Chris Simms - Shifting Skin

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.

The body in the bed didn’t move.

Sunlight slanted in through the open window, spilling across the crumpled white sheets and creating a lunar landscape of miniature ravines. Silence dominated the room, pierced at regular intervals by a thin whistle. It came from the bandages encasing the patient’s face.

Eventually a hand slid upwards. A forefinger and thumb picked delicately at the nostril holes and shoulders flinched as pain lanced outwards. After a few moments the patient tried again, this time successfully getting the tip of a varnished nail into a nostril that still throbbed from where the blows had landed. A large flake of dried blood was prised away and a sob of self-pity was released.

The hand fell back on to the sheet as a soft whirring came from the window. A robin had alighted on the metal arm holding the window open. Head cocked to one side, it surveyed the room with a keen eye.

From the bed, a pair of swollen and bloodshot eyes looked back, hungry for company of any kind. The patient tried to encourage the bird forward with a kissing sound, tears spilling over the layers of gauze.

Immaculate grass borders flanked the entrance to the Europa Business Park. The spotless white gates were open and, as soon as they turned in, the car tyres seemed to start gliding over the smooth tarmac. A large sign stood at a fork in the road. Rick’s eyes moved over it. ‘Units ten to twenty. Right turn.’

Jon spun the wheel and they followed the gently curving avenue. Side roads branched off to low buildings made from a type of corrugated material that appeared to come in only three colours: blue, green and white. Protex Ltd had chosen white.

They parked in one of the spaces reserved for visitors directly in front of reception. Grey glass doors slid silently open as they approached them and they stepped into a foyer which was tidy to the point of being unwelcoming. A photo of a proudly beaming man was on their right. Directly below it a brass plaque: Keith Bradley founded this company in 1973.

And doesn’t his tie just show it, thought Jon, making an effort not to wince at the ugly splashes of colour jumping off the man’s chest.

Photos of various gloves lined the wall, each one bathed in coloured lighting to add interest to a totally lifeless product.

A young woman with a headset cutting into her wavy brown hair nodded to them from behind the reception desk. ‘Can I help you?’