by Chris Simms
‘Yeah, by which time he’ll have destroyed any evidence in his house, had the inside of his van steam-cleaned, and thoroughly prepared his story.’ He took several deep breaths. ‘McCloughlin’s got it in for me and it’s tainting his judgement.’
Rick leaned against the wall. ‘Let’s just play it cool. There’s time yet.’
‘I need some air.’ Jon strode down the corridor and out through a side door into the car park.
The scent of cigarette smoke wafted over him and he looked around. A couple of uniforms were standing there, puffing away. Before his conscience could stop him, he stepped towards them.
‘Could I ponce a smoke off you?’
‘No problem. You look like you need one.’
He put the cigarette in his mouth, bent towards the lighter’s flame and drew the smoke deep into his lungs. Then he leaned back against the wall and shut his eyes. Six months without a cigarette. Bollocks to it all, he thought, breathing out and immediately taking another drag. His boss, the case, the prospect of fatherhood; everything was getting to him. He thought about having to let Pete Gray back out on to the street and exhaled smoke in disgust.
When Jon and Rick walked into the incident the room an hour later the place was full of excited faces. Glancing at the windows of McCloughlin’s little office, they saw it was jammed with senior officers. They headed over to the receiver’s desk.
‘Hear you dropped a bollock with a suspect,’ he said.
‘We’ll see,’ Jon replied, lips tight. ‘Why all the commotion?’
‘DI Gardener’s team found Tyler Young’s diary in her bedroom.’
‘Really?’ said Rick. ‘And what was in it?’
‘Quite a few names.’
‘Was there a Pete Gray mentioned?’ Jon demanded.
The receiver looked down at a sheet of paper. ‘I’m putting together a list at the moment, but no, I can’t see him.’
‘How about Gordon Dean?’ Rick’s voice was full of hope.
‘No, we’ve looked for him already. Have a word with Sergeant
Evans – he’s ready to give out the first actions now.’
Jon and Rick drifted across to the allocator’s desk, where a few members from the team tracing Angela Rowlands’ contacts from the dating agency were already waiting.
‘Tracked them all down, then?’ Rick asked one of them.
‘No. McCloughlin’s given the Tyler Young leads priority.’ Jon glared out of the window, noting that the day’s brightness had died. While they’d been in the cells a layer of grey had silently closed in over the city. In the distance he could see dark ribbons of fine drizzle drifting down. The cooler air that crept through the window had a musty smell, like that of a dank cellar.
Behind him the allocator announced, ‘OK, you lot, come and get an action.’
Rick joined Jon a few seconds later, a piece of paper in his hand. He read it through and then looked up, bewilderment on his face.
‘What is it?’ asked Jon, turning away as the first droplets began hitting the glass and burrowing their way downwards.
‘We’re being sent to the Beauty Centre. Tyler Young had made enquiries with Dr O’Connor about lip implants. Then he told her he could do breast implants, too. Quoted her an amazingly low price if she could pay cash.’
Chapter 31
‘I’m sure I could help with that,’ Dr O’Connor said. ‘Why don’t you come in and see me?’ He paused, a pencil balanced in his fingers. ‘Tomorrow afternoon is good for me, too. I have a slot at three thirty... OK, that’s grand. And the name was?...Fiona. Fiona Wilson.’ He wrote it in his appointments book. ‘See you tomorrow, Fiona.’
After replacing the phone, he pressed a button at the top of the unit and looked at the woman on the opposite side of his desk. ‘Sorry about that. I’ve turned the thing off. Now, where were we?’
She crossed her legs. ‘I was saying that I haven’t discussed this with anyone.’
‘I usually advise all my patients to seek the opinions of family or friends before embarking on any procedure,’ O’Connor replied.
She shook her head. ‘I want it to be a surprise, that’s the whole point. I’m telling everyone that I’m going on holiday, then I’ll turn up as the new me.’
‘You haven’t even let your partner know of your plans?’
‘I’m single,’ she replied. Moisture glistened in her eyes, but she blinked back the tear and sat up straight in her seat.
Yes, O’Connor thought. You’ve been through a traumatic experience, in all likelihood created partly by a fundamental flaw in your character. Perhaps you were too jealous. Maybe insecure. Probably just plain dull. And now, rather than address the real reasons for why things went wrong, you’re going to reinvent yourself by taking out a bank loan and paying for a few cosmetic procedures. Probably treat yourself to a new hairstyle, too. And that’s it, the new you will carry on exactly as before because you really haven’t changed a thing.
He shifted slightly in his seat, the ache in his bad knee bothering him as usual. He looked down at the patient form on the desk, and moved straight to the last section. ‘Could I ask how you heard about the Beauty Centre? Were you recommended by word of mouth or did you see an advertisement?’
‘I saw your advertisement in the ‘Health and Beauty’ section of the local paper. When I realised you were near my office, I thought I’d pop in.’
O’Connor nodded.
‘So does this mean you’ll treat me?’ she said, as he began filling in the form.
‘Well, let’s start by assessing you. Which parts of your face are you unhappy with?’
She raised her chin and looked at him. ‘My eyes are sagging, especially the skin below them. And I’m developing these lines above my upper lip. My throat bothers me, too. The skin there needs tightening.’
O’Connor gazed at the face of a perfectly normal forty-fiveyear-old. Apart from the slight bagging off the skin below her eyes, which could be easily rectified with a blepharoplasty, she didn’t need any treatment. Apart from reasons of pure vanity, at least. ‘Well, I can certainly perform a couple of procedures to address those issues—’
‘And my skin in general,’ she interrupted, warming to her theme. ‘It just looks tired, no matter how much I exfoliate and moisturise. I noticed on the stairs that you offer those lasers. How do they work?’
Her bleating had started to aggravate him, and keeping the pleasant lilt in his voice was becoming more of an effort. ‘Just out of interest, how much do you spend on moisturisers?’
‘Well, I use a Clarins programme. Let’s say it’s not cheap.’
‘Anti-wrinkling properties in the treatments?’
‘Of course.’
He nodded. ‘I can save you that money. After all, why use anti-wrinkle treatments when you have no wrinkles to treat?’
She gasped. ‘I’d never thought of it like that!’
Smiling, O’Connor swivelled the lamp on his desk so it shone directly at her face. He scrutinised her for a few seconds then said, ‘Well, we offer Cool Touch laser. It works by stimulating cells to produce natural collagen, the supporting framework beneath your skin. That would take about twenty minutes. The pinkness fades very quickly and you could be back at your desk within an hour. You really haven’t mentioned your visit to any of your colleagues?’
Smiling, she shook her head. ‘I can’t wait to see them when
I walk back in.’
‘But in your case I think we should opt for what used to be crudely known as a skin-peel. It’s actually called laser skin resurfacing and I would admit you as a day case in order to perform it. Your skin will feel tender for about a week, but the results last much longer. You could forget about your monthly expenditure on Clarins – I’d prescribe you a moisturiser that’s far less expensive.’
‘That sounds better to me. And will it sort out these marks?’ She held a finger to her forehead.
He leaned forward. ‘Are they old acne scars?’
‘Yes. They’ve bugged me ever since I was a teenager.’ He sat back. ‘Everything would be removed.’
Eagerly, she probed her upper lip. ‘What about these awful grooves that are appearing?’
Would she ever shut up? ‘Well, we could eliminate those with filler. I favour Dermaleve. It involves a few injections, and the whole procedure would take half an hour. There’s really very little impact on your time. If you like, I’ll show you the treatment room. Then I can conduct a proper assessment prior to arranging a convenient date for your treatment.’
‘Yes, I’d like that.’
He got up, straightened his stiff knee and limped round the desk. ‘OK, this is where it all happens.’ He unlocked the door to the treatment room. On the far side was an adjustable bed, a large roll of blue paper mounted behind it. By its side was what appeared to be a small printer or photocopier. Grey plastic and a few buttons on the top. Cupboards lined two of the walls, and a small sink was in one corner. Next to that were several cupboards with all their doors closed. O’Connor hobbled across the shiny floor to the grey plastic machine. ‘Cool Touch laser.’
She had sidled across to a poster of a smiling woman with immaculate skin. ‘Doctor, you mentioned that you could do my upper lip in twenty minutes and I could go straight back to work.’
Nurse Palmer wasn’t due in until the next day. Their privacy was assured. No one knew she was here. O’Connor saw the opportunity presenting itself. ‘Yes. There would be a bit of pinkness and a slight numbness from the anaesthetic. I suppose if we perform the procedure now, we could fill out the rest of the form while your skin settles down.’
‘How much would it cost?’
He waved a hand. ‘Seventy-five pounds. But I’d only charge you once all your procedures had been successfully completed.’
‘Oh,’ she smiled. ‘In that case, could you do it for me now?’ God, will your incessant whining never stop? He imagined how her voice box would look when the skin covering it had been stripped away. He pulled the roll of blue paper until a length of it covered the treatment bed. ‘Hop up.’
She removed her coat, climbed up and sat back. ‘Will it hurt? Needles really bother me.’
O’Connor flicked on the examination light hanging down from the ceiling. Then he turned on a tape recorder. As the sound of soothing pan pipes filled the room, he unlocked a cupboard. It was filled with bottles and boxes. He took out a pre-prepared syringe, the needle only centimetres long. Inside was a clear, gel-like substance. ‘Here it is, five millilitres of Dermaleve. And no, you won’t feel a thing. I’ll apply some anaesthetic cream first.’
‘That’s a relief.’ She sat back.
He moved out of her line of vision then took an empty syringe from the cupboard. Next he removed a tiny vial of Propofol from the shelf, washed his hands in the sink and dried them. After smearing her upper lip with cream he said, ‘OK, I’ll get everything ready back here while that takes effect. You just relax.’
He pulled on a pair of size eight latex gloves, picked up the syringe and sucked the Propofol into it. He placed it in a stainless-steel kidney tray, put that on a small trolley and wheeled it over. Sitting down on a stool by the top of the treatment bed, he leaned forward. ‘How does that feel?’
‘I don’t think it’s . . .’ she mumbled. ‘Oh, my mouth won’t work properly.’ She tried to smile, but her upper lip wouldn’t respond.
‘Perfect. Now close your eyes and lift your chin up slightly.’ Visualising what was beneath her skin, he traced the facial vein as it crossed the submandibular salivary gland and branched off beneath the skin of her upper lip. He slid the needle in and injected half the Propofol directly into it. He knew the anaesthetic would render his patient immobile in seconds.
Calmly, he returned the syringe to the tray and walked back over to the cupboards. ‘How does that feel?’
She didn’t reply. He returned to the treatment table and looked at her. Her eyes were fixed open and he lifted a hand to shield them from the harsh light above. Gradually her pupils widened a fraction. ‘Good, you can hear me but you can’t move.’ He sat back on the stool and, keeping the soothing, doctorly, tone in his voice, took her hand. ‘I want you to know that I despise you.’
Flecks of panic flew from her irises, though her breathing stayed steady and slow.
Needing time to quell the bile in his throat, he listened to the music for a few seconds. ‘Don’t worry, my skills are far superior to injecting bloody filler.’ Angrily, he looked around the treatment room, then began breathing deeply. When he spoke again, his voice had a melancholy note. ‘Not here. We’re going to a place where I won’t have to hurry. Mine is a delicate art, one that we don’t want to rush.’
He lifted the half-full syringe, turned her head slightly to the side and injected the remaining Propofol directly into her external jugular vein. Her eyelids slowly lowered and she slipped from consciousness.
Chapter 32
‘I’m afraid she wasn’t in, Alex,’ Dawn said miserably, taking off her soaking wet coat and laying the cash on the end of the bed.
He dropped the mirror on the bedsheet and started to sob.
‘Oh God, look at me. I’m vile, absolutely vile.’
‘You’re not,’ Dawn insisted, trying to take his hand. ‘You’re beautiful.’
She peered at him, always slightly amazed at how different the person she had fallen in love with now looked. When they’d met in Boots his blond hair had been long and swept back from a face which, although unmistakably masculine, had a curious delicacy. She sometimes thought that maybe there’d been a woman in there all along.
Gradually his appearance had then altered. Superficial changes like the removal of his hair were immediate. A simple laser treatment and female hormones saw to that. Then came the operations. His angular cheeks were smoothed over and filled out, his chin reduced and rounded off, his lips enlarged. Now his square jaw was gone and his nose had been turned into something dainty and petite.
When his breasts were inserted last year the switch in genders became startlingly real. But still he refused to let her call him
‘she’. Only once they’d been to Amsterdam for his vaginoplasty. Then he’d be a real woman.
He picked the mirror up again and started to probe his Adam’s apple. ‘I need the tracheal reduction to get rid of this.’
‘You can, Alex. You just have to be patient. You’ve come so far.’ She reached out and embraced him, running her fingers through his short hair until he calmed down.
She’d never seen him like this before. However difficult things had got for them in the past, it had only made her more determined to stick with him. This rage was something new. The way he’d started shouting at her. It reminded her of previous relationships. Ones that had ended in her being beaten up and eventually having to flee.
Gently she said, ‘That woman I told you about. Fiona. She called in at the motel again. She thinks the name of the girl she heard being attacked in the motel was Alexia. She’s searching everywhere for her, trying to find out if she’s OK. She won’t give up. It’s like an obsession.’
He raised his head to look at her. A muscle had gone into spasm at the corner of his mouth and he looked like he was repeatedly attempting a particularly miserable smile. ‘What do you mean, searching everywhere for her?’
Dawn shivered. ‘She lost a daughter years ago and now this Alexia is part of that guilt. It’s like she believes that if she can find her and make sure she’s safe, her own life can move on. So she’s up and down Minshull Street talking to all the girls. Someone said she’d find her in Crimson, so she’s been going there, too.’
‘And she’s been talking to a policeman about it?’
‘Yes, the one I saw at Doctor O’Connor’s surgery. Alex, do you know what this is about? That night in the motel—’
He slammed the mirror down on the bedside table, cracking the glass. ‘Give me her address.’
‘Why?’
He sat
on the edge of the bed, knees sticking out from under the hem of his nightie. ‘Gordon Dean was a pervert.’
Dawn stared at him in silence.
‘He wanted to tie me to that bed, wanted to perform his sick fantasies on me.’ He glanced at her. ‘He wanted to humiliate me.’
Dawn’s hand went up to her mouth. ‘What are you saying?’
‘God knows, he’d have tried to kill me if I’d let him bind my hands. But I asked to tie him up first. He liked that. He was the same as the others, not interested in me as a woman. Just interested in me as a freak.’ His hand went to his groin and he grabbed his penis through his nightie. ‘If this was gone, he wouldn’t have been interested. Yes, I killed him and took his money.’
Dawn turned slowly to look at the fifty-pound notes on the bed. ‘You killed him?’
‘Dawn, we’re so close to getting out.’ He held his hand up.
‘It’s within reach. You and me, living together in Amsterdam. No fear of persecution. We’ll be so happy together. But this Fiona’s determined to ruin it for us. I need her address. What is it?’
‘What will you do?’
‘Just talk to her. Explain that I’m Alexia. Show her that I’m all right and ask her to leave us alone.’
He got up and pulled a purple tracksuit on over the nightie.
‘Her address, Dawn. Give it to me please.’
Dawn was hunched over, gently rocking herself back and forth. ‘You killed him?’
He regarded her for a second, then turned to the mirror and starting applying make-up, vainly trying to mask the bruising around his nose and below his eyes. After that he put the wig on, teasing strands of hair forwards so they hung over his eyes. Next he took a chiffon scarf and wrapped it round his neck, fluffing the folds of material up so his jaw was hidden. ‘The address, Dawn.’
The room was silent.
He put on a pair of high heels, then turned round. Her handbag was on the bed. His footsteps were loud as he stepped across and picked it up. Her address book was in there and he began flicking through the pages. There weren’t many entries.
