a rent boy for spells during his teens and early twenties. He knew there was a thriving market for transvestites and pre-op transsexuals. Knowing his happiness depended on changing sex, she eventually accepted the idea.

  The first night he went out in full drag she’d been terrified for his safety. But he reappeared the next morning with hundreds of pounds. Within a few more nights he’d earned enough money to pay Dr O’Connor for his cheek implants. So the process began. Alex selling himself to pay for the next stage of surgery, lying in bed being cared for by her as his wounds healed, then going back on the game to finance his next visit to O’Connor.

  Of course, there were times when he was angry, hurt by punters’ scathing remarks or cheated out of payment after servicing their needs. Her mind jumped to the night Fiona had thought she heard someone being killed. ‘Alex, the night before Dr O’Connor operated on your nose and jaw, you were working, remember? You brought a punter back to the motel in the early hours. Did you end up in room nine?’

  ‘Second drawer down!’ A sudden falsetto scream.

  She flinched, then hurried across to the chest of drawers. On top of it was a mannequin’s head, covered by a chestnut-brown wig shot through with strands of red. Dawn opened the drawer and gaped at the pile of cash inside. ‘Where did all this come from?’

  ‘Take two hundred. Get over to Annabella’s. Tell her I need a fortnight’s worth of Androtone, two hundred and fifty mg a day. And Progesterone, five-mg pills, all she’s got. Now go!’

  Dawn peeled off four fifty-pound notes and almost ran from the room.

  The patient sat back, arms over the covers, palms upwards. After a few seconds the robin flew in. It perched on the end of the bed, peered at him, then flew halfway up and landed by his hand. He watched it impassively until it alighted on his palm. Then his fingers clamped inwards, crushing it to death.

  Chapter 30

  ‘You’ve done what!’ McCloughlin exploded.

  Jon kept his voice calm. ‘Sir, he tried to run. We had no choice.’

  McCloughlin looked at Rick for confirmation.

  ‘It’s true, sir. He saw me with this lot and went for the door.’

  ‘At which point DI Spicer body-checked him so hard, he’s claiming that his shoulder’s dislocated.’ McCloughlin voice was brimming with contempt.

  ‘It’s not dislocated, sir. Believe me, he’d have been squealing a lot louder if it was,’ Jon answered.

  ‘Shit,’ said McCloughlin. He looked down at the clear plastic bag and the collection of images inside. ‘So what the bloody hell are these?’

  R
ick stepped forward. ‘It’s the work of a German anatomist called Gunther von Hagen, sir. He’s pioneered a process called plastination. Basically, he takes the corpses of people who’ve left their bodies for medical research, strips them of their flesh, dissects them to expose the internal organs, preserves the whole thing and puts them on display.’

  McCloughlin was shaking his head. ‘Yes, I remember there was a documentary on TV. I switched over after a few minutes.’ He stared at a photo of a corpse, its own skin draped over its outstretched arm. Another of a man holding a basketball in one claw, tensed and ready to leap, all his muscles exposed, mouth open in an eternal gasp for breath. ‘Where are these monstrosities put on show?’

  ‘He has an exhibition called Body Worlds. It travels all around the world. These images are from when it came to London earlier this year. Loads more are for sale on the web site, too.’

  McCloughlin pushed the images away. ‘So Pete Gray was there. OK, go and interview him. I’ll be watching.’

  Jon and Rick sat down opposite Gray. He stared back at them in silence as the Neal twin-deck tape recorder whirred away.

  ‘Strange hobby you have there. Collecting pictures of dead people, poring over anatomy textbooks. Why don’t you talk us through it?’ asked Jon.

  Gray shrugged. ‘You think I’m a ghoul.’

  Jon stared back at him, thinking, too bloody right you are.

  ‘If I were a medical student studying to be a doctor, you wouldn’t be looking at me like that. You’d be full of respect at my desire to learn how the human body functions.’

  ‘But you’re not.’

  ‘Why should that matter? Why should knowing about the secrets of our insides be confined to the medical establishment? Why should the Royal College of Surgeons deny people like me access to autopsies through their secretive Fellowships? We are all human, we’re all entitled to understand how our bodies work.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s fascinating. At least, I happen to find it fascinating. But, because I’m not a doctor, you think I’m a ghoul. If it helps you to understand, I wanted to be a surgeon when I was younger.’

  ‘You wanted to be a surgeon? Why? Did some relative of yours write that Gray’s Anatomy textbook?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was your father a surgeon?’

  ‘No. He was a printer.’

  ‘Was an uncle? A relative? A friend? You don’t just take a fancy to being a surgeon.’

  ‘I did. Leonardo da Vinci did, and he’s regarded as a genius.’ Delusions of grandeur, Jon thought. The trait of a psychopath. He placed the plastic bag of Body Worlds images on the table.

  ‘These pictures you had in your house. Why are you collecting images of corpses stripped of their skin?’

  ‘They show the true workings of the human body in all its glory.’

  ‘Like the corpses of Angela Rowlands, Carol Miller and Tyler Young show the true workings of the human body in all its glory?’

  Gray looked disgusted. ‘I’ve got nothing to do with them. Whoever did that is sick.’

  ‘Paying to see skinned people and collecting photos of them isn’t sick?’ Jon lifted the bag and let it fall with a slap on to the table.

  ‘Maybe you should be interviewing the other people who attended that exhibition, then. There were over eight hundred thousand of us.’

  He was too glib, too well rehearsed. Time to shake him up.

  ‘So when did you meet Angela Rowlands?’ Gray flinched. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, when did you meet Angela Rowlands? It’s a simple question.’

  ‘Did I?’

  Jon leaned forwards, aware that his next comment was about to leave him wide open with McCloughlin. But he was so close to nailing the bastard sitting opposite him, he didn’t give a shit.

  ‘How else did your sperm get inside her?’

  ‘How do you...?’ The sentence faded out.

  ‘You’ve got a fucking record, man!’ Jon shouted. He remembered McCloughlin was listening, and lowered his voice.

  ‘Kicking the crap out of your wife and then two other girlfriends, remember?’

  ‘But I never gave a DNA sample. I don’t understand.’

  Jon’s eyes flicked briefly to the mirror window at his side and he imagined McCloughlin’s face. ‘We know everything about you. Now, tell me what happened!’

  Gray’s shoulders collapsed. ‘It was at a singles’ night in town.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The Coach and Horses, near Piccadilly station.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We talked, I gave her my number. I didn’t think she’d call, but she did. Obviously didn’t take her young friend’s advice.’

  ‘That was her daughter.’

  Again Gray’s face showed complete surprise at Jon’s knowledge. When he proceeded, it was a lot more cautiously. ‘She rang me about a week later. We met, she came back to mine and we had sex.’

  ‘Just the one night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Any talking involved? Chat to her about your interest in human anatomy?’

  ‘No! Look, I know you think I killed her. And you think I saw Carol Miller, don’t you? I didn’t. We talked on the phone about that bloody rowing machine, but she didn’t ever come round to see it.’

  ‘On the night she disappeared she was off to see someone about something.’

  Gray started biting a thumbnail. ‘Listen. When you came asking about Carol Miller that time, I didn’t lie. I’ve never met her. But I had seen Angela Rowlands. I thought if I told you that, you’d haul me in. And sure enough, here I am.’

  Jon found himself scowling. The interview wasn’t going as he’d hoped. ‘How long before we find the link between you and Tyler Young? There are officers searching her home now. Will they find one of those cards you like to hand out at karaoke nights?’

  ‘You’ve been following me!’

  Jon ignored the remark. ‘When did you meet Tyler Young?’

  ‘How would I ever come into contact with a girl her age? Look at me.’ He glanced down at his paunch. ‘I’m a fat fortythree-year-old who does Elvis impressions.’ He looked up, and Jon was shocked to see a tear running down his cheek. ‘I’m a fucking hospital porter, for God’s sake. I’d have as much chance of pulling a girl like Tyler Young as I did with Angela Rowlands’ daughter.’

  ‘You tried it on with Lucy Rowlands?’ Jon asked emotionlessly.

  By now Gray was openly crying. ‘Yes, when her mum had gone to the toilet. She told me to fuck off.’

  Jon kept at him. ‘You’d have plenty of chance with Tyler

  Young if you were paying for it.’

  Gray hauled himself up in his seat. ‘I’ve never paid for it. Ever.’ Defiance rang in his voice.

  The silence stretched out until Rick nudged Jon and made a

  T shape with his hands.

  Reluctantly, Jon reached over to the tape machine. ‘OK, interview suspended at three fifty-two p.m.’ The tape clicked off and he got up.

  ‘Cup of tea?’ Rick asked gently.

  ‘Three sugars,’ Pete Gray replied, wiping the tears from his cheeks.

  Jon was halfway down the corridor when McCloughlin’s voice rang out behind him, ‘Have you been following that man?’

  Jon stopped. ‘I was in a pub one night, sir, and observed him making a pass at a woman.’

  McCloughlin gave a snort of disbelief. ‘What was that about finding his DNA in Angela Rowlands?’

  Jon bowed his head. ‘After speaking to him in the hospital canteen the first time, I had a test run on the cup he’d been drinking from. We got a match from that.’

  Fury made McCloughlin’s voice squeak. ‘Who the bloody hell do you think you are? I didn’t authorise it, you arrogant prick. You knew it went against regulations.’

  Jon turned.‘No one ever need know, sir. Now he’s under arrest, we’re entitled to take an evidential mouth swab from him. We’ll get our match from that.’
/>
  ‘He’s not under arrest – you’re to release him without charge immediately.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve badly jumped the gun on this one, Spicer. He hardly had the look of a guilty man to me.’

  ‘He’s had a sexual encounter with one victim, phone contact with another, and we haven’t even started looking into who the third victim was involved with.’

  ‘Pretty much the same could be said for over a dozen men Angela Rowlands met through her dating agency. We haven’t arrested any of them.’

  ‘I doubt they have photos of skinned corpses in their homes.’

  ‘So your little vendetta – which is what it looks like to me

  – should suddenly take precedence in this investigation?’

  ‘I’d say it’s a very promising lead.’

  ‘A very promising lead,’ McCloughlin sneered. ‘DI Spicer, with Tyler Young’s identification the incident room has turned into a fucking spaghetti machine. There are very promising leads oozing out all over the place. I’ve got three extra indexers and they still can’t enter the information into HOLMES fast enough.’

  Jon fought to suppress his rage.

  It must have shown on his face because McCloughlin paused to let out a dry laugh. ‘I’ll give you one thing, you’re a tenacious bastard, aren’t you? The only reason you found those photos is because you barged into his home without a search warrant. And the only reason you know he had sexual relations with Angela Rowlands is because you obtained a sample of his DNA in a manner that will be laughed out of court. Now, in keeping with PACE procedures, you can put his mouth swab in for DNA analysis. It can join the queue along with our many other suspects’.’

  ‘It could be days before we get a result.’

  ‘So be it. I’ve got plenty of other leads you can be following up in the meantime. Now, process him, let him go and then report upstairs. It’s time you fitted in with this investigation just like everybody else.’ He brushed past.

  As soon as the door to the stairway shut behind him, Jon spun round and slammed the heel of his hand against the nearest door.

  ‘Fuck!’

  Rick kept his distance. ‘Easy, Jon. He isn’t getting away – he’s just got a stay of execution before we haul him in again.’