Chris Simms - Shifting Skin

‘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.’

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.