by Chris Simms
A car passed on the road. As the noise of its engine died away he heard a metallic clink. It was exactly the same sound as when the consultant at Stepping Hill hospital had dropped the long-bladed scalpel in the kidney tray. ‘Oh, sweet Jesus. Rick, we can’t wait. He’s going to start skinning her.’
‘You can’t go in! We’ve got to wait.’
Jon got to his feet and went to the front door. It was made of solid-looking wood with two panels of stained glass running down it. He pressed the bell and heard it ring deep inside the house.
He counted to thirty, then pressed the bell again and kept his finger on it. Eventually he saw movement behind the glass. There was a rattling of a chain and the door opened a few inches. The instant O’Connor saw Jon outside he tried to slam the door shut.
Jon crashed his shoulder against it, just managing to prevent it clicking back on to the latch. The doctor pushed from the other side and for a few moments they were cheek to cheek, just the layer of wood separating them. Jon felt his strength begin to show and the door started inching inwards.
Abruptly the resistance disappeared and the doctor fled down the corridor, surgical gown flapping behind him.
Jon took a step back and kicked the door open, part of the security chain spinning across the hallway tiles.
He raced down the long corridor and into the kitchen. The doctor’s briefcase lay partly open on the floor, files spilling out of it. Jon looked around. The door leading down to the cellar was in the opposite corner and it was slightly ajar.
He heard a voice behind him. ‘Where is he?’
‘Down there.’ Jon pointed to the door and then whirled round. Against one wall stood a Welsh dresser and next to it was a wicker basket containing walking sticks and umbrellas. Jon grabbed a thick walking stick with a V-shaped split at the top and approached the cellar door.
He pushed it fully open with the end of the stick and looked down. A flight of bare wooden stairs led to a concrete floor. He started downwards, holding the stick before him. A shudder caught his shoulders and then snaked down his back as the air grew noticeably cooler. The cellar’s central area was lit by a single bulb and three plywood doors led off from it, light shining from beneath two of them.
Jon stood listening.
To his side, an ancient-looking boiler came to life, a line of blue flames flaring behind a soot-speckled panel of glass. The row of pipes fastened to the bare brick wall above it started to creak and tick.
‘Doctor O’Connor, there’s no means of escape down here. Come out now.’
No reply.
Jon stepped up to the door for the unlit room and kicked it open. A dark and narrow space was beyond, the floor knee deep in coal.
He kicked open the next door. A larger room, lit by another single bulb which revealed stacks of medical journals, a pristine mountain bike, some folded-up deckchairs. At the back was a pile of clothes and women’s shoes.
He turned to Rick and pointed at the last door. Rick shook his head furiously and mouthed, ‘Wait.’
The flames of the boiler went out and, as the cellar became silent again, they could hear a faint, wet hissing sound as if someone was blowing a thin stream of air through their teeth. They looked questioningly at each other, then Jon bowed his head and listened.
As he did so, a trickle of blood began to creep out from under the door. He jumped backwards, lowered his shoulder and charged. The door splintered off its hinges and he nearly fell into the room beyond. A cluster of halogen lights shone down, adding a glare to bright white walls that were spattered with dry blood. In the centre of the room was a concrete block, topped with a layer of what appeared to be marble. Stretched out on it was the woman, still partly wrapped in the sheet. Jon could see that she was still fully clothed.
The hissing was coming from the side of the room and Jon turned his head.
O’Connor was sitting with his back against the wall. His hands were slick and red and he was clumsily trying to pick up a scalpel caught in the blood-filled folds of his surgical gown. Blood spurted from his neck, each little jet hissing like a snake as it erupted into the air.
Rick came in. ‘Oh my God, we need...we need cloth. Something to stem the bleeding.’ He grabbed the corner of the sheet wrapping the woman and tried to tear it.
O’Connor at last got a grip on the scalpel with his right hand. He turned his left wrist upwards and moved the tip of the blade towards it. Jon lifted the walking stick and brought the V of it down on to the doctor’s right hand, pinning it in the puddle spreading out beneath his legs.
He told Rick, ‘Leave it. The woman’s our priority. Has she got a pulse?’
With shaking hands, Rick felt her neck. ‘She’s alive.’
‘Then get upstairs and find out where the paramedics are. Now!’
Rick’s mouth opened and shut. He pulled his mobile phone out and hurried back up the stairs. Jon looked around. Next to the woman was a small trolley. In a stainless steel tray on top of it were two syringes and a pair of latex gloves. Medical instruments lined the back wall. More scalpels, blades becoming ever more thin and cruel. Next to them were saws, clamps, retractors, hammers, chisels. A drill with a shiny silver bit. His eyes were caught by a test tube filled with what appeared to be human teeth.
He felt the walking stick shift and he looked down. The doctor was feebly trying to lift his scalpel hand.
Jon leaned on the stick. ‘You’re not taking the easy way out. Not before you tell me why.’
The doctor slumped back against the wall and raised his eyes. Even under the harsh lights their shine was fading, and Jon knew he hadn’t long left. The little jets coming from his throat were getting smaller, weaker.
‘Why?’ Jon repeated. ‘Why did you do it?’
O’Connor’s eyes swivelled to Jon’s hands and his voice sounded like wind in a cave. ‘Enjoyable, isn’t it?’
‘What?’ Jon demanded.
‘Playing God, controlling whether I live or die.’
Jon looked at his knuckles, saw they were white with the pressure he was exerting on the end of the stick. He took his weight off. ‘I’m not like you, Doctor.’
O’Connor’s lips stretched in a faint smile as his head sagged forward and his eyes slowly shut. The blood now just trickled from his throat.
Jon knocked the scalpel from O’Connor’s hand and rammed the V of the stick against the man’s forehead, cracking his head against the white plaster. ‘Why? Tell me why!’
The tiniest slit opened between the doctor’s eyelids and a faint whisper emerged from his bloodless lips. ‘We’re just the same underneath.’
Violently Jon shook his head. ‘No. No, we’re not. Tell me . . .’ His words faded to a whisper. The doctor had gone.
Jon stepped away from the pool of blood which was moving slowly across the floor like a living thing, easing itself into the gutter that ran around the table, dripping through the slats of the rusty drain.
He lifted the woman clear of the cold stone and carried her out of that terrible room with its cloying aroma of blood, both fresh and old.
Up in the kitchen he laid her on the table, lowering her head gently to the oak surface, tilting it back to make sure her airways were clear. He could hear Rick talking on the phone out on the front step. He sat down at the table, as if starting a vigil at the woman’s side.
The doctor’s briefcase and files still lay on the floor. Jon’s eyes settled on the uppermost folder and the name written on its front: ‘Alex/Alexia Donley’.
Alexia. The name of the prostitute Fiona Wilson was so desperate to find. He picked the file up and opened it.
A patient profile, Polaroid photo of a man in the upper right-hand corner. He was staring at the camera, self-conscious in its uncompromising gaze.
Alex Donley
Age: 34
Initial assessment: 3 /3 /01
Patient background: Alex came to me in a state of considerable agitation. In the last few years he has come to believe that he
is a transsexual and has been seeking a gender reassignment through the NHS. His GP ‘reluctantly’ (to use Alex’s word) referred him to the gender identity clinic at Charing Cross hospital. After fully assessing him, a consultant psychiatrist there judged that Alex wasn’t a genuine transsexual. Alex scathingly told me that the consultant thought Alex is interested in becoming a woman because he believes it will resolve the violent outbursts to which he is susceptible. I questioned Alex more closely on this and he expressed his opinion that, once his testes have been removed and oestrogen prescribed, his masculine traits (which he sees purely in the form of aggression) will be replaced by feminine traits (which he sees purely in terms of compassion). Despite this obviously simplistic belief, Alex presents a rare and challenging case.
Jon heard footsteps in the hallway. He looked up to see Rick and a couple of armed officers trooping towards him.
‘Where is he?’ the one in front asked.
Jon nodded towards the cellar door. ‘Down there, but you needn’t worry, he’s dead. It’s a crime scene now, so best keep out.’ He turned back to the file on his lap, the voices around him fading away.
I explained to Alex that I do not have the expertise or facilities to perform a vaginoplasty – recommending that he pay privately for the operation in Holland. Despite this, he was keen for me to perform facial surgery in order to feminise his features. We agreed that he should start a course of hormone therapy in order to develop breasts, redistribute fat around his hips and thighs, soften his body and facial hair and lift the pitch of his voice.
In terms of facial reconstruction we agreed on the following areas:
Octoplasty (to reduce the protrusion of his ears) Rhinoplasty (to create a thinner nose)
Thyroid chondroplasty (to reduce the prominence of his Adam’s apple)
Mandibular osteotomy (to reduce the squareness of his jawbone) Dermal implants to cheeks, chin and lips (to round out his face) Laser hair removal (back of neck, chest, nipples, underarms, forearms and hands)
Breast augmentation (C cup)
Alex appreciates that the treatment is on an unofficial basis and that the prices I charge reflect that. He has stated that he will pay for the procedures on a stage-by-stage basis as the necessary funds become available to him.
A hand shook Jon’s shoulder and he looked up at the officer who’d spoken earlier.
‘I said, how is she? What’s he done to her?’
‘Sedated her somehow.’ Jon held a finger to her neck. ‘Her pulse and breathing are regular. Where are the bloody paramedics?’
‘On their way.’
Cursing, Jon returned to the file and flipped the page. A photo of Alex with bandaging around his ears, cheeks swollen and red.
16.7.01 Octoplasty and cheek implants. Paid cash.
On the next page Alex was pouting at the camera, make-up and mascara on. 23.3.02. Breast augmentation, lip enlargement and laser hair removal. Paid cash.
On the next he was wearing a wavy red wig. 5.12.02 Chin implant. Jon realised he was looking at the woman from the garage forecourt CCTV footage.
His mind started ticking. The false eyelash in the boot of Gordon Dean’s car. The last withdrawal on his credit card from a cashpoint that wasn’t overlooked by CCTV cameras. Gordon Dean’s car turning right as it left the garage forecourt, heading towards the Platinum Inn.
The pieces were coming together.
Alex Donley had killed Gordon Dean in that hotel room and put his body in the boot of the car. Then he’d driven to the Manchester Ship Canal and rolled the corpse in. After that, he’d cleaned out Dean’s credit-card account and left the car at Piccadilly station to create a false trail.
Fiona Wilson had indeed heard a prostitute and a punter in the next room – but the person choked to death wasn’t Alexia, it was Gordon Dean.
Jon turned the page and felt his scalp contract. There it was.
3.3.03 – the day after Gordon Dean had disappeared. Rhinoplasty and mandibular osteotomy. Paid cash. Alex Donley had funded the procedure with the money he’d taken from Gordon Dean’s bank account the night before.
Rick sat down next to him. ‘Just spoke to McCloughlin. He’s on his way, though it nearly choked him to say it.’
Jon reached for his mobile, then realised he’d left it in the incident room. ‘Give us your phone a second.’
Rick flinched at his abrupt tone but handed it over.
‘Keep a check on her breathing,’ Jon said, whipping out the notebook from his jacket. He flicked through to Fiona’s mobile and rang it. Answerphone. He cut it off and thought for a second. It was evening opening at the salon. By the time Alice answered, he was standing on the front steps, noting with relief that the night was now clear. ‘Ali, it’s me. Your friend Fiona, where did you say she is?’
‘She moved into a bedsit near Manchester City’s old ground.’
‘She still trying to find Alexia?’
Alice sighed. ‘She thought she had the other day. But it was a mix-up of names. Yeah, she’s out most nights I think.’
‘I need her address, Ali. Have you got it there?’
‘Jon, I’m with a customer. Can’t it wait?’
‘Alice, she’s in real danger. I need it right now.’
Jon heard her making apologies to her client. Movement as she left the room.
An ambulance pulled into the driveway. The driver cut the engine and Jon heard the rear doors being opened. A moment later two paramedics appeared.
‘Straight down the corridor into the kitchen,’ Jon told them. At the other end of the line he heard Alice call out, ‘Has someone moved Fiona’s address? It was in the back of the appointments book.’
A female voice just audible. ‘Oh, sorry, it’s by the till. I had to give it to someone trying to deliver her some flowers.’
Alice again. ‘You what? Who did you give it to?’
‘A woman. She had a bouquet for Fiona.’
‘When was this?’
‘Earlier today. Lunchtime.’
‘Jesus Christ, Zoe, that address was a secret. Jon?’ Her voice was louder now. ‘It’s Flat 2, 15 Ridley Place, Fallowfield. Can you get over there now? I think her husband may have tracked her down.’
He turned and shouted down the corridor, ‘Rick! I’ve got to go, that friend of Alice’s is in serious trouble.’
Rick strode towards him, astonishment on his face.
‘McCloughlin isn’t here yet.’
‘I know.’ Jon handed back the phone. ‘I’ll let you fill him in.’
Rick’s hand was still out, the phone resting on his upturned palm. ‘You’re not serious?’
But Jon was already jogging down the garden path, pulling the car keys from his pocket.
Chapter 34
Alex Donley paused at the front door of 15 Ridley Place. A huge bouquet of soaking flowers lay on the top step. The card read, Together for ever.
As he adjusted his wig and pulled the chiffon scarf up to hide the stitches running along his jaw, he noticed the door was slightly ajar.
With the tips of his varnished nails he pushed it open. The hallway was deserted. He could hear loud music upstairs. He looked at the doors in front of him and saw that number two was slightly open as well.
His heels clicked lightly as he stepped across the plastic tiles. Silence from Fiona’s flat. Carefully, he pulled the kitchen knife from his handbag and eased the door open.
Thick fingers grabbed him by the wrist and he was yanked into the wrecked room beyond. A big man, growling with fury, swung him against the wall. The tip of the knife struck a radiator and was knocked from his grip. Another hand locked on to his jaw.
Alex smelled whisky as the man looked him up and down before saying, ‘What sort of a fucking freak are you?’
He tried to escape the man’s disgusted stare by turning his head, but the man yanked his chin round. Sharp pain shot along his stitches.
‘I said, what sort of a fucking freak are you?’
‘Let me go.’
But the man’s grip on his face was steadily increasing. He felt the stitches starting to tear. Rage erupted in him like a geyser going off. He brought his hand up between the man’s legs, grabbed his scrotum and twisted as hard as he could. The hands clamped on his jaw and wrist instantly released. Alex’s free hand came up under the man’s chin, preventing him from doubling over. Their eyes met for an instant, then Alex crashed his forehead against the man’s nose. He dropped to the carpet as if taken out by a sniper.
Alex felt his face. His fingers came away covered in blood. The pain, the days spent in that bed, all for nothing. ‘You fuck!’ He stamped on the man’s face, high heel snapping off as it connected with his teeth. ‘You fuck, you fuck, you fuck!’ he screamed, bringing his foot down again and again and again.
As he turned away he spotted a hand mirror on the shelf. When he looked into it he saw that his wig was hanging off one side of his head, an eyelash was missing and a four-inch slit had opened up along his left jaw, blood streaming down into the folds of his scarf.
‘You piece of shit,’ he said to the prone form curled on the floor, aiming one last stamp at the man’s blood-filled ear.
He took out his mobile phone, waited until his breathing slowed down. ‘Dawn, she’s not here. Where else might she be? Didn’t you mention a sal—’
Dawn cut in. ‘She’s here.’
‘What, now?’
‘Yes. She’s asleep in one of the upstairs rooms. She turned up around half an hour ago and drank half a bottle of brandy straight down.’
‘What did you tell her? Did you tell her about me?’
‘No, I hardly said a word. She was going on about her husband finding her. Alex, what are you going to do?’
‘Don’t let her out.’ He kicked the bouquet into a bush and staggered down the steps.
Ten minutes later Jon slipped cautiously into Fiona Wilson’s flat and looked down. A large man with tight grey curls lay on the floor, face bruised and swollen, blood oozing from his nose, mouth and ears. Jon couldn’t tell if it was Jeff Wilson or not. Next to his head was the broken-off heel of a woman’s shoe.
