Chris Simms - Shifting Skin

‘About eight years.’

‘Ever have to work nights? I could never get used to them when I was in uniform.’

Pete’s shoulders relaxed a little. ‘I don’t mind them, actually.’ Jon stretched his legs out to the side of the table, took a sip of coffee. Allowing a note of boredom into his voice, he said,

‘This is just routine stuff because your name was thrown up as part of an ongoing investigation — it shouldn’t take long. Were you working yesterday?’

‘Yeah, I finish at eight in the evening.’

He wasn’t quite sure why, but Jon was getting a feeling about the man. Keeping it casual, he looked away, appearing to be more interested in the Give Blood poster on the wall. He was about to ask his next question when Rick jumped in, ‘What did you do for the rest of the night?’

A wary expression slid across Pete’s face. ‘Watched a couple of videos.’

Jon tried to steer the conversation back to just a chat. ‘A couple? You a film buff?’

‘Just Elvis ones.’

‘I think I’ve only ever seen Viva Las Vegas . What else was he in?’

‘Loads.’

The man had clammed up and Jon could tell he was only going to get more tense. Cursing Rick for having jumped in so clumsily, he decided to go for it. ‘Did anyone watch them with you?’

‘No, I live alone.’ Guarded now.

‘Pete, are you into exercise?’

‘Not really.’

‘What about rowing?’ He shook his head.

‘You’ve never tried a rowing machine?’

Pete blinked. ‘Oh, yeah. I’ve tried it a couple of times.’

‘At a gym?’

‘No, I bought one. The thing’s still in my house.’

‘Must clutter the place up. Ever considered selling it?’

The stream of questions was irritating Pete and he tried to reverse the flow. ‘Why? You want to buy it?’

Jon laid his forearms on the table. ‘Did Carol Miller want to buy it?’

He watched as connections came together in the other man’s head. ‘I’ve never laid eyes on her.’

‘Was she looking to buy your rowing machine? The one you’re trying to sell on the noticeboard of the maternity ward?’ Pete ran a hand back and forth across his chin, eyes shifting to the side. ‘We spoke. She was interested, but she never followed it up.’

‘You spoke? You mean over the telephone?’

‘That’s right. She rang me — internal call.’

No record of calls made on an internal phone system, Jon thought. He was considering his next question when Pete spoke first. ‘I don’t like where this is going. I’m not prepared to continue.’ He finished his coffee and got up.

Jon shrugged. ‘One last thing before you go. I’ve been meaning to see Viva Las Vegas again for a long time. Where do you hire your Elvis videos from?’ He could check on Pete Gray’s story with the shop.

‘I have my own collection.’ He walked quickly away.

Jon waited until he’d disappeared round the corner. ‘Well, that got him all shook up.’ Rick’s face was blank, completely missing the joke.

Jon pulled an evidence bag from his pocket, then, using the end of a pen, picked up the cup Pete had been drinking from and dropped it inside.

‘What are you taking that for?’ asked Rick.

‘It’ll have his prints and DNA on it.’

His partner laughed incredulously. ‘You’re not seriously thinking of trying to use that as evidence in court?’

Jon gritted his teeth and waited for the flash of annoyance to pass. ‘No. But it could come in useful if any DNA’s recovered from the third victim’s body.’

With a little shake of his head, Rick stood up.

As they crossed the canteen Jon stared at the back of Rick’s neck, thinking that his new partner had a lot to learn and deciding that he wasn’t the one who’d do the teaching.

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.