Shifting Skin

Chapter 5

The woman shook her head. ‘Don’t worry, love. We’ve had women turn up here in just their nighties before. Barefoot and everything.’

Fiona saw the woman’s eyes shift to the cut above her eyebrow yet again. She turned away to look around the bedroom. It was more like a nun’s cell: narrow single bed, tiny table next to it, simple wardrobe in the corner. The only splash of colour was three dahlias in the vase on the bedside table.

‘Talking of nighties, we’ve got spare ones, or pyjamas if you prefer. Clothes and basic toiletries, too. A lot of people donate items.’

Fiona smiled. ‘Thank you, Hazel, you’re so kind. I don’t know what to say.’

‘You can say that we can take some photographs of your face.’

Her voice had hardened and Fiona looked at her with surprise.

‘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.’