Chris Simms - Shifting Skin

They held up their warrant cards and her smile slipped.

‘Could we speak to your head of human resources, please?’ Jon asked.

‘One moment.’ She pressed a button on the switchboard.

‘Martin, I have two policemen wishing to speak with you.’ She listened for a second, then looked up. ‘Could I ask what it’s in relation to?’

Jon leaned closer and, for the benefit of the person on the other end of the line, said loudly, ‘Gordon Dean.’

The receptionist listened again. ‘He’ll be right down. Please take a seat.’

Jon glanced at the chairs. Like everything else, they were stiff and unused. He remained standing. A minute later footsteps could be heard on the stairs. A middle-aged man in shirt and tie walked over to them. ‘Martin Appleforth, head of HR.’ He hesitated, not knowing who to shake hands with first.

Jon stepped forward. ‘DI Spicer and DS Saville.’

Appleforth’s office was slightly too warm. The blinds on the end window were lowered, but sunlight cut through the gaps, one sliver dissecting the photo of a plain-looking woman trying to smile in some crowded beauty spot.

‘I hope Gordon’s all right? Has something happened?’ He positioned his pen in the exact midpoint of a Protex notepad.

‘We’re not sure at present,’ answered Jon, unbuttoning his jacket. ‘What sort of employee is he?’

Appleforth turned one palm upwards, as if the necessary information would drop into it. ‘Hard-working, reliable. He’s been with us for around eight years.’

‘And his sales patch is the whole of the north-west?’

‘The Manchester area and south into Cheshire. Another rep takes care of the Liverpool area and up into the Lake District as far as the Scottish border.’

‘So Mr Dean has a company car?’ asked Rick.

‘Yes, a silver Passat — same as me, in fact.’

‘Do you have his registration?’

Appleforth swivelled in his seat, consulted a sheet of paper pinned to his noticeboard and read out the registration.

Jon noted it down. ‘What sort of companies do you deal with?’

‘Hospitals and GP practices mainly, as you can imagine, but any sort of business in the health sector. Private surgeries, NHS clinics, even a few tattoo parlours and beauty salons, though I class them in the cosmetics sector.’

‘Tell me, do you have a contract with Stepping Hill hospital in Stockport?’ Jon asked, thinking of Pete Gray.

‘I’d have to phone the sales department.’

‘And it would be useful if we could have the list of clients Mr Dean saw in the last three days. Is that possible?’

‘Again, I’d have to ask the sales department.’

‘How old is Mr Dean?’

‘Late thirties, I’d have thought.’

‘Married?’

‘Yes.’ Appleforth looked down at his desk and rubbed a forefinger against his temple. ‘Angela, if I remember.’ Jon guessed he’d just been looking at Gordon Dean’s file.

‘Have you spoken to his wife today?’ Rick asked.

‘Yes.’ Appleforth admitted. ‘She rang earlier, very worried. When I said he hadn’t shown up for the meeting here, she said she was going to report him as missing.’ He looked at them as if they should already know this.

Rick nodded ambiguously. ‘Which station did she go to?’

‘Her local one in Stoke.’

‘I see. Mr Appleforth, we could do with speaking to her ourselves. Could you give us her phone number?’

He reached for the mouse, but his hand stayed hovering above it. ‘I’m not sure if I should give his personal details out. .’ His eyes were calculating. ‘She said the police told her that, although he’s missing, they couldn’t treat it as anything but low priority for a few more days. How come you’re here now?’

‘Mr Appleforth.’ Jon hunched forward in his seat, shoulders suddenly tight against his jacket. The desire to move the investigation forward was nagging away at him and there was no way an officious little prick like this was going to slow things down.

‘We’re investigating a serious crime here, one the press are also very interested in. There’s reason to believe that Mr Dean, in his capacity as a sales rep for Protex, could help us. Now, I don’t want this turning into a matter for your PR department.’

Appleforth hesitated a moment longer before clicking his mouse. Sure enough, Gordon Dean’s details, including his address in Stoke, were already up on his desktop. ‘We’d appreciate being kept up to date with Mr Dean’s whereabouts.’

Jon sat back. ‘Of course.’

They were heading back out of Appleforth’s office when Jon paused in the doorway. ‘Does Mr Dean have a workstation in the building?’

‘Yes, office number five at the end of the corridor.’

‘May we take a quick look inside?’

Appleforth hesitated but, unable to think of a decent reason why not, nodded and got up. He led Jon and Rick along the silent corridor, past smoked-glass windows and shiny wooden doors. They stood back at number five, allowing him to open the door for them.

To Jon’s annoyance Appleforth used the opportunity to step in ahead of them and position himself in the corner by the window. ‘What are you looking for?’ he asked.

Jon shrugged. ‘Nothing specifically.’

The room was small, too small for three men. Jon tried to look around, but his view was obscured by Rick and Appleforth. Picking up on his look of annoyance, Rick stepped back and watched from the doorway. Immediately in front of Jon was a small desk with a computer monitor and keyboard taking up one half. A phone with a notepad occupied the opposite corner and between them sat a desk tidy. Jon looked at the three cylindrical tubes, noting each one held a different colour of biro, blue, red and black. The shallower tray at the front was filled with paperclips. Jon looked again; they were actually stacked in neat little piles of decreasing size.

He examined the rest of the room. A filing cabinet was next to Appleforth, each drawer clearly marked: A — F, G — L, M

— R, S — Z. Next to the cabinet was a bin. Jon craned forwards, it was spotlessly clean inside. His eyes wandered over the bare walls. No pictures, prints or photographs. He reached round the desk and tried the uppermost drawer. Locked. ‘Does he ever actually work here?’

Appleforth looked confused. ‘Yes. He’s on the road most of the time, but here about three times a week I’d say.’

‘And is he as neat in his personal appearance as his office suggests?’

Appleforth frowned briefly. ‘I suppose so. And we’d expect him to be, too. Protex is a medical supplies company. We need to be neat, organised, efficient.’

‘Clinical,’ Rick added from the doorway.

‘I’m sorry?’ Appleforth asked.

‘Nothing,’ Jon replied, glaring at Rick.

At that time of day the drive down to Stoke took just over an hour. Rush hour, and you could double that, Jon thought. Gordon Dean’s house was in a private development bordering agricultural land, cows dotting the fields alongside. The cluster of houses was large, all of them detached and with separate garages. They pulled to a halt outside Ravenscroft. Fake wooden timbers criss-crossed the front of the house, lattice windows adding another feeble period touch.

They’d phoned en route and Mrs Dean opened the door as they walked up the front path. She ushered them into a spacious living room dominated by pastel shades and the scent of polish. The pale pink carpet was covered in hoover marks and a yellow duster lay on the coffee table. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, removing it.

‘I need to be doing something.’ Her eyes searched theirs, seeking information from their expressions.

‘I’m afraid we haven’t anything to tell you as to your husband’s whereabouts as yet,’ Jon said, turning and gesturing to the large sofa and its plumped-up cushions.