Chris Simms: Shifting Skin

‘Yeah, but it was McCloughlin’s case. He was SIO, he gave the interviews on the TV and to the press when it was all over.’

‘His case, but my collar. You know how it is,’ Jon said guardedly.

‘So why did you tell the CSM to say it was me who found the glove?’

‘We shouldn’t have even been there before him. The last thing I needed was to find what may turn out to be a crucial piece of evidence.’

‘So you got her to tell McCloughlin it was my find?’

‘Yeah,’ Jon answered, hating the fact that Saville now had something on him.

In the coffee shop, Jon tipped a sachet of white sugar into his black coffee. Rick carefully tapped half a sachet of brown sugar into his latte, then reached for the pot of chocolate powder to dust the foam on top. When he spotted Jon watching him, he suddenly changed his mind.

‘Anyway, back to the present,’ said Rick, sitting down. ‘First victim.’

Jon took a seat opposite him. ‘Angela Rowlands.’

Rick sat forwards. ‘Forty-two years old. Divorced for just under two years. Got the three-bedroom semi in Droylesden as part of the settlement. Worked part-time as a legal secretary in a solicitor’s just off Deansgate.’

Jon nodded. ‘You’ve done your homework.’

‘That’s just surface stuff. I’m hoping you know something more interesting.’

Jon took a sip of coffee and grimaced slightly with pleasure at its sharp taste. ‘Her daughter, Lucy, lives down near Castlefield, doing very well in web site design. Lucy told us her mum had been very lonely since the divorce. Hurt too. The husband dumped her for a “younger model”, to use Lucy’s words. Rowland’s stage in life: mid-forties, married for twenty years. She was in a routine. It was safe and comfy, but totally devoid of single men. Lucy had encouraged her to get out and start trying to meet someone, but apparently the idea terrified her.’

‘Don’t blame her,’ Rick leaned back. ‘Playing the field after being out of it for that long?’ He shook his head.

‘Exactly. Apparently, Lucy took her to a singles’ night at a bar in town. Lucy did very well, but her mum didn’t get a second glance. After that Lucy suggested she try dating agencies — but only the upmarket ones.’

Rick toyed with his drink. ‘Ones that advertise in the broadsheets?’

‘Yup. And at several hundred quid just to join, they’re not cheap.’

‘So we’ve got her coming into contact with various men, none of whom had a previous social connection with her. Have we got the list of people she had dates with?’

‘Only just. They were reluctant at first, because their members’ records are strictly confidential. Then someone pointed out to them that having the Butcher of Belle Vue on their books was probably more of a risk to their profits than a few disgruntled members. Rowland received dozens of member profiles, but only had around fifteen actual dates, we think. Each one’s being looked into now.’

Jon downed his coffee in one gulp. ‘According to Lucy, she hadn’t had much luck with any of them. Her confidence was low. Before the divorce she’d only ever dressed up for a few gin and tonics at their local every Friday. Now her wardrobe was hopelessly out of date.’ He tapped a forefinger on the table to emphasise his next point. ‘Then she mentioned to her daughter over the phone that she’d decided to do something. She sounded nervous and excited. She wouldn’t say what, just that it was something she should have done a long time ago.’

‘Did Lucy find out what she was up to?’ Jon shook his head. ‘Next time she saw her mum, it was in the mortuary. We’ve gone over her phone records and bank statements, but nothing of much help there.’

Both men were silent as they turned possibilities over. Jon looked up. ‘What about the porter selling this rowing machine? That was a surgical glove back there. They must be two a penny in hospitals. How about nipping over to Stepping Hill hospital?’

Rick looked uncomfortable. ‘Shouldn’t we run it by

McCloughlin first?’

‘Strictly speaking, yes.’

Rick hesitated before pulling out his mobile. ‘I’ll give him a quick ring, then. May as well play things by the book.’

Jon gave a noncommittal shrug as Rick made the call.

Rick snapped his phone shut. ‘Yeah, he says to get over there, but stressed just for a chat. What did he think we were going to do, batter him?’

Jon knew the comment was directed at him. In McCloughlin’s view, Jon’s temper was his Achilles’ heel, a constant threat to his career.

Half an hour later Jon laid his warrant card on the counter in the main reception at Stepping Hill hospital. A different woman looked up at him.

‘Could I use the phone please?’ he asked. ‘Internal call.’

‘Here you are.’ She turned it round and put it on the counter. Jon dialled 241. He was about to give up when the phone was answered. ‘Is Pete around?’

‘Pete Gray?’

‘I don’t know his surname.’

‘Well, there’s only one Pete works in here. He’s on his way with some supplies to the surgical wards. Left two minutes ago.’

‘Cheers.’ Jon handed the phone back and looked at the site map. A very cheerful volunteer with the name ‘Sue’ on her badge pointed out the way they needed to go. Thanking her, they set off down a long corridor, passing a procession of hospital staff, patients and visitors. Soon they reached a T-junction and followed the overhead sign. At the next crossroads, they could see the surgical ward immediately in front. Jon glanced to his left; a man with a large paunch was swaggering towards them, pushing a trolley piled with boxes. As he got nearer Jon said to Rick, ‘Check out the box on top of his pile.’

The label said: Mediquip Inc. Powder-free surgical gloves. Sterile.

24 boxes of 200.

‘Pete Gray?’ Jon asked. Taking in the porter’s jet-black laquered quiff, Jon guessed he was in his late forties and clinging to the same haircut of twenty years ago. When baldness hit, it was going to hit hard. The heavy gold neck chain seemed incongruous with the simple white overalls he was wearing.

‘Yes?’ he said, slowing down.

Jon held his warrant card up. ‘DI Spicer and DS Saville, Greater Manchester Police. Once you’ve dropped that lot off, can we have a quick word?’

The porter seemed to think about this for a second, eyes fixed on Jon’s badge. Nervously he raised a hand to his chin. No wedding ring. ‘Here? What’s it about?’

‘Perhaps a café area would be more comfortable,’ Jon replied, ignoring the second question.

Pete’s eyes flicked from Jon to Rick and back again. ‘OK.’ He pushed the trolley through the double doors, Jon and

Rick watching him through the windows.

‘Him selling a rowing machine? No wonder. He obviously didn’t get much use out of it,’ Rick said quietly.

Pete re-emerged and, confidently now, led them to a quiet café area round the corner. After they’d all got a drink, Pete walked over to a table with a discarded copy of the Sun on it, peeling back the front page to stare at the page three girl beneath.

‘I wouldn’t kick her out of bed. Tits are fake, though.’

Jon studied his face. With the build-up of flab on his cheeks and below his jaw, there was a faint resemblance to a Las Vegasera Elvis. In his younger days he’d probably been quite the ladies’ man. The way he passed judgement on a topless model some thirty years younger than him suggested that he thought he still was.

‘How long have you worked here, Pete?’ Jon placed a white plastic stirrer in his upturned cup lid.

Pete finished pouring a third sachet of sugar into his coffee.