Shifting Skin

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?’

Alice’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.’

An image of the killer had just started to materialise in his head. Blurred and indistinct maybe, but just enough to create a tingle in his veins. It was a sensation he found completely addictive. Now the hazy silhouette evaporated like a mirage. His lips tensed in regret. ‘Fiona, I’m telling you this in confidence. The body found at just after six this morning. It had been there all night, not placed there just before dawn.’

Fiona frowned. ‘But I heard…What I heard, it wasn’t just sex.’ Her jaw set tight. ‘I really think I heard someone being killed.’

Jon took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling, wondering how much brandy she’d shared with the receptionist. Halogen bulbs glared down at him.

‘And I found this.’ Fiona patted her pockets and pulled out a slightly crumpled business card. ‘It was under the bed.’

‘Under which bed?’

‘The one in the next room. Number nine. The door hadn’t shut properly. I looked around it this morning.’

‘And?’

‘And it was spotless. The bed looked like no one had slept in it. The bathroom was immaculate. Everything had been wiped clean — to destroy evidence, I suppose. This was the only thing there. Oh, and the spare blanket was missing, too.’

The card was still in her outstretched hand, shaking slightly. Jon looked at it. It could have been lying there for days. ‘Fiona, you were attacked by your husband last night. You mentioned you had quite a bit of brandy with the night receptionist-’

‘Don’t say I imagined it!’ she hissed.

‘I’m not. I’m certain you heard something. But this motel

— it’s used on an hourly basis by prostitutes and their clients. All sorts are going on. Doors banging, people coming and going right through the night.’

‘I heard what I heard.’ The card was thrust defiantly towards him.

Reluctantly Jon took it, read the printed writing then flipped it over.

Fiona jabbed a finger at the scrawled biro. ‘I tried her number. A man answered. He hung up on me and when I tried again the number had gone dead.’

Jon raised an eyebrow.

‘Go on. Try it yourself.’

As he took his mobile out he got a surreptitious look at his watch. This was taking up too much time. He rang the number. It went through to a number unavailable announcement.

‘See?’ Fiona insisted. Her voice was beginning to grate. ‘He’s stolen her stuff. The phone’s probably been shoved down some drain by now.’

‘OK.’ Jon got ready to stand up. ‘This Platinum Inn. I’ll stop by and ask some questions, I’ll speak to Cheshire Consorts and I’ll check who this mobile number is registered to.’

Fiona relaxed a little. ‘Thank you.’

‘I’ve really got to go. I’ll call you. Have you got a mobile?’ She gave him her number.

*

When he walked into the incident room on the top floor of Longsight station, a new buzz was in the air.

Rick was at his desk, a couple of other officers complimenting him on spotting the glove. Jon saw the look of pleasure on his face, the easy way he was taking credit for the find. You’ll go far in this job, he thought.

As he got to their desks Rick finally saw him. ‘It was blood on that glove.’

Jon sat down. ‘That’s great news. Anything on who the girl is?’

‘No. She’s been fingerprinted and a DNA sample’s been taken. All missing reports for young female adults are being checked now, and word’s gone out to the neighbouring forces to do the same.’

‘Door-to-door around Belle Vue?’

‘As we speak.’

The other two officers moved off and Rick quietly said,

‘McCloughlin announced that I’d found the glove to the whole room. It’s been a good way of meeting everyone.’

That surprised Jon, and he thought that maybe there was no link between Rick and McCloughlin. But then he realised Rick could easily have told McCloughlin the true story and the announcement to the incident room could be just McCloughlin keeping up the pretence. ‘What about that footprint?’

‘The CSM — what was her name?’

‘Nikki Kingston,’ Jon replied, slightly irritated at the defensive note in his voice.

‘Apparently, she shoved a bucket over it and sent for a casting kit.’

Jon grinned in admiration of her efficiency.

‘But the best is yet to come,’ Rick carried on.

‘Go on.’

‘The glove. She’s testing it for fingerprints, something about amino acid deposits in sweat showing up on latex. If whoever dropped that glove is on NAFIS, we could have his name and address in a few hours.’

Jon looked around. ‘No wonder everyone’s looking so happy.’

Rick stood up. ‘I’m desperate for a leak.’

Jon waited until Rick had gone out, then picked up the phone and dialled Nikki’s number. ‘Nikki, it’s Jon. This glove.’

‘Bloody hell, Jon. Anyone else and I’d tell them to call back later. It’s right in front of me. We’ve already lifted a partial from the wrist where he gripped it to pull it on.’

‘Enough for a match?’

‘No. But there should be others — on the inside at the fingertips, for instance. If he wasn’t wearing them long enough to get them all smudged, they could prove useful.’

‘Great. Listen, can you tell me who made the glove? Can you see the word “Mediquip” on it?’

‘Hang on. There’s something on the back.’ Her words were drawn out and Jon could tell she was squinting, face inches from the glove. ‘Yes. It says “Size 8” and “Mediquip Inc”. Good news?’

‘Could well be,’ Jon replied, trying to suppress the excitement in his voice. He placed the bag with Pete Gray’s cup in on the desk. ‘Last thing, Nikki,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Can you run a couple of tests on a cup for me? Fingerprints and, hopefully, saliva for DNA.’

‘Are you taking the piss?’

‘I don’t mean straight away,’ he protested. ‘Just when you get the chance.’

She sighed. ‘You owe me. Big time. Where’s it come from, anyway?’

‘A suspect left it behind at an interview.’

‘So this is an unofficial test?’

‘Yeah.’ Jon smiled. ‘If it links him to what I’m hoping, we’ll pull him in on something else and then run a DNA mouth swab in line with the Police and Criminal Evidence Act.’ Seeing Rick coming back in, he quickly hid the cup in his drawer. ‘Right, I’ll leave you to it.’

‘Sure there’s nothing else?’ she said sarcastically.

‘No, that’ll do for the moment. Cheers.’ He hung up as Rick sat down. ‘I’ve just spoken to the CSM. The glove you found at the crime scene was made by a company called Mediquip.’

Rick raised a finger. ‘Same as the ones Pete Gray was wheeling to the surgical ward.’

Jon winked. ‘Have a check on the PNC, see if he’s got any priors. I’ll see what the internet has on Mediquip.’

Less than a minute later, Jon was reading out the company’s home page in an American accent. ‘Mediquip is one of the world’s leading manufacturers of latex and vinyl gloves for surgical and medical use. Our factory employs the very latest quality control standards in order to produce a range of gloves recognised across the globe for their reliability.’ A row of thumbnail-sized photos popped up across the the screen. ‘Powder-free vinyl. PE gloves for industrial use. Powder-free in natural colour. Latex surgical sterilised by EO gas. Copolymer sterile latex. Pre-powdered nitrile examination.’ He scanned the column on the left of the screen. ‘Here we go: suppliers.’ He keyed ‘United Kingdom’ into the search field. Four names came up, one based in Manchester: Protex Ltd, Unit 15, Europa Business Park, Denton.

Rick’s eyes were on his own screen. ‘Pete Gray. Cautioned for sexual harassment back in eighty-nine. Was going to court, but charges were dropped by his then wife, Helen Gray. There’s an addendum to contact the Domestic Violence Unit for more information.’

He called the unit and got them to pull their intelligence file on Pete Gray. There were two other incidents involving violence towards females, one in 1993 and another in 1999. Neither had resulted in a caution or conviction.

‘So he’s not had his DNA added to the national database,’ Rick announced, hanging up the phone.

‘Looks like he has an attitude problem with the ladies, though,’ Jon replied, printing off the contact details for Protex. ‘OK. I think it’s time for a word with McCloughlin.’

As he got up, he saw the business card for Cheshire Consorts lying on his desk. Flipping it over, he looked at the mobile phone number scrawled there and groaned. He’d assured Fiona that he’d look into it, and now he’d have to waste valuable time keeping his promise.

‘Two seconds, I just need to do a favour for a colleague of my girlfriend. She thinks she heard someone being strangled in the room next to her in a motel last night.’

Rick smirked at Jon’s tone. ‘Whereabouts?’

‘Belle Vue,’ Jon replied, picking up the phone.

‘Really? Near where the body was this morning?’

Jon nodded. ‘Yeah, but don’t get excited. Whatever she thinks she heard, it was at three thirty in the morning. The third victim’s time of death was hours before that.’

He called the communications liaison office. ‘DI Spicer here. Could you run a check on a mobile phone number for me, please?’

Next he flipped the card over and rang Cheshire Consorts itself. ‘Hello, this is DI Spicer from Greater Manchester Police. Who am I speaking to, please?’

‘Joanne Perkins. Are you on duty, Detective Inspector, or is this call for leisure purposes?’

But for a calculating note, the voice was very seductive. Jon imagined long, shimmering blond hair, arched eyebrows and full red lips. ‘I’m on duty, yes. Could I speak to the manager or owner, please?’

‘You are. I’m manager and owner.’

‘Ms Perkins-’

‘Please, call me “Miss”. You’ll find we’re feminine, not feminist, at Cheshire Consorts.’

Jon smiled; the lady was good. ‘Miss Perkins. Do you have a girl on your books called Alexia?’

‘Why?’

‘A possible missing person. We have reason to believe she worked as an escort for your company.’

A cigarette lighter flicked and breath was exhaled against the mouthpiece. He could almost feel the smoke washing over his face. ‘No surname?’

Jon shook his head. ‘Afraid not.’

‘No, I don’t.’ The answer was too abrupt.

‘Have any girls failed to check back with you since their last job?’

‘DI Spicer, I’m not their nanny. The customer gives his credit card number to me, I send the girl to him. Apart from passing a percentage of his payment to the girl, I’m out of the equation.’ That was more like it, Jon thought. Cold and selfish. He guessed her experience of customers wasn’t limited to just the management side of things. ‘And you’re sure no one of that name works for you? It sounds like an alias to me.’

‘All my girls use aliases. Go to Cheshire Consorts dot com. They’re all listed there. Now this is a business line. I really must go.’

Jon made sure he got the phone down first. Small recompense for being brushed off. A few seconds later he knocked on McCloughlin’s door, opened it and let Rick step in first. McCloughlin’s face lit up. ‘DS Saville.’ His eyes moved to Jon.

‘And DI Spicer.’ Less enthusiasm in his voice. ‘Sit down.’

‘Sir,’ Jon began, ‘we spoke to Pete Gray, the porter at Stepping Hill hospital.’

‘And?’

‘As soon as Carol Miller was mentioned, his mouth clammed shut. In fact, he got up and walked away, not prepared to talk any further.’

‘Interesting.’

Rick spoke up. ‘He was arrested for sexual harassment in

1989. His ex-wife.’

McCloughlin inclined his head. ‘And I can tell you have more.’

Jon nodded. ‘When we saw him at the hospital, Rick noticed he was wheeling a box of surgical gloves. They’re manufactured by a US company called Mediquip, but distributed in this region by a British firm called Protex Ltd.’

McCloughlin’s eyes lingered suspiciously on Jon before turning to Rick. ‘Have you called Protex yet? We could do with knowing who the area rep is, at least.’

‘Not yet,’ said Rick. ‘We-I’ve only just got the information.’

McCloughlin obviously sensed Rick wasn’t being straight. He pushed his phone across the desk. ‘Make the call.’

Rick looked down. The only thing on his lap was Pete Gray’s record. Sheepishly he looked at Jon. ‘I think you have the company’s details?’

Jon whipped the sheet out from his notebook. From the corner of his eye he saw McCloughlin’s lip beginning to curl.

Rick called the number, introduced himself and asked to speak to the sales rep for the north-west. He started jotting information down. ‘Since when?…I see…And his name’s Gordon Dean?

… Where was he staying?…OK…No, if we hear anything we’ll call back.’ He hung up, looking baffled. ‘It appears he’s vanished. He was staying in Manchester, seeing clients around town yesterday. Since then they’ve been trying to contact him. He missed a big sales meeting this morning.’

Without lifting his forearm from his desk, McCloughlin pointed a finger at the door. ‘A blood-spattered glove is dropped at a murder scene and the area rep for that company goes missing the very next morning? I don’t need to tell you which lead to pursue, gentlemen.’

As they made for the door, McCloughlin called Jon back. Without looking up, he said, ‘Next time, don’t use your partner to front up information that you’ve sourced. Understood?’

‘Sir.’ Jon closed the door quietly behind him.