Shifting Skin

Chapter 17

The manager of the women’s refuge wrapped her arms round Fiona, engulfing her in a fiercely protective hug. ‘You take care of yourself,’ she whispered, tilting her head back to look Fiona in the eyes. ‘And let me know how you’re doing.’

Fiona smiled, thinking about the six precious nights she’d spent in the refuge. ‘Thank you so much, Hazel. You’ve been a life-saver. You are a life-saver.’ Waving once more to the women on the doorstep, Fiona turned to her car. Her bags were packed safely in the boot and she climbed in.

The drive to her bedsit took less than a quarter of an hour. She had chosen a place with good transport connections to Melvyn’s salon. After all, in the absence of anything else, it was now the main part of her life.

She could accept how the majority of her friends had been slowly driven away by her husband’s cold and suspicious welcomes every time they tried to visit. Her resolute denials that anything was wrong had hardly helped.

But the rift she’d opened up with her parents was a deep and aching wound. She’d enjoyed a happy childhood, supported and encouraged by a mum and dad she rarely heard argue. That made it all the more painful when she began to realise her marriage to Jeff wasn’t destined for the same level of success.

She’d married him in her late teens. At first everything seemed great as he got a graduate job at a firm of surveyors and she completed her final health and beauty qualifications. Then she got pregnant and gave up work. With the birth of their daughter Jeff became more preoccupied with work. He’d been given new responsibilities and they made more demands on his time. Time he seemed only too happy to give.

He started coming home later and later, often smelling of whisky. It was a way of relaxing, he assured her. The management encouraged a bit of bonding outside work hours.

But his promotion never came and he became more irritable, forever screening the household bills. She was no longer earning and he made her feel guilty about spending money he said wasn’t her own. The balance of their relationship had shifted and her role edged more and more to the subservient. It resembled, she realised one day with a mixture of surprise and disappointment, that of her own parents. Dad the breadwinner, mum the housewife. Only her mum had never seemed unhappy with her role. Perhaps she was being selfish in wanting more. So she kept quiet about her doubts, playing the part of happy mum, hoping things would improve.

Then one day he punched her. A simple movement of his arm, but an action that set in motion a chain of events that led to the death of their daughter. After that he retreated into himself, drinking more and more, questioning every penny she spent. Getting his permission to start working again was a huge struggle. He feared the loss of control it would entail and paranoid fear began to consume him: ‘You’re going to leave me…You’ll meet someone else. . Isn’t what I earn good enough?’

He didn’t lay another finger on her for many years. But gradually the bullying moved from mental to physical. Pushes and slaps at first, then heavier cuffs. Finally, punches.

She thought about her parents. She’d shut them out after their granddaughter’s funeral, too ashamed to admit how the accident had happened. But they’d known something was wrong. She couldn’t stand her mother’s entreaties, her father’s furious stares. Both of them powerless to help her while she refused to admit there was a problem. Now she wanted to make amends but pride prevented her from calling them. Not until she was properly back on her feet.

The bedsit occupied the corner of the ground floor in a large Victorian house in Fallowfield. It was a student area, the bus shelters permanently full of people in faded jeans, baggy tops and battered trainers. How they chose to carry their books vaguely amused her. Some went for simple sports bags, others opted for ethnic-looking canvas pouches. All avoided briefcases, but that was just a matter of time. She smiled wistfully, wondering what

Emily would have chosen if she was still alive.

After reversing into the yard at the back of the building so her car was facing towards the road, she removed the spare car key from her purse. Once out of the vehicle, she checked that no one was watching, then slipped it into a crack between two bricks at the base of the wall. That was a quick means of escape, if it was ever needed. After all, if he did somehow track her down and turn up with a few drinks inside him, she knew what he was capable of.

The hallway of the house was littered with unwanted junk mail and a couple of old copies of the Yellow Pages, still wrapped in plastic. A door opened and a man appeared, a box of old cooking utensils in his arms. He looked to be in his late twenties, but he still wore student clothes.

‘Morning. You just moving in?’ he asked cheerfully.

‘Yes,’ Fiona nodded, holding her handbag tight against her stomach.

‘Me too.’

She smiled, glancing at the box.

‘Cooking things. If you ever need any, just help yourself. People have dumped loads of stuff down in the cellar.’

Fiona looked at the door he’d just emerged from. ‘Thanks.’

‘Are you a mature student?’

Fiona felt herself flush slightly. ‘No. I’m, I’m…just in between places at the moment.’

His smile faded as he assessed her answer, eyes shifting to her damaged eyebrow. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’

‘No, that’s fine. So, are you? A student, I mean?’

‘Yeah, I’m doing an MA.’

‘Which subject?’

Now he looked embarrassed. ‘Classical studies. Latin, Greek. Don’t ask why. I think it was my mum’s idea, really. She wants me to be a journalist.’

Fiona smiled. ‘Well, I’d best get sorted out…?’ She raised her eyebrows enquiringly.

‘Oh, it’s Raymond. Raymond Waite.’

‘Nice to meet you, Raymond. I’m Fiona.’ As he carried on up the stairs, she looked with amusement at his cumbersome trainers, complete with little Perspex windows in the thick soles.

Then she opened the door to her room and looked around, refusing to be dismayed by its dour interior. It was hers, that was the important thing. Another small step towards freedom.

She paused to sniff the air. The fusty smell she’d noticed on her first look-around still remained, despite the window being open. She brought her suitcase in, eyes lingering on it, attracted by the bottle of gin inside. Fighting back the temptation to have just one drink, she picked up her handbag instead. Air freshener, bleach and scouring cream were what she needed. The bare mattress on the single bed was patchy with stains. With some difficulty she lifted it up and saw the underside was only worse. As she headed out of the door, she added a duvet, sheets, towels and a new mattress to her list, aware that the cash Melvyn had given her was rapidly running out.

She returned a while later, ferried the smaller things through to her room, then returned to the car and began trying to pull the new mattress out from where it lay across the boot and folded-down back seats.

A first-floor window opened and she heard hip-hop music before a voice said, ‘You need a hand, Fiona?’

She looked up to see Raymond leaning out of the window.

‘Would you mind?’

‘No problem.’

He shuffled round the corner a few seconds later, crouching to tie the laces of his absurd trainers. The oversized tongues lolling from the tops reminded her of a pair of thirsty spaniels.

They carried the mattress through to her room, and placed it by the side of the bed.

‘I don’t know what to do with the old one — it’s disgusting,’ Fiona said.

‘Yeah, I see what you mean,’ Raymond replied. ‘Why not dump it in the cellar? That’s what everyone else seems to do with unwanted stuff.’

‘Do you think it would be all right?’

‘Yeah. Come on, I’ll give you a hand.’

They hauled it off the bed and carried it out into the hall.

Raymond kicked the cellar door open, then pushed the mattress down the short flight of stairs. It came to a lopsided halt at the bottom. He flicked the lights on and carried on down, Fiona following uncertainly behind.

‘There are all sorts down here,’ he said, pointing to the haphazard stacks of boxes. ‘Old clothes, crappy portable televisions, records, textbooks, files of work. Do you need any saucepans? There’s a whole crate of them in that corner.’

Fiona looked around, shoulders hunching up at the sight of the huge cobwebs nestled in the exposed rafters above her head. Raymond tipped the mattress on its side and slid it across the dusty floor into a side room. In the centre of the room was a table with what looked like a stone top.

‘What on earth is that?’ Fiona asked.

Raymond leaned the mattress against it. ‘This house would have been built for a wealthy merchant. This room was the pantry. In the days before fridges, the servants would have stored meat on it.’ He slapped the bare stone with his palm. ‘It’s always cool down here. See the gutter running round it? They’d cover the meat with muslin and ladle water over it occasionally. It would have kept for days.’

Fiona shivered. ‘Well, I never knew that.’

Two hours later, she peeled off her Marigolds and looked around her room. That was more like it. A bunch of flowers on the windowsill; the bed covered by a plump duvet, the creases still showing on its cover.

Once again, she found herself looking at the suitcase. No, she thought. A good vacuuming, that’s what this place needs. She smiled. It was the perfect excuse to call in at the salon. Melvyn wouldn’t mind her borrowing the Dyson.

‘Hi there,’ she chirped, stepping through the door. She caught a tense look in Melvyn’s eyes before his face broke into a smile.

‘Fiona!’ he said, taking in her designer jeans and crisp white shirt. ‘You’re looking more shaggable every day. If I didn’t swing the other way. .’

‘Oh, stop it, Melvyn,’ she laughed.

‘Cuppa?’

‘Thanks, yes.’

Melvyn turned to Zoe, who was replacing curlers on a rack.

‘Zoe, will you be Mum?’

Fiona waved a hand. ‘Don’t you worry. I’ll do it.’ Without waiting for a reply, she walked across to the kitchen area and started setting out the cups.

‘So how are you, darling?’ Melvyn asked over his shoulder while wrapping a strand of his customer’s hair in tin foil.

‘Great, thanks. I’m feeling so much more positive.’

‘Brilliant — you look like you do.’

‘I’ve just moved into my own little place. It’s not much, but it’s a start.’

‘Where is it?’

‘Ridley Close in Fallowfield.’

‘Near City’s old ground?’

‘That’s it.’

Melvyn adjusted the towel round his customer’s neck. ‘OK, that’s you for a half-hour. Are you fine with those magazines? The latest Heat’s around here somewhere. It’s got a great article about the contestants for that plastic surgery show they’re doing on telly soon.’

‘I’ve read it, thanks.’ She sat back in her seat and began reading one of the magazines on her lap.

Melvyn scooted over to the kitchen area. ‘I bet you’ve got it all spic and span.’

Fiona nodded. ‘Just about. Though I was hoping to borrow the Dyson. Once the place is properly clean, you’ll all have to come round for a drink.’

‘Just say when.’ Melvyn picked up the biscuit tin and gave it a rattle. ‘Empty again? God, do we get through them in here. Zoe, be a love and nip down the street for some more biccies.’ As the door shut behind her, Alice appeared from her side room. ‘Fiona. I thought I heard you.’

Fiona looked at Alice and her eyes widened. ‘You sure your due date is still a few weeks away?’

Alice’s shoulders sagged. ‘Oh, don’t. I feel like a beached whale.’

Laughing, Fiona pointed to the kettle. ‘Tea?’

‘Thanks.’ Alice perched on the edge of a stool and made a cradle for her stomach with her hands.

‘Fiona was just saying she’s moved into her own place,’ Melvyn announced.

‘Where is it?’ Alice asked.

Fiona grabbed a pen and paper from her handbag. ‘Flat 2,

15 Ridley Close. Over in Fallowfield.’ She handed the scrap of paper to Alice. ‘You’re all welcome to come round, but obviously the address has to stay secret. He has no idea where I am.’

Fiona caught that tense look on Melvyn’s face again. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Nothing,’ he said with a little shrug.

Fiona turned to Alice, but she was watching Melvyn. Fiona looked back at him. ‘He’s been here hasn’t he?’

He didn’t answer.

‘The bastard,’ Fiona hissed, fear and anger flaring up. ‘What did he say? What did he do? Did he threaten you? He did, didn’t he?’

Melvyn gave her a brief smile. ‘Nothing more than a raging poofter like me’s used to. Don’t worry, he soon ran out of steam. Especially when I blew him a kiss.’

Fiona gasped, one hand over her mouth. ‘You didn’t!’

‘That was a bit much,’ Alice added with a grin. ‘I thought the veins in his neck were about to burst.’

Fiona felt sick. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ Her eyes cut to the front of the shop: could she be seen from the street? ‘What if he comes back?’ Now she felt genuinely scared.

‘That’s probably why it’s best you stay away for a bit,’ said Melvyn. ‘I told him you don’t work here any more. He’ll soon give up.’

Alice went over to the reception desk and tucked Fiona’s address into the back of the appointments book.

‘Thanks, Melvyn, I really appreciate this,’ Fiona said more quietly.

Melvyn fidgeted on his stool. ‘Only thing is, Fiona, I can pay you your holiday money. But, you know how it works in here. Without you doing any treatments. .’

‘You want me to leave? Find a job somewhere else?’ Her nausea increased.

‘No!’ Melvyn protested with a dramatic wave of his hands.

‘You’re one of the team. I didn’t mean that. But what will you do for money? I mean, I could lend you some. .’

Fiona shook her head defiantly. There was no way she was becoming a charity case for her friends. ‘I’m fine for now. Listen, I’m just glad you’re prepared to give me unpaid leave.’

They all heard the front door open and Fiona shrank backwards. ‘Is it him?’ she whispered, knowing her face was draining of colour.

Alice looked round the corner. ‘Hi, Zoe. Chocolate Hobnobs? Good choice.’

When Fiona eventually set off for her bedsit, the salon’s Dyson in the boot of her car, guilt hung heavy over her. She’d caused so much trouble to so many people. Dawn Poole appeared in her head. Another one she owed an apology to. Especially after sending Alice’s other half round to question her.

At the end of the street she turned towards the A57, deciding to put things right at the Platinum Inn straight away. When she pulled into the car park a short while later she couldn’t decide which slot to take, it was so empty. Inching slowly forwards, she decided on the far side, away from the day manager’s silver Volvo and near the gap in the hedge she’d squeezed through several days before.

How hopeless her life had seemed that evening. Not that it was a whole lot better now. She thought about the cramped little bedsit that was her new home. Her money had almost run out and she had no idea how she was going to meet next month’s demand for rent.

Her mind turned to her husband and she pictured him during his more pleasant moments. Laughing at something on the radio, delightedly rubbing his hands when his football team scored. She wondered what he was doing, how he was coping without her. He spent so much time at work, he’d never find the opportunity to clean the house. She imagined the state of the kitchen. Maybe she should call and see how he was. If he showed remorse for his violence and agreed to seek counselling, perhaps they could discuss the possibility. .

She shook her head, realising where her train of thought had so insidiously led her. ‘What are you doing even considering it?’ she asked her reflection in the rear-view mirror, focusing on the first glimmers of a life free of fear. ‘You’re not going back.’

She turned the radio on. The seven o’clock news on Smooth FM mentioned the Butcher of Belle Vue case. The police still hadn’t been able to identify the third victim — once again, anyone who knew of a missing female in her late teens to early twenties with shoulder-length brown hair and a distinctive tattoo on her lower body was asked to call the incident room. A tattoo? she thought. That was a detail they hadn’t included before.

A thin figure came hurrying up the path and went into the motel. Dawn. Fiona waited for the day manager to drive off before climbing out.

Dawn’s face remained blank as Fiona walked through the doors.

‘Hi there,’ Fiona announced uncertainly.

‘What do you want?’ Dawn replied, busying herself with some paperwork.

‘I’ve come to say sorry. I didn’t mean to cause you any bother.’

‘Didn’t you? Well, you fucked up there, then. What did you expect would happen if you went to a copper and told him you heard someone being killed in the next room?’

Fiona sighed. ‘What I heard really shook me up. Then, when I read the report in the paper later that morning…Do you realise her body was found only just down the road?’

‘Of course I know that. Jesus, I’ve got to walk from the bus stop to here every single bloody day.’

‘Oh, Dawn,’ Fiona frowned in sympathy. They regarded each other for an instant.

Dawn brushed a stray hair from the counter. ‘It’s all right, as it happens. He buggered off after a few minutes.’

Fiona kept her voice casual. ‘So he didn’t go poking around?’

‘No, thank God.’ Dawn reached for a cigarette, offered one to Fiona. ‘I thought he was going to look around the room at least, but he just asked me if I’d ever heard of a girl called

Alexia.’

Fiona was seething at Jon’s claim to have searched the place.

‘And have you?’ she asked. ‘The woman who owns that escort agency, Cheshire Consorts, reckons someone using that name tried to get a job with her. I think the same girl worked in a massage parlour just down the road near the Apollo. A place called the Hurlington Club.’

Dawn lifted the counter flap. ‘You’ve been busy. Come on, let’s have a coffee.’

They went into the back office and sat down on the comfy seats.

‘Go on,’ Dawn prompted.

‘Well, I think it was the same girl. It could have been an

Alicia, though — there was a bit of confusion with names.’ Dawn was searching for her cigarettes. ‘And what did this girl look like?’

Fiona frowned. ‘I don’t know. Around my height with shoulder-length brown hair. Pretty, apparently, but quite thin in the face. She may be using drugs.’

Dawn looked up, a pinched expression on her face. ‘How old?’

‘Young. About twenty at the most.’

Looking relieved for some reason, Dawn opened a desk drawer and drew out a fresh bottle of brandy. ‘Doesn’t sound like anyone who comes in here. Fancy a splash?’

The glowing liquid shifted in the bottle. Fiona felt the muscles in her throat tighten with the anticipation of its warmth. She knew that having just one drink would be impossible and the thought of ending up in one of the motel’s grim rooms again was just enough incentive to turn it down. Swallowing back a rush of saliva, she said, ‘No, I’d better not. You know, driving and all that.’

She looked away and listened as Dawn poured a dash into her own cup. There was a clink as the bottle was replaced in the drawer.

‘Why are you so determined to find this Alexia? If she even exists.’

Fiona looked fixedly at the tip of her thumb as it probed at the tops of her fingers, like a creature checking its brood. ‘I just hate the idea of this poor girl being out there so alone in the world.’

‘So do I. But there’s only so far you can go. I think you should try and forget it. This search of yours is dangerous, Fiona.’

Fiona’s eyes were still locked on her hand and when she finally spoke her voice seemed to have retreated deep inside her chest.

‘I had a daughter once. Emily. But she died.’ Her thumb foraged about, touching the tip of each finger. Counting them in. ‘I lost her because I wasn’t there for her.’

‘What happened?’ Dawn whispered.

‘Jeff — my husband — had really gone for me. It was the first time he ever did. He stormed back from work early one afternoon. He’d been drinking and I did something — I don’t know what — to aggravate him. He turned round and punched me in the stomach. No warning, nothing. He hit me so hard I knocked the kitchen table over as I fell. Emily saw everything. He’d left the front door open and she ran out into the road shouting for a nee-nar. She was four years old and that was her word for an ambulance.’

Tears broke from Fiona’s eyes.

‘He’d knocked the wind out of me and I couldn’t get up. I could only lie there, gasping like a fish. It was a car. I heard its tyres screeching. I still hear its tyres screeching.’ She swallowed a moan, unable to mention the thud of metal on flesh that followed.

Dawn put her drink down and grasped Fiona’s hand. ‘You can’t blame yourself for that, surely?’

‘I try not to, but it doesn’t help much. After that things were never the same. One moment’s loss of control and our lives were ruined. I could see the knowledge of what he’d done eating away inside him. At first I was glad, but I forgave him eventually, trying to salvage something between us. He’s never been able to talk about it. I tried so hard to make things work. He was my husband and, despite everything, I still loved him. But the more I reached out to him, the more distant he became. Then, maybe five years ago, he attacked me again. And you know what?’ She smiled sorrowfully, shaking her head. ‘Afterwards was the only time he’d shown me any affection in years.’

Dawn squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t waste your time. It’s not you who’s provoking him. He’s the one to blame, not you.’

Fiona nodded. ‘I know. But now I’ve got my head full of the noise of that poor girl choking. Apart from the man who attacked her, I may be the last person to hear her voice.’ She looked up at Dawn. ‘That room was used, wasn’t it? You did let a couple in there.’

Dawn raised her cup to take a sip, using it as a way of breaking eye contact. ‘Yes, I think so. It was a pretty busy night, though. People were coming and going and I was a bit worse for wear after all that brandy we drank.’

‘But surely you remember handing the key over? Surely you’d remember a couple checking out again?’

‘No. The key’s missing and the lock doesn’t work properly, anyway. And if they went out by the fire escape, I wouldn’t have seen a thing. What makes me wonder if it was used at all is the fact it was so immaculate. I certainly didn’t clean it.’

‘He did. That’s what I heard him doing after it all went quiet.’

Dawn shrugged. ‘Who knows what happened?’ She raised her cup and took a generous sip.

Watching her, Fiona thought, God, I need a drink. She put her coffee cup down. ‘I’d better go. Listen, I want you to know how much I appreciate your help that night. Are we still friends?’

Dawn smiled. ‘Still friends. I just wish I’d put you in an upstairs room. It’s all but untouched up there.’

As Fiona stood she said, ‘Oh, I’ve got a place of my own. It’s not much, but I’d love it if you could pop round.’

Dawn looked genuinely pleased. ‘I’d love to. So you moved out of Hazel’s place. What about your husband?’

Fiona flexed a wrist backwards. ‘History. He’ll never find me. I’ve been back and taken all the stuff I need.’

‘Good for you. I’m so pleased.’ Dawn reached for her handbag and produced an address book.

‘I feel so excited.’ Fiona said, then dictated her new address and mobile number. ‘You’ll call me soon?’

Dawn closed the book. ‘Will do.’

Fiona ran the Dyson backwards and forwards over the same small, tired square of carpet. After a while she turned it off and looked around the bedsit. There was nothing left to clean. Deep inside her something began to stir. It felt like despair. I need something to do, she thought as the hazy image of Alexia appeared in her head. She looked at the clock. Quarter to nine. Would many girls be out on Minshull Street yet? Probably not. Her eyes snagged on the suitcase. The bottle of gin was like a beacon inside, emitting a signal she could no longer resist.

‘Just a couple — God knows I’ll need it where I’m going,’ she said quietly to herself, grateful now the decision had been made.

The bottle chinked against the rim of the glass and gin glugged inside. She allowed the level to rise the width of another finger before righting the bottle. The tiny fridge was full, the bottle of tonic nicely chilled. She filled the glass to the top, then took a series of small sips, soon swallowing as much as if she’d given in and gulped it straight down.

Almost immediately the alcohol caused a lifting sensation in her head and without realising it, she let out a satisfied sigh. Now, what to wear? Nothing remotely dressy, that was for sure. She laid out a baggy top and plain trousers then, after sipping the glass dry, set off for the shower room on the first floor.

The train pulled in to Piccadilly and she walked slowly through the station, mentally running through what she’d say. Out on the concourse she looked down the slope towards the road that led into the city centre. The Malmaison Hotel dominated her view, yet now she knew that just a few streets behind a different world existed in the shadows. She broke off from the flow of people marching up to the bright lights of Piccadilly Gardens, headed down a dark side street and emerged into a nearly empty parking lot.

She heard the hoot of a tram as it emerged from the tunnels beneath Piccadilly station. The noise had a desolate note that echoed clearly through the night air. Seconds later the tram nosed into view, trundling round the bend in the hard metal tracks, wheels whining and squeaking in protest. Emotionless faces looked at her from within the bright carriages and then it was gone.

Making her way across the parking lot, she scanned the dark areas behind the trees lining Minshull Street on the other side, and soon caught sight of a lone female figure.

Unsure suddenly of what to say, she walked straight past the woman and found herself being dragged towards Portland Street. She emerged on to the busy road and looked around. A garish bar was on her immediate right and she went in.

The double gin disappeared in no time. She looked in her purse. She didn’t have the cash to afford city centre prices, not after spending so much on things for her room. As she swung her knees round to climb off the bar stool, she nearly bumped a man who had appeared at her side, a fifty-pound note in his hand. He was late forties, thinning hair, but nice eyes.

‘Sorry,’ she said.

‘Time for another?’ he asked, nodding at her empty glass. Fiona’s mouth opened and shut. She hadn’t been bought a drink by anyone other than her husband in years.

‘Don’t look so surprised.’ He tapped the menu card on the counter — until then she hadn’t been aware of it. Thursday night

— Singles night! Bottles of bubbly half price!

His smile revealed a row of white teeth, one canine slightly chipped.

‘Sorry.’ Fiona shook her head. ‘You caught me by surprise.’ She felt her hand going up to her face. The cut over her eyebrow was becoming less and less apparent, but it still made her feel uncomfortable.

‘Are you waiting for someone else? I mean, I hope I’m not. .’

‘No.’ she shook her head again. ‘I just popped in. I’m on my way somewhere else.’

‘Anywhere interesting? I’m only here on business and I haven’t a clue where to go.’ He lifted a hand to his chin, allowing it to linger, the lack of wedding ring obvious.

‘Er, actually, I’m just delivering a message. I shouldn’t be long.’

He blinked, trying to work out what she meant.

‘If the person’s not there, I should be back in five minutes,’ Fiona explained, trying not to look at the money in his hand. Thinking of how many drinks it would buy.

‘So, maybe see you here in a short while?’

‘Yes, hopefully.’

‘I’m Martin, by the way. Martin Mercer.’ He extended a hand.

‘Fiona,’ she answered, shaking it and climbing down simultaneously.

Minshull Street stretched off to her side like a dimly lit tunnel. In its murky depths she could see silhouettes of girls caught in the headlights of a slowly approaching car. Before apprehension could take hold, she strode purposefully forwards.

The first girl she got to was dressed in a surprisingly conservative way. Her skirt was a little too short, but the shoes weren’t ludicrously high heeled and the jacket looked practical. She had heard Fiona’s approaching footsteps and was keeping one eye on her and one eye on the road in front.

As Fiona slowed to a halt, the girl turned to look at her properly. Fiona guessed she was in her late twenties. ‘Hello.’

She nodded back.

‘I wonder if you could help me. I’m looking for a girl. I’ve heard she’s often around here.’

The woman raised her eyebrows, so Fiona pressed on. ‘She uses the name Alexia, but I’m not sure if it’s her real one.’

‘How come you’re looking for someone and you don’t even know their name?’

Her voice had a pleasant Scottish brogue and visions of unspoilt glens sprang up in Fiona’s mind. How had she gone from there to here? ‘Well. .’ Fiona dried up. The question cut straight through her story of Alexia being a friend’s daughter.

‘It’s a strange story.’

‘I bet,’ the girl replied looking away. ‘Never heard of her.’ Another car was slowly approaching and she stepped nearer the kerb, one hand on her hip. Fiona moved back against the tree trunk until the car had passed. When it had, the girl didn’t turn back and Fiona guessed the opportunity for questions was over.

The next girl was older and slightly overweight. She also wore a sensible jacket but it was almost fully unzipped. A white lycra top bulged with flesh underneath. This time Fiona chose a more direct approach. ‘Hello, I’m looking for Alexia. Have you seen her around?’

She turned, jaw moving and lips apart as she worked on a piece of chewing gum. Her open-mouthed expression lent her a vacant air. ‘You what?’

‘I’m looking for a girl called Alexia. Have you seen her?’

The girl scratched at her neck. ‘Reddish-brown hair? This tall?’ She held a hand up to the level of her ears.

Fiona nodded.

‘Not for a bit. Who are you?’

‘A friend. Her mum and me are best mates.’

The girl’s voice hardened. ‘Maybe she doesn’t want to see her mum. Not after she sided with the dad over what he did to her.’

Despite the implications of the comment, Fiona felt a surge of excitement. This girl was more than just a casual acquaintance.

‘She’s sorry. And he’s gone now. Her mum just wants her back. Listen, can we go for a coffee and talk?’

Another car was coming. The girl looked at it, then back at Fiona. ‘If you’re paying. It’ll be thirty quid.’

Fiona’s hopeful smile gave out. ‘I’m sorry. I haven’t got that kind-’

The girl cut her off. ‘Prime time, love. I can’t afford to be sitting in cafés right now.’ She stepped towards the kerb and the car slowed to a stop.

Fiona turned away, feeling as awkward as if she was watching another person going to the toilet. She started towards the other side of the road.

The girl opened the passenger door. ‘Try Crimson,’ she called. ‘She might be hanging around there, pocketing the free rubbers.’ She got in and the car pulled away.

Crimson? What was that? Fiona started back towards the first girl, but she’d obviously heard the exchange. ‘Second on your right, back that way.’ She pointed behind Fiona towards the area of Canal Street.

‘Thanks,’ Fiona replied, turning round.

The side street was like a narrow alleyway, barely wide enough for a car and she hesitated before setting off down it. Black forms crouched menacingly in the doorways and Fiona couldn’t be sure they weren’t all full bin liners. With her first step, her heels caught uncomfortably on the cobbles. Up ahead people mingled in a pool of soft red light. They were going in and coming out of a doorway. She looked back towards the normality of Portland Street, bathed in brilliant light and she thought about the man in the bar and his bulging wallet.