Shifting Skin

Chapter 12

Jon checked his watch. Eight thirty-five, not too early to ring.

‘Morning. Martin Appleforth, please. It’s Detective Inspector

Spicer.’

A few seconds of Handel’s Water Music before Martin spoke.

‘Morning, DI Spicer. I was just going through my emails. The sales department have sent over Gordon’s client list as requested. Is there any news of him?’

‘I’m afraid not. We’re trying to locate his Passat, but nothing yet. And it hasn’t shown up on the national database as abandoned or burned-out. Anyway, thanks for getting the information on Mr Dean. Did you find out if your firm has a contract with Stepping Hill hospital?’

‘I did and we haven’t. Have you an email address I can forward Gordon’s client list to?’

Jon gave it to him and the message appeared a few seconds later. There were two attachments, a complete list of Gordon Dean’s clients and a shorter one of the people he was due to visit in the last days before he vanished.

Jon dragged his eyes from the screen to see Rick hanging up his jacket. ‘All right?’

‘Morning.’ Rick’s voice was reserved, the comment made over his shoulder.

Jon watched him sit down. Rick glanced across, then broke eye contact and reached for the paperwork on his desk.

‘I’ve got the last clients Gordon Dean was due to see,’ Jon said.

Rick looked up, the tension around his eyes easing. ‘Yeah?’

‘On the day before he disappeared he had one client to see in the morning, then another three in the afternoon, two in central Manchester and one in Worsley.’

‘Shall we start with his last ones first?’

‘I reckon so.’ Jon printed the list out. ‘Might as well go over to the NHS clinic in Worsley.’ He looked at his watch. ‘No point in setting off now — the M60 will be a nightmare.’

They spent the next forty or so minutes filling out report sheets until the receiver called across the room to them, ‘The preliminary analysis has come in for the footprint recovered at the latest crime scene.’

Heads across the room turned.

‘It’s a shoe, not a trainer. Size eleven, left foot. Owner likely to weigh in excess of twelve stone. The grip on the sole is quite distinctive and it’s completely worn away on the inside edge, suggesting that the wearer pronates quite heavily. As a result, he’s highly likely to have an unusual gait.’

The scene in the hospital corridor flashed into Jon’s mind. He had thought Pete Gray swaggered as a result of his beer belly. Now he wondered if the swivel in his hips could have been the result of one foot turning inwards with each step.

The clinic in Worsley was tucked away behind the pleasant green. It was part of a cluster of council buildings including a small swimming pool, exercise hall, doctor’s surgery and the clinic itself.

The reception area was plastered with a haphazard collection of posters. Professionally produced NHS ones on giving up smoking sat alongside home-printed ones on dieting groups, childcare support and mothers’ meetings. Jon looked with interest at a cluster of smaller, handwritten cards advertising everything from breast pumps and second-hand prams to babysitters and exercise bikes.

He heard someone cooing. A young woman in the seating area was bouncing a baby on her knee. The infant’s head rocked gently back and forth but its eyes were locked on its mother’s, the rest of the world completely irrelevant to them both. She held it up and the sight touched something in Jon. Just as he was about to smile, the baby vomited down its mother’s shirt.

‘Good morning.’ The rosy-cheeked receptionist was studying them through the glass screen.

‘Hello, there,’ Jon replied as they produced their warrant cards. ‘Who could we speak to about the medical supplies the clinic orders?’

‘For my sins, that’s me,’ she replied, sliding a plate with a half-eaten muffin to the side.

‘Does that include such things as medical gloves?’ asked

Rick.

‘Yes,’ she beamed. ‘In fact, I took a new order the other day.’

‘From Protex?’

‘That’s right.’ Her voice slowed down. ‘From Protex.’

Rick took out Gordon Dean’s photo. ‘You dealt with this man?’

‘Gordon,’ she started to smile again, then stopped. ‘What is the. .’ Her voice faded away.

‘How did he seem to you?’ Jon asked.

Her eyes swung between them, settling back on Rick.

‘Friendly as ever. He doesn’t come in that often. It’s a rolling order — once every few months.’

‘Do you remember what time he left?’

‘I don’t know.’ She flicked back through her appointments book. ‘He came in after the nurse’s post-natal clinic started at four. He probably left at about quarter past. Is he in some kind of trouble?’

Rick shook his head. ‘No. We just need to trace him. Did he mention anything not related to work?’

‘No. I didn’t have time to chat that day — the post-natal clinic’s always very busy.’

‘But you do chat sometimes?’ Jon asked.

‘Yes, sometimes.’

‘What does Gordon like to talk about?’

She thought for a few seconds, then smiled sheepishly.

‘Actually, come to think of it, he usually asks about my family and then lets me rabbit on about what my kids have been up to recently.’

‘Nothing about himself?’

‘Not really. Just how the job’s going, if he’s busy. You know, small talk, I suppose.’

*

They drove back to the city centre, heading for the next client. The business was in a smart modern building just off the prime shopping area of King Street. Eventually they found an empty loading bay on the edge of St Anne’s Square. Leaving a police sign on the dashboard, they walked back round and examined the list of companies listed at the entrance. Firms of solicitors seemed to be the dominant force. A uniformed security officer in the lobby directed them towards the lifts. ‘Sixth floor. They’ve got it all to themselves.’

As the lift rose silently, Rick said, ‘I’ve heard of the Paragon Group. Big ads at the back of women’s magazines. Must cost a fortune.’

The doors opened on a plush foyer, the green of tropical palms complemented by walls washed with a subtle turquoise paint. The carpet was pale blue, the lighting recessed. The result was very soothing. Trust us, you’re in good hands, Jon thought.

The receptionist wore a starched white tunic and her hair was pulled back so tightly it looked like the follicles might bleed. As they approached her desk, she reached for a couple of forms.

Rick stepped up, his warrant card out. ‘DS Saville and DI Spicer. May we speak to whoever orders your medical supplies, please.’

She looked confused. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you’d just popped in to enquire about, er…We don’t have much here.’

‘If whoever orders your medical examination gloves could spare us a minute.’

‘Oh, that’s our head nurse. She’s with someone at the moment. Please help yourself to coffee.’ She gestured towards an open door. A pot of coffee was in the corner of the room and satellite television played softly on a plasma screen mounted on the wall. A middle-aged woman squirmed with embarrassment as they stepped in. She pulled her magazine tight into her lap, and kept her head bowed over it.

Jesus, you’d have thought it was a sexual diseases clinic, Jon thought as they sat down. He picked up a brochure. It was printed on expensive stock, plenty of white space between the words. Printing costs had obviously not been a problem.

‘Here you go,’ Rick said, holding a woman’s magazine out. The Paragon Group’s ad dominated the page. A nude woman was sitting on a polished wooden floor. Her legs and arms were artfully crossed, screening a figure that was faultless. Below it the locations of the group’s centres were listed. Every major city seemed to have one.

‘Big business,’ Rick stated.

Jon turned to the brochure’s contents page. Surgery for the face and body, liposuction, hair transplants, tummy tucks, reshaping and enhancing of genitalia. Curious to see how revealing the images might be, he flicked to an inner page. The photo was harmless: a woman gazed off to the side, a benign smile playing at the edge of her mouth. Ear reshaping, lip reduction and enlargement, chin implants.

‘Gentlemen, please come through.’

A statuesque woman in what might have been her mid-thirties stood in the doorway. The same crisp outfit as the receptionist. She led them into an examination room.

‘You have a question about our examination gloves?’ She picked up a box from the corner of her desk. The label said: Powder-free surgical gloves. Non-sterile latex.

‘Actually, it’s about the person who supplies them,’ Rick said. Her immaculately painted lips contracted to form the word

‘Oh?’

‘Gordon Dean, he works for Protex,’ Rick continued.

‘Mr Dean, yes. He was here two days ago.’

‘At what time?’

‘About quarter past three, I’d guess.’

‘And did he stay for long?’

‘About three minutes.’

‘Did you chat to him? How did he seem?’

‘Chat with him?’ The suggestion seemed to bemuse her. ‘No. I signed for the delivery and he left.’

Jon saw this was going nowhere. He looked around. ‘What goes on here, then?’

Her eyes turned to him. ‘In terms of what?’

‘Treatments. Have you got surgical theatres and doctors hidden away here? It seems very quiet.’

She shook her head. ‘The only things performed here are non-surgical procedures requiring, at most, local anaesthetic. Botox injections and laser treatments, for instance. The primary function of this office is for consultations. An initial one with myself or another nurse, then one with a surgeon. Once the paperwork is complete, the patient will see their surgeon for a further pre-operative medical examination and briefing prior to the procedure at a local private hospital nearby. We rent the theatres from them.’

‘Who are your surgeons, then?’ Jon asked.

‘Is this part of the original reason for your visit today or merely curiosity on your part, Detective Inspector?’ There was a challenging, almost provocative, look in her eyes.

Jon stared back at her for a moment. ‘A bit of both, I suppose.’

‘Our surgeons are employed from a variety of backgrounds. But if you’re concerned as to their credentials, as some prospective patients are, I can assure you they possess all the necessary qualifications.’

‘Fascinating,’ Jon replied, irritated by her brittle manner.

The woman seemed to sense this. She leaned forwards to assess him, then turned to Rick. ‘You have very good skin. Do you use a moisturising regime?’

‘I do.’ Rick smiled uncertainly.

She nodded, then turned back to Jon. ‘And you, DI Spicer? I suspect that you don’t.’ She raised a forefinger and touched the skin at the outer edge of her eye sockets. ‘Your starbursts show when you speak.’

Wrong-footed by the sudden turn in conversation, Jon was about to ask if that was the new name for laughter lines, but she carried on. ‘The scar above your left eyebrow and the bump in your nose — where it has been broken, I presume — are both easily remedied nowadays. We could take years off your face with some very simple procedures.’

Her eyes continued to probe him, and Jon realised she was searching for flaws, imperfections, anything which might trigger an insecurity she could play on. He was thankful that his hair hadn’t started to thin.

‘Just imagine how delighted your wife would be.’

‘I’m not married,’ Jon said.

‘Many of the men we treat find improvements to their face do their career prospects no harm, either.’

Jon shook his head. ‘Are you a nurse or a saleswoman?’

‘Just something for you to think about.’ She smiled and handed him a business card.

Jon glanced at it, then dropped it back on her desk. ‘No, you’re all right, thanks,’ he said, walking out.

As they headed back towards St Anne’s Square an indecipherable phrase was shouted out in front of them. Jon spotted the Manchester Evening News seller and the headline on his stand: butcher still stalks belle vue.

The town hall bells started to slowly toll. The chorus came to an end and a single, funereal strike let them know it was one o’clock. Jon’s eyes flickered from the gargoyles on its gothic spires to the people around him. Not for the first time, he wondered how close the killer might be at that very moment.

Rick said, ‘Shall we get some lunch? I’m starving.’

‘Good idea,’ Jon agreed.

‘The sandwiches are excellent in there,’ Rick said, pointing at the Pret a Manger further down the street.

Jon groaned inwardly, thinking of the variety of breads and choices of fancy fillings. He nodded towards a Gregg’s bakers on their side of the road. ‘They do a decent bacon barm in there.’ Now distaste showed in Rick’s face. ‘Aren’t those places a bit

… you know…?’

Jon looked at him. ‘If you mean they do no-nonsense stuff without ripping you off, yes.’

Rick glanced in and spotted a couple of construction workers still wearing their hard hats in the queue. ‘Shall we just meet back at the car?’

‘Your money,’ Jon replied. Rick crossed the road, and Jon went into Gregg’s.

He ordered two bacon barms with brown sauce and a cup of coffee, then wandered into the square. Rick was already sitting on a bench in front of the ancient church overlooking the square, enjoying the intermittent bursts of sun breaking through the broken cloud above.

Deciding there was no immediate danger of being doused in a sudden spring shower, Jon sat next to him. As he did so he glanced across towards the glass-panelled corner of the Marks amp; Spencer’s built on the site where the IRA bomb had gone off in 1996.

His mind went back to the event and the years leading up to it. He didn’t suppose there ever was an ideal time for becoming a copper. He’d joined in 1991 at the age of twenty-one, suddenly finding himself patrolling the streets in a policeman’s uniform. He’d kept on expecting members of the public to laughingly point at him in disbelief.

The city’s nightclubbing scene was then in its prime and the place was known throughout the world as Madchester. But, as the nineties wore on, venues like the Hacienda were increasingly being taken over by gangs from Cheetham Hill and Salford. Every night was turning into a scrabble for the police station’s bullet-proof vests as they were repeatedly called out to shootings. The gangs didn’t care who died in their battle to control the lucrative drugs trade, and the press had started to call the city Gunchester.

Many of his colleagues had spent their weekends working undercover in nightclubs and bars, shitting themselves as they tried to gather evidence of drug dealing so the places could be shut down. Even now the thought made Jon almost laugh with relief — thanks to his conspicuous size, and the fact he was playing for the Greater Manchester Police rugby team each Saturday afternoon, it was a role he was spared.

As the Madchester period began to stutter and fizzle the city had seemed to be searching for a new identity. He remembered mentions of somewhere called Canal Street, rumours of it being a safe drinking haven for gays. Sankey’s Soap opened in Ancoats. Alice started raving about a local band called Oasis and suddenly Manchester appeared to have rediscovered its spirit.

Then came the coded phone call on the fifteenth of June. A bomb was set to go off in one of the city’s busiest shopping areas, just as the Saturday crowds were pouring in.

He remembered running down Market Street in his bobby’s uniform, one hand holding his helmet on his head, the other furiously waving members of the public away from the Arndale. Intelligence was shaky and he had no idea when the bomb might go off. The only times he’d sweated so much was on the rugby pitch.

Within an hour they’d cleared an area in the immediate vicinity of a large white van. He was keeping the crowds back from the cordon tape at the far end of Market Street when the thing went off. It was the loudest noise he’d ever heard, a roar that jarred the air so violently it made him stagger. Then came the cascade of glass. Even a good four hundred metres away, shards rained down all around them. Miraculously, no one was killed, but the centre of the city had been devastated.

He looked towards the gleaming building. Another example of how the city had evolved and adapted from its origins as the world’s first industrial city.

As he bit into his large flat roll, he spotted Rick sipping from an absurdly small bottle. ‘What’s in there?’

‘Banana and mango smoothie.’

Jon shook his head, thinking of Alice’s love of reducing perfectly good fruit and vegetables to mush. ‘You should meet my missus.’

It was just a short drive to the next address on the list. The building was on the Rochdale Road, imposing and dark. They parked in the rear yard, next to a brand-new Range Rover.

‘Jesus, there’s some money to be made in this game,’ observed Jon.

They walked back on to the main road, clangs from a construction site clearly audible over the sound of traffic rushing past. Rick gestured to several cranes that towered like sentinels over the nearby roofs. ‘Something major’s going on over there.’

‘That’s Ancoats,’ Jon replied. ‘It’s received huge amounts of regeneration money from the EU. The place is finally getting a facelift.’

Rick checked the printout and then the brass plaque by the door. ‘This is it. ‘The Beauty Centre, Dr O’Connor.’

Jon looked dubiously at the stone surrounding the door. It was stained almost black by exhaust fumes.

Rick had to buzz twice before a voice sounded on the intercom.

‘Who is it?’ A faint Irish accent, the voice casual and friendly.

Jon was surprised; compared to the glossy organisation they’d just come from, it was hardly a businesslike greeting.

‘DS Saville and DI Spicer, Greater Manchester Police.’

Plastic clattered as the handset was dropped. ‘Sod it! Sorry, come right up.’

They exchanged a look as the door clicked open, allowing them to enter a softly lit lobby. The air was slightly musty and Jon looked down at the deep-red carpet at his feet. The groundfloor doors were all plastered over and Jon guessed the rooms on the other sides were offices of companies in the adjoining buildings. The only way to go was up the stairs, and the heavy carpeting completely muffled their footsteps as they climbed. At regular intervals were facial portraits of models, a small notice below each photograph. Collagen. Restylane. Hylaform. Laser skin resurfacing. Temporary wrinkle filler. Cool touch laser.

Jon nodded knowingly at Rick, ‘Non-surgical procedures only.’

At the top of the stairs was a short corridor with two doors leading off. The one marked ‘Treatment Room’ was closed, the other open.

‘Please come in,’ the same voice called from inside.

They entered an office that looked like it should have belonged to a lawyer. A huge wooden desk dominated the end of the room, rows of books weighing down the shelves behind it. The daylight that made it through the windows seemed to be instantly soaked up by the red carpet and wooden wall panels.

A distinguished-looking man was seated behind the desk, wiping the handset of the intercom phone with a cloth for cleaning glasses. ‘Slippery bugger. Hope it didn’t sound too loud your end. Take a seat, why don’t you.’

Jon drank in the Irish lilt. As they walked across the room, he took in the doctor’s full head of white hair, guessing he was in

his late fifties. Closer, he reassessed the doctor’s age. If he was approaching sixty, he wore his years incredibly well. His jawline was firm, the skin around his eyes smooth.

When he smiled, his teeth were perfect. ‘How can I be of help?’

Rick took out his sheet of paper. ‘Do you run this place all on your own, Dr O’Connor?’

‘I have a nurse on the days we carry out procedures. But there’s no point in paying her to be here when it’s just paperwork that I’m tidying up.’

‘Perhaps we should be talking to her. It’s about whoever orders your medical supplies.’

‘I do a lot of that myself.’

‘Including medical gloves?’

‘Indeed.’

‘We’re trying to ascertain the recent movements of a sales rep from Protex.’

‘Young Gordon Dean? He was in here only two days ago.’ He plucked a tangerine from the pile of fruit in a polished wooden bowl on his desk, then nodded towards it. ‘Gentlemen?’

Jon and Rick shook their heads and the doctor held up a finger. ‘Five pieces a day.’ He leaned forwards conspiratorially.

‘If more people kept to that little maxim there’d be a lot less work for me.’ He dropped the peel into a bin and popped a segment of tangerine into his mouth.

‘How did Gordon Dean seem to you?’ Jon asked.

‘His usual cheerful self.’

‘He normally strikes you as happy?’

‘He does. Seems to enjoy his work visits to Manchester, at least.’

‘How about non-work issues? His personal life, for instance?’ The doctor paused. ‘He’s married, I gather. No children, though I don’t know why. I’m not sure what answers you’re looking for.’

Jon smiled. ‘Neither are we. We’re just trying to get an idea of him.’

‘He’s in trouble, I take it?’

‘No. We just need to trace him. He seems to have disappeared.

The last time you saw him, was there anything out of the ordinary? Was he agitated or preoccupied, perhaps?’

O’Connor shook his head.

‘Was he here for long?’

‘No longer than usual. He left at about three o’clock.’

‘Did you chat at all?’

‘We talked about the current best dining options in

Manchester.’

‘Those being?’

‘Gordon loves his Italian food. He mentioned he was staying over in Manchester, so I recommended a place I visited the other day. Piccolino’s. Have you tried it?’

Rick and Jon shook their heads.

‘Ah, Gordon had. I think he was eating at one of his regular places. A person’s name. Now let me think.’ He closed his eyes.

‘Don Antonio’s?’ Jon asked.

The doctor clicked his fingers, opening his eyes and bowing his head fractionally at Jon. ‘Don Antonio’s. I’ve not been there myself. Have you?’

‘No, but I think we will be.’ Jon started to get up, but paused.

‘We’ve just come from the offices of the Paragon Group. What do you think of them?’

The silence was a second too long before he answered. ‘A very efficient organisation.’

Jon sank back in his seat. ‘And your personal, not professional, opinion?’

Dr O’Connor looked into Jon’s eyes. ‘My confidential personal opinion?’

‘Won’t go further than us three,’ Jon replied.

‘A bunch of mercenary money-grabbers.’

‘Go on,’ said Jon.

‘They’ll employ anyone as long as they have one ethic.’ Jon raised his eyebrows in encouragement.

‘That they’re prepared to treat anyone, regardless of need or suitability.’

‘You mean surgery?’ asked Rick.

O’Connor nodded. ‘Their staff all have medical qualifications

and a basic knowledge of cosmetic surgery. But they don’t need any sort of track history — actually, they don’t need any history or experience at all. Add to that the fact that this is an industry woefully lacking in regulations. New procedures and techniques are appearing all the time, and all too often they’re driven by profit rather than patient well-being. Not, in my opinion, a healthy state of affairs.’

‘So you’ve never applied to work for them?’

O’Connor snorted. ‘Absolutely not. The reverse, as a matter of fact. They’ve tried to buy me out once or twice, but I’m not interested. I’ve also had doctors approach me looking for work. I’ve turned them away due to their lack of experience, only to hear they’re employed by Paragon weeks later.’

‘Performing full surgical procedures?’ Jon asked.

‘Full surgical procedures.’

‘As opposed to what you perform here?’

‘Correct. I specialise in aesthetic medicine — laser treatments, botox and filler injections, on the whole. Nothing more than skin deep. But the industry’s expanding at an incredible rate. Everyone wants a slice of the action, to employ the prevalent terminology. Dentists now offer Botox treatments on the side. Got a medical qualification and a syringe? Then join the party. There are rich pickings for all.’

Jon contemplated the doctor’s words. ‘Going back to the surgical side of things, how many people would you say are employed in the industry?’

‘Nationwide or just Manchester?’

Jon toyed with the idea of letting the doctor know which investigation they were on, suspecting that he’d soon guess.

‘Manchester for starters.’

O’Connor frowned. ‘Well, Paragon and their three main competitors have a total of around twelve doctors on their books, I’d say. Some of those work as surgeons in local NHS hospitals and do the private stuff on the side to boost their incomes. Of course, if you were going under the knife, that’s the type of surgeon you want. In addition, they employ several who do private cosmetic work full time. Those guys may do a couple of days a week in Manchester, one in Leeds and one in Liverpool.

They go where the business is. I’d hesitate to say how many of them are in Manchester altogether. Fifty, maybe?’

‘Thanks for your time, Doctor,’ Jon said, getting to his feet.

Out on the street Jon wrinkled his nose as a noisy lorry roared past, leaving a light haze of exhaust fumes in its wake. ‘We’d better recommend to McCloughlin that all surgeons employed by the likes of the Paragon Group are traced and interviewed.’

‘Should be easy to check the alibis of the travelling ones,’ Rick said.

‘True,’ Jon agreed. ‘Let’s see Gordon Dean’s appointments list again.’

Rick got the sheet of paper out, holding it taut against the buffets of air created by passing traffic.

Jon pointed to the final appointment of the morning. ‘Jake’s, in Affleck’s Palace. That’s a tattoo artist.’ He looked towards Great Ancoats Street. ‘It’s only over there. Shall we get it done?’

‘Why not?’ Rick folded the sheet up.

Jon led the way across the main road and into the jumble of narrow streets and derelict cloth shops that made up the Northern Quarter. Soon they rounded the corner of a multi-storey car park, the smell of curry filling the air.

Rick looked at the little café with its never-ending menu painted on the windows. ‘That must be the sixth one of those places we’ve passed.’

Jon nodded. ‘This is where Manchester’s first curry houses sprang up, serving lunch to all the Indian workers from the mills and warehouses that used to thrive around here. It was only after they’d made enough money from these places that the owners opened up other premises out in Rusholme.’

‘You mean the curry mile?’ Rick said, referring to the stretch of road just outside the city centre crammed with dozens of glitzy Indian restaurants.

‘That’s the one,’ said Jon. He pointed across another car park to a hulking old warehouse with strange flower-like lamps attached to its walls. ‘And that’s Affleck’s Palace.’

They walked past a row of market stalls selling fruit and vegetables, and stopped by a side entrance to the Palace. Rick looked at a montage of broken tiles mounted on the wall. Blue fragments spelled out, And on the 6th day, God created MANchester. He smiled. ‘What is this place?’

‘Affleck’s Palace? Come and take a look.’

They pushed through the doors and found themselves in a room crammed with racks of old denims, corduroy jackets and military-style clothing. Joe Strummer bellowed that they should know their rights, the music unbalanced by the heavier beats of an Eminem track coming from the next room. They went through a doorway into a narrow space lined with T-shirts. Rick pointed out the lettering on one: Fat people are hard to kidnap. ‘Strange, but true I suppose,’ he said.

‘Just about sums this place up,’ Jon answered. He was about to point out another that read, Roll me in chocolate and throw me to the lesbians, but changed his mind.

They crossed into another room, this one piled high with memorabilia. A seventies-style telephone with a blue neon dial glowed from its position on an impossibly chunky Betamax video recorder which sat next to a ZX Spectrum. Finding a flight of stairs, Jon scanned the list of stalls. ‘Jake’s, third floor.’

When they reached a relatively quieter landing, Rick took the opportunity to speak. ‘What a bizarre place.’

‘Yeah, it hasn’t changed in years. In fact, most of the stuff for sale looks like it hasn’t changed in years, either.’

They emerged on to the third floor, the sound of the Fun Lovin’ Criminals booming out from a stall selling semi-precious stones and wind chimes. Jon pointed down the narrow aisle. ‘It’s in the corner I think.’

They passed through four more zones of music before reaching a stall which differed from the rest in that it had a glass front. Jake’s Body Works. 2 for 1 on all piercings. Close-up photos of tattoos filled the windows, most so fresh they were fringed by angry red skin.

Jon leaned closer, trying to work out the part of the body each image had been drawn on. Nipples, pubic regions and stomach buttons emerged from the patterns. They went inside. There was barely enough room for both of them to stand, but at least the cacophony of music outside dropped a fraction.

A man sat in the corner, shaved head bowed over a manga comic. He looked up, face glinting with clusters of studs. They protruded from his ears, lips, cheeks, nostrils and eyebrows. One ran through the upper part of his nose and Jon wondered how it didn’t make him go cross-eyed.

He folded his comic shut. ‘A Prince Albert, gentlemen?’

Jon was unsure what he meant, but knew from the man’s expression they’d been sussed immediately for police.

He took out his ID card anyway. ‘DI Spicer and DS Saville.’

‘You don’t say,’ he interrupted, eyes moving to Rick for a second. ‘I’m Jake.’ He waved a hand so covered in tattoos, it was almost blue. ‘You’ll be wanting a seat before we get started.’

The comment was phrased so Jon wasn’t sure if the man was referring to them asking questions or getting a Prince Albert, whatever that was. A mischievous light danced in Jake’s eyes and Jon wondered just how much pressure would be required to rip the bolt out of the bridge of his nose.

Rick sat down on one of the stools and said, ‘We’re trying to trace the movements of Gordon Dean. You purchase your medical examination gloves from him.’

Jake’s eyes were still on Jon, who remained standing by the door. ‘Ease up, man. I’m only fooling around.’

Jon raised and then dropped the corners of his mouth, the smile over in a blink.

Jake turned his attention to Rick. ‘Gordon? He was in here two days ago.’ He shook his head and laughed.

‘Why’s that funny?’ Rick said, half smiling, too.

Jake clicked a tongue stud against his teeth. ‘He was just passing through. He was on a voyage.’

If the man’s eyes hadn’t been so alert, Jon would have guessed he was on something.

‘What sort of voyage?’ Rick asked. Jake leaned back. ‘Self-discovery.’

‘Meaning?’

‘You tell me. After all, you’re looking for him. I just spied him off my port bow, heading God knows where. Perhaps you know more about the course he was plotting.’

Jon shook his head. ‘Jake, you’re making me feel seasick. Just let us know why you thought he was on a voyage.’

Jake burst out laughing. ‘OK, man, I like your style. For a start, he came back after his other appointments for another tattoo.’ He twisted round, took a large book off the shelf by his head and opened it up. ‘This little baby. Right on his left arse cheek.’ He tapped a design of a pudgy red imp with red skin, horns and a trident.

‘You did his first tattoo?’ asked Jon. ‘The ladybird?’

‘That’s right.’ Jake looked up and his smile faltered. ‘You’ve seen it? Don’t tell me he’s in the morgue?’

‘Why? Is that where you’d expect him to turn up?’ Jon held his eyes.

Jake’s shoulders shifted. ‘No. The guy was excited, a bit hyper even. But it was more. .’ He grasped at the air. ‘Positive, you know? He was bursting with energy. He’s not dead, is he?’

‘As I said, we’re trying to trace his movements. We don’t know where he is.’

Rick said, ‘So he was bursting with energy.’

‘Yeah, like he’d just had some good news. Grinning all the time.’

‘Didn’t say why, though?’

‘No. But he was on a mission. Said he was getting a haircut, too. That horrific side parting of his was going.’

‘Did he say where was he getting it cut?’ Rick said, pen and notebook out.

‘Zaney’s, downstairs.’

They clattered down the wooden steps, the incessant music and claustrophobic atmosphere beginning to get to Jon.

‘Yeah,’ said the hairdresser, sweeping a mane of crimson hair off her shoulder, ‘he was my last customer. Left just before six. Don’t get to lop fringes like his off very often.’

‘What sort of cut did you give him?’

‘The chopped look. Grade two back and sides, a bit longer on top. All messed up and spiky. He took a pot of extra-strong styling gel to make sure it stayed that way. Oh, and he let me get rid of that moustache, too.’

‘Did he say what he was doing, why the sudden drastic change in hairstyle?’ Rick asked.

‘Nah. Just gave me a good tip and skipped on out the door.’

Rick rubbed his hands as they walked back to their car. ‘A voyage of self-discovery. You reckon he was manic? About to go off the rails?’

Jon’s hands were in his pockets, eyes on the pavement in front. ‘I don’t think so. He was still seeing clients, chasing sales targets. Did you notice his house? There was something dead about it. I think the wife’s right — Gordon was on the verge of getting out.’

‘Yeah, but to do what? I think he was building up to something. Maybe it was his next murder.’

Jon looked away. ‘Just a gut reaction, but I can’t see it.’ Rick remained silent.

‘You don’t agree?’ Jon asked after a few seconds.

‘He was hiding a completely different side of himself from his wife. Maybe he was hiding a lot of rage, too. That tattooist said he was bubbling with excitement. Could have been with the prospect of skinning another woman.’

Jon jangled the change in his pocket, still not convinced. ‘By the way, what’s a Prince Albert?’

Rick snorted, but kept looking ahead. ‘It’s a ring. One that goes down your Jap’s eye and out under the rim of your fireman’s helmet.’

‘Oh, sweet Jesus,’ Jon groaned.