by Chris Simms
‘Photographic evidence makes it more difficult for him to get away with it.’ She was staring intently into Fiona’s eyes.
‘I...I don’t know. What do you mean, “get away with it”?’
Hazel backed off. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t let it anger me like this. What I mean is, if there comes a time when you want to press charges or divorce him, it helps to have some kind of record. A written diary is good, but photos are far, far preferable. There’s no pressure for you to do anything now, except get better. But it helps if we can get some record while the injuries are still fresh.’
They stepped out of the room, Hazel gesturing to the many doors in the short corridor. ‘With the exception of the two family rooms and the old servant’s quarters up in the attic, all the bedrooms have been divided. It’s a bit like a mini-hotel, complete with my office just inside the front door. Shall we go down?’
‘Actually, do you mind if I make a quick call in private?’ Fiona said, glancing back into the empty room.
‘Certainly,’ Hazel replied. ‘But I must stress that this address has to remain a secret.’
Fiona nodded and then went into her room and closed the door. She lifted her mobile out of her handbag and switched it on. Before she’d even found the business card from Cheshire Consorts, her phone was beeping with answerphone messages.
She listened to the first, heard Jeff’s drunken threats, and deleted it. The next three were him again, angrier and more drunk, remorseful and pleading, then snarling and vicious. She deleted them, too. The last was from that morning, a colleague from the salon ringing to see if she was OK.
Noticing her battery charge was getting low, she reached into her handbag and took the card from Cheshire Consorts out.
What the hell am I doing? she thought. Isn’t my life messed up enough without getting involved in this?
She was about to screw the card up when a memory from the day her daughter died bobbed up. She’d been lying there, listening to Emily’s light footsteps as she ran out of the house. Just lying there, not doing a thing. At some point every single day of her life since, she’d paused and thought: If only I’d got up . . .
She ran a hand across her forehead, trying to wipe the thought away. Opening her eyes she stared at the card again. Damn it, she’d let down one vulnerable person in her life. She wasn’t about to do it again with this Alexia. She took a breath in and called the mobile number written on the back of the card.
When it was eventually answered, all Fiona could hear was what sounded like traffic going past. After a few seconds she tentatively said, ‘Hello? Is that Alexia?’
‘You what?’ A male voice, pitched high with the question.
‘I’m trying to get hold of Alexia. Is she there?’
‘Who’s this?’
‘A friend.’
‘From where?’
‘From. . .’ Fiona searched for an answer, but failed to find one.
‘Put Alexia on, please.’
Silence. ‘Who are you?’ Fiona demanded. ‘Why have you got
Alexia’s phone?’ Still no reply.
‘It was you in that motel room last night, wasn’t it? What have you done to her?’
The phone went dead.
Fiona stabbed at the redial button, but got the ‘number unobtainable’ signal. She hugged herself, waiting for her heart to slow down.
The office door was open. Hazel waved her in and said, ‘OK. If you could sit in the corner.’ She opened a drawer and took out a Polaroid camera. ‘Now, if you’ll lift your hair away from your face. Lovely.’ The flash went off. ‘I’ll just get a close up of that cut on your eyebrow. Has a doctor seen it yet?’
Fiona shook her head. ‘I was planning to go to A and E later on.’
‘I think you should,’ Hazel replied. ‘You don’t want to end up with a scar.’
She photographed Fiona head on and from the other side.
‘Great. How about a cup of tea while I get your file sorted out?’
Two other women were sitting at the kitchen table, one hunched over the late morning edition of the local paper, a cigarette in her hand.
‘Sarah, Cathy, this is Fiona. She’ll be with us for a few days.’ Hazel retreated from the room and Sarah got up and reached for the kettle. Fiona sensed a well-established routine.
‘Brew?’ Sarah asked.
‘Thanks,’ Fiona replied. She fought the urge to brush an imaginary hair from her forehead, knowing the gesture was just an attempt to hide her injury. Nervously she reached for her cigarettes, realising she only had a few left. She held the pack out anyway. ‘Cigarette anyone?’
Cathy looked up and Fiona saw livid burns running down the side of her face. A large chunk of her self-consciousness evaporated.
‘No, thanks,’ Cathy smiled, holding up her own by way of an explanation.
The headline on the paper’s front page caught Fiona’s eye: has the butcher claimed another?
‘Milk? Sugar?’ Sarah asked, but her voice seemed to be coming from far away.
Fiona’s voice came out as a croak, ‘Can I?’
‘Be my guest.’ Cathy slid the paper across and the front page filled Fiona’s vision.
A grainy photo, which, judging from the elevation, had been taken from an upstairs window. There was a garden in the foreground. On the grassy area beyond stood a cluster of uniformed policemen and a few onlookers in plain clothes. A tent was being hastily erected.
Fiona’s hand went to her mouth as she read the opening paragraph.
A dog walker made a gruesome discovery early this morning on waste ground almost in the shadow of Belle Vue’s famous greyhound racing stadium. As yet police have refused to confirm whether the Butcher has claimed another victim but, as our reporter at the scene can confirm, substantial swathes of the victim’s skin had been removed.
Fiona looked up and turned desperately from one woman to the other.
Cathy’s chair scraped slightly as she shied away, ‘Do you know something about this?’
‘I heard...I heard something last night. I was in a motel. Oh
God.’
‘What did you hear?’ Sarah’s hand was frozen on a carton of milk.
‘Something horrible.’ Fiona stood up and hurried back to the office.
Hazel was writing Fiona’s name at the top of some sort of form. She looked up. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I need to use your phone. Please.’
‘Of course. Here.’ Quickly she evacuated her seat. ‘Are you
OK?’
‘I just have to. . . ’ The sentence was left unfinished as she began dialling a number. ‘Janine, it’s Fiona. Is Alice there?’
‘Fiona! We tried your home number and mobile when you didn’t come in this morning. Everything OK?’
‘I’ll tell you later. Just put Alice on, will you?’
‘OK. She’s just finishing with a customer. Wait a second.’ Fiona kept her head down, discouraging any questions from
Hazel who was hovering at the door.
‘Hi, Fiona. How are you?’
‘Alice, your other half. Jon. He’s in the police, right? Quite high up?’
‘Yes, he works on major incidents. What’s wrong?’
‘Listen, I need to speak to him. It’s about this Butcher of Belle
Vue thing.’
Chapter 6
They had just pulled up in the car park of Longsight police station when Jon’s mobile began a stifled warble in his pocket.
He glanced at the caller’s identity and was surprised to see Alice’s name. She always tried to avoid calling him at work. Afraid it was because the baby was coming early, he signalled to Rick that he’d catch him up. ‘Ali. Are you OK?’
‘Fine. Can you talk?’
Relieved, Jon leaned an elbow on the car roof. ‘Yeah. What’s up?’
‘I work with a woman called Fiona. She does make-up and facials.’
‘The one with the violent husband?’
Alic
e’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Yeah.’
There was a moment’s silence as each waited for the other to go on.
Alice spoke first. ‘She called me just now. She wants to meet you.’
‘About the husband? Ali, I’d love to sort him out, but there are trained officers she can speak to in the Domestic Violence—’
‘She thinks she heard someone being killed last night.’
‘What?’
‘She thinks she heard someone being killed last night.’
‘Where?’
‘In the room next to hers. She was staying in some run-down motel in Belle Vue.’
Jon cupped a hand over his ear to hear more clearly. ‘You said Belle Vue?’
Forty minutes later he found himself sitting with another coffee. He thought back to Rick reaching for the chocolate powder, then changing his mind. Strangely self-conscious behaviour.
As his eyes scanned the people passing the window, he searched his memory for the one time he’d met Fiona. It was a few years ago when the salon staff were out celebrating Melvyn’s birthday. Jon was coming off a late shift and had agreed to pick Alice up at the end of the night.
When he’d arrived at the wine-bar he could see the evening had been a good one. Empty bottles littered the table and they were all sitting around with pissed looks on their faces. Jon had taken a seat next to Melvyn and Alice. On spotting him, Melvyn introduced everyone, then instantly reached for a bottle of wine and began filling a glass.
‘Just a small one,’ Jon had smiled, his outstretched hand palm down.
‘Bollocks. Get a taxi,’ Melvyn replied, filling it right up.
Jon shook his head, the grin still on his face. ‘It’ll take hours to catch you lot up and this place shuts in ten minutes.’
Alice had slumped against his shoulder and was fumbling with a packet of cigarettes as she resumed an earnest discussion with Melvyn about who was the sexiest, Ewan McGregor, Johnny Depp or Keanu Reeves.
God, she’s going to be hung over in the morning, Jon thought, lighting one for himself and looking around. Fiona was at the other end of the table, clutching a glass of wine, deep in a serious-looking conversation with the woman at her side.
Jon had found himself studying her. She should have been quite a glamorous woman but something was marring the impression. Her face was pleasantly proportioned, no single feature standing out as wrong. Her light brown hair had been professionally cut and styled, probably by Melvyn, Jon had guessed. She was wearing a pale blue cashmere top, the neckline cut just low enough to show off a glittery necklace.
But everything was being undermined by something. Ready to look away the moment her eyes turned towards his, he scrutinised her more closely. Was it her eyebrows? Had she plucked them a little too vigorously? Applied liner at a slightly harsh angle?
Finally it came to him. The negative impression wasn’t as a result of any single feature, it was more the expression on her face. The lines at the corners of her eyes and at the edges of her mouth all emphasised it. They slanted downwards and the skin along her jawline seemed loose and somehow tired.
Her face hinted at the slow and cumulative effects of pain. He’d seen a similar drawn look appear on his granddad’s face as the cancer really began to take hold. Jon was just wondering what was eating her when something caused alarm to flicker in her eyes.
He looked to his right and saw a heavy man standing just inside the door. His arms were crossed and a large belly pressed out over his belt. He nodded towards the door and Jon spotted a set of car keys hanging from one hand.
Fiona started scrabbling around for her handbag, hurriedly saying goodbye to the colleague she’d been talking to. Her movement was picked up by Melvyn and he glanced round for an explanation. Seeing the man by the door, he called out sarcastically, ‘Jeff! Good to see you. Joining us for a quick one?’
The man stayed exactly where he was and shook his head.
‘Yeah, and fuck you, too,’ Melvyn muttered.
Fiona was now standing, agitation and embarrassment on her face. ‘See you all on Monday,’ she said, struggling slightly with her words.
Melvyn got up and hugged her, then watched with a pained expression as she lurched across the bar and out the door. Jon looked around and saw similar emotions on everyone else’s face.
Melvyn sat back down with a sigh. ‘Fucking arsehole.’
‘That’s Fiona’s other half?’ Jon asked.
His question had gone unanswered as they all broke into conversations about why she stayed with him.
A woman walked through the coffee shop doors. She was wearing a strange mish-mash of clothes, her hair was down over her forehead and she tried to keep her head bowed as she glanced quickly round the room. Their eyes met. Simultaneously recognising her and seeing the damage to her face, Jon held up a hand.
She moved towards him. ‘How did you know it was me?’
‘We were introduced once. I was picking Alice up from the pub. You were there with the other staff from the salon.’ She was looking blankly at him. ‘Jesus, you really were pissed.’ He touched the scar above his own eyebrow and smiled. ‘Besides, Alice said we had something in common.’
Her eyes dropped in embarrassment and Jon cursed his clumsy attempt at breaking the ice.
‘What else did she say about me?’ she asked.
He chose his words more carefully. ‘Not a lot. Just that your husband gives you a hard time.’
She sat down, lit a cigarette and looked him in the eyes. ‘My soon to be ex-husband.’
Jon hoped so, but he’d heard that line plenty of times before. Abusive relationships fought hard to keep their participants in place. ‘I can put you in touch with specially trained officers. Start the ball rolling to make sure he can’t come near you again.’
She shook her head. ‘Thanks, but it’s OK.’
‘Where are you staying?’ said Jon, eyes straying hungrily to the smoke curling from the tip of her cigarette.
‘Sorry, would you like one?’ She held the pack out.
Jon pursed his lips. He’d agreed with Alice to give up last year. Apart from one lapse, he hadn’t smoked in almost six months. Most of the time it was becoming less and less of a problem, but certain occasions brought on an urge like the need for a cool drink on a summer’s day. A little voice told him it would be OK. She was a fellow smoker. She’d understand. Word would never get back to Alice. He wrestled the temptation down with a shake of his head. ‘Trying to give up, thanks. So, where are you staying?’
‘I’ve got a room just round the corner.’ She gestured vaguely towards the street.
‘In the refuge on Stanhope Street?’ Jon kept his voice low. Fiona’s face went from shock to realisation. ‘Sorry. They told me to keep the address secret. I should have known the police would know about it.’
‘How long are you there for?’
She sighed, and a tremor passed across her lower lip. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know.’
‘Are you OK, Fiona? We don’t have to do this if you’re not.’
She smiled bleakly. ‘Am I OK? I’ve just walked out on my husband. And then what I heard last night . . .’ She ground the cigarette out, drilling the filter hard into the ashtray. ‘Be strong, Fiona. Be strong,’ she said under her breath. Then she looked up. ‘I want to tell you about last night.’ Despite her determined tone, a shiver went through her.
‘Can I get you a coffee first?’
She smiled. ‘Thanks. A latte, please.’
Jon returned a couple of minutes later. He placed a frothfilled cup before her just as she lit another cigarette. ‘Take your time,’ he said, sitting down.
Fiona told her story, starting from when she’d staggered into the foyer of the Platinum Inn and had sat with Dawn in the back office, sharing a few drinks. She began to falter when she had to describe the sound of the couple undressing.
‘OK, Fiona,’ Jon helped her along. ‘They were on the bed by now.’
She nodded.
‘And I’m guessing you could hear them getting down to business? Pardon the pun.’
‘Yes. But then I heard them speak again and they moved. Changed – you know – positions I suppose. And that’s when the struggling began. And this awful choking sound. She was fighting to breathe.’
Jon knew the autopsies on Angela Rowlands and Carol Miller had shown evidence of strangulation. In the background the milk steamer’s splutters ground to a halt.
‘Eventually they stopped moving. Then one person got up, went to the bathroom and the taps came on. He wandered about the room for a bit, went back to the bed.’ She broke to spoon foam into her mouth, fingers trembling. ‘Then there was a thump, like something heavy being dragged off the bed and onto the floor.’
Jon tried to keep his thoughts objective, but he couldn’t stop the waves of excitement running through him. He dragged his eyes from the tip of her cigarette again.
‘I crept across to my door and looked through the spyhole. One person left that room, moving slowly, something big and heavy wrapped in a blanket over his shoulder.’
‘Did you see his face?’
‘No, just a flash of reddish-brown hair, but I reckon that was the girl’s, poking out from the top of the blanket. He headed away from reception to the door at the other end of the corridor. He must have left through the fire exit.’
‘Did any sort of an alarm go off?’
Fiona shook her head. ‘You should see the place. It’s falling apart. I doubt the alarms even work.’
Jon ran the information through his head. The motel was a few minutes’ walk from where the third body had been found. But where had the victim’s skin been removed? Did the killer have a van in the car park or had he even left the building at all? Could he have taken her to a storage room or perhaps the basement?
‘Fiona, do you know what time of night this was?’
She nodded emphatically. ‘Three thirty in the morning they woke me coming into their room. He left at about four I’d imagine.’
Jon’s excitement vanished. ‘You’re absolutely sure on that?’
‘Yes, I looked at my watch.’
‘And it was three thirty in the morning?’
‘Yes. Three thirty-six, to be exact.’
