Shifting Skin

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.

Jon crouched down and started to put him in the recovery position. An eye opened, slit-like in the puffy flesh.

Jon tensed, unsure of what the man might do. ‘Can you hear me?’

‘Bitch,’ he mumbled through thick lips, blood bubbling out of his nostrils.

‘I’m a police officer. Can you tell me your name?’

‘Red-haired bitch.’

Jon opened his jacket, removed a mobile phone and wallet. He glanced at a bank card. Yes, it was the husband. ‘Mr Wilson. Jeff. Can you hear me?’

The man coughed a few times and the eye swivelled round a bit.

‘Where’s your wife, Mr Wilson? Have you seen her?’

‘She’s gone.’

‘Who did this to you?’

‘Red-haired bitch.’

Jon’s mind went to the person with Gordon Dean at the petrol station’s cashpoint. ‘A woman with red hair? About five feet eight or so?’

‘Red-haired bitch.’ His hand moved to his crotch and he winced with pain.

Jon got up. ‘Don’t try to move. I’m calling you an ambulance.’ Fumbling through the unfamiliar menu on the phone, he called for help. Then he rang Alice. ‘It’s me. I’m at Fiona’s place but she’s not here. Where else might she be?’

‘I don’t know. Patrolling Minshull Street, maybe. That’s where she’s been looking for Alexia.’

Jon shut his eyes. ‘Where would she go if she needed somewhere to stay?’

‘Well, she just moved out of that refuge. Maybe back there?’ Jon ran upstairs and hammered on the door of the flat playing loud music. It opened on a dingy interior, a student blinking stupidly out at him from a haze of cannabis smoke. His eyes nearly popped out of his head when Jon thrust his warrant card in his face and demanded, ‘What’s your name?’

‘Er, er…it’s Raymond. I can explain.’ He waved at the thick fumes flooding out from his flat. ‘I’m a student here at the university. But I also went to-’

‘Raymond, shut up. I need you to look after a casualty until the ambulance arrives.’

Jon drove round to Stanhope Street, got his warrant card out and knocked on the door.

A very wary-looking woman answered. ‘Hello?’

‘I’m looking for Fiona Wilson. Has she turned up here this evening?’

‘No. I’m Hazel, the manager. She moved over two weeks ago.’

‘Do you know where to?’

‘No, she didn’t say.’

‘OK, thanks.’ He walked back to his car. Somewhere in the distance a burglar alarm let out an insistent wail into the night. He called Alice again. ‘Think. Where else could she be?’

‘What about the motel in Belle Vue? She mentioned the woman who runs it. I think they’ve become quite friendly.’

Dawn Poole stood behind the reception desk of the Platinum

Inn, twirling a strand of hair round and round.

She’d run to the bathroom and vomited as soon as the front door had banged shut. Then she’d just sat on the bed for a while. None of this was happening. Her dreams of a life with him were falling apart.

Had he really killed that man? No. Coming off his hormones, and the business with Fiona, had upset him. Made him tell a load of lies.

So why are you packing your suitcase? she’d asked herself, pausing to look around their bedroom.

She stopped, a pair of jeans in her hand. Her usual response to violence was to curl up until it was over, then run away. But the thought of being alone again terrified her. She couldn’t abandon everything with Alex so abruptly. Her mind swung back to how he’d pushed her. No. He wasn’t really a violent man. She couldn’t accept she’d got involved with one yet again.

Glancing at the half-packed suitcase, she’d had a desperate desire to talk to him. Unable to decide what to do, she’d caught the bus and gone to work as normal.

A gasp of shock escaped her as Alex tottered into the foyer.

‘What have you done to your face?’ she said, opening the counter flap and hurrying to him. ‘You’re bleeding!’

Alex slapped her hand away. ‘Which room is she in?’

Dawn’s voice faltered. ‘Alex, you’re making me so scared. What’s happening?’

‘Listen,’ he hissed, bringing his face close to hers. ‘Do you want her to ruin our future together?’

‘No.’ A tear started down Dawn’s face and she bent her head.

‘Good. We’ve got enough cash to get out of this country right now. Tonight. We’ll make a new start together. You and me, Dawn. Just us. But this woman will wreck it all. She will. Now give me the fucking room number.’

Dawn’s shoulders were drooping as she tried to control her sobs. ‘What will you do to her?’

Alex slammed her up against the counter. ‘Which fucking room!’ he shrieked.

No. Oh God, no, it was happening again. She shut her eyes and heard a long moan coming from deep inside her. Be small. Don’t do anything to make it worse. It will end soon.

His open hand crashed into her face, snapping her head back.

‘The room!’

‘Twenty-three — she’s in room twenty-three. Please don’t hurt me.’ She fell to the floor as Alex kicked off his shoes and stormed towards the stairs.

Jon could see the motel foyer was empty as he raced towards the doors. He burst through and spotted a pair of woman’s shoes on the floor. One was splattered with blood and missing a heel. Immediately he ran to the double doors on his right and scanned the corridor. Empty. The sound of sobbing was coming from the back office. He vaulted over the counter and went in. Dawn Poole was huddled in the corner, arms wrapped tightly round herself. A nearly empty bottle of brandy was on the floor at her feet, sodden tissues strewn around.

‘Dawn, it’s DI Spicer,’ he said, crouching in front of her and looking into her face. ‘Are you all right?’

She couldn’t control her crying, her whole body convulsing with sobs.

Jon took her gently by the arms. ‘Easy, Dawn, easy. You’re

OK.’

Her eyes were tightly closed.

‘Dawn, can you answer me? Is Fiona Wilson here?’ He felt her stiffen.

‘She’s here, isn’t she? Her husband found her flat. She came here because she had nowhere else to go. I’m right, aren’t I?’

Dawn took in a shuddering great breath.

‘Dawn, is Alex Donley here? Alexia, the red-haired prostitute?’ She started to shiver. ‘He said he’d never hurt me. Oh God, it’s all gone…it’s all gone wrong.’

Jon frowned. ‘Who said that? Alex?’ She nodded.

‘Alex is your partner?’

‘He said he was different. Said he’d protect me.’

Jon gently squeezed her arms, aware how painfully thin they were. ‘Dawn, none of this is your fault. Do you hear me? Dawn, open your eyes. Look at me.’

She took another breath and her eyes slowly opened.

Christ, he thought, seeing the look of utter defeat in them. ‘I know people have made you a victim in your life. But you can put a stop to it now, do you hear me? You can put a stop to all of this by telling me where Fiona is. Please tell me before she gets hurt.’

She shut her eyes and Jon thought he was losing her. But she lifted her chin and said, ‘Room twenty-three.’

He jumped to his feet.

She started to cry again. ‘He’s up there already. You must stop him — he’s going to do something terrible.’

The door at the top of the stairs opened on to another empty corridor. Jon looked at the first door: fourteen. He crept forwards, passing fifteen on the other side. Seventeen, nineteen, twenty-one. Twenty-three. The door was shut. He listened, but no noise came from inside. Slowly he turned the handle and opened it a crack.

‘You stupid cunt.’ A man’s voice, straining with effort. ‘This is what happens to stupid cunts like you.’

Jon slipped inside, moved past the bathroom and looked into the room beyond. Alex Donley was straddling the chest of Fiona Wilson, pressing a pillow into her upturned face. Fiona’s hands were scrabbling around, feebly trying to get a grip on the thing smothering her.

One step took Jon to the edge of the bed. ‘Hey!’ he barked, swinging with all his might.

Alex’s head whirled round, streaks of long red hair flying out. Jon’s fist caught him full in the mouth, lifting him clean off Fiona and sending him somersaulting backwards to the floor.

Jon plucked the pillow from Fiona’s face, heard her gasping in air. He looked over the end of the bed.

Alex Donley lay crumpled and unconscious on the floor, both lips burst open, the upper one split right up to the base of his nose.