Chris Simms - Shifting Skin

Jon checked her name tag. ‘Hello, Kristina. I’m DI Spicer, this is DS Saville.’ The enthusiastic way she responded to the sight of their warrant cards surprised him. Perhaps it was something to do with attitudes to authority in her native country. She listened to their request, then looked at the computer before confirming that Gordon Dean had booked in the day before. ‘The room is now occupied by another guest.’

‘So Mr Dean checked out. Can you tell me at what time?’ asked Jon.

‘It is not possible to say. Many guests leave the key in the door, others drop it in the box at the end of the counter. The room is paid for at check-in and should be vacated by eleven the next morning.’

‘Can you tell us if anything was left in his room? Bags, a laptop, that sort of thing?’ Rick asked.

‘I will check Lost Property.’ She disappeared into the back room, returning a minute later. ‘No, nothing from his room.’

Jon pondered the information. Gordon must have returned at some stage, packed his things and moved on. He pointed to the CCTV camera above the entrance. ‘Do you keep the tapes from previous days?’

She nodded. ‘For the last two weeks only. But I would need permission from head office before you can take one. They are shut now, I’m sorry.’

Jon tapped a finger on the counter. More and more, he suspected that Gordon Dean had simply eloped. However, he knew McCloughlin would be tracking him closely on this one.

‘Actually, Kristina, we could seize the tape as evidence here and now. But don’t worry, I’m happy if you could just put in a request for us to borrow yesterday’s.’

Jon clicked his biro shut and dropped it on the pile of paper and messages on his desk. Among them was a note saying the check he’d requested on the mobile phone number Fiona Wilson had given him had shown it to be a pay-as-you-go: untraceable. It was almost ten o’clock at night and the incident room was nearly empty.

‘I’m calling it a day,’ he announced.

Rick stretched his arms above his head. ‘Yeah, good idea.’ He pushed a batch of forms aside. ‘This can wait until tomorrow. I’d never have believed getting someone’s credit-card records would take so long.’

‘That’s data protection,’ Jon replied. ‘Lots more paperwork for us.’ As he got up he saw the card from Cheshire Consorts on his desk. Shit, he’d promised Fiona he’d have a word at the motel. ‘One more job to do,’ he said, sitting down again.

Rick was hesitating, jacket draped over an arm.

‘That favour for my other half’s friend? I said I’d check the motel she stayed in. You get on.’ Jon nodded towards the door.

‘Oh. OK, see you tomorrow.’

Jon tried to look up the number for the motel but couldn’t find it in the Yellow Pages. However, a quick visit wouldn’t take him too far out of his way.

In the deserted car park he was surprised to see Rick standing by his vehicle. Jon was parked almost next to it. ‘Car not starting?’

Rick flicked a distracted glance at his Golf. ‘No, it’s fine. I just wanted to get something sorted out.’

This’ll be interesting, thought Jon, crossing his arms.

Rick’s chest filled out slightly as he nervously breathed in.

‘Back at Gordon Dean’s house, you looked at me when I was describing that place called Crimson.’

Jon nodded, surprised that this wasn’t about McCloughlin. Rick swallowed. ‘I hope the fact that I’m gay won’t affect how we work together.’

Jon was suddenly relieved that it was dark: Rick couldn’t see his blush. ‘No. Of course not.’

Rick continued facing him a moment longer. ‘Good. It’s best that we dealt with it straight away.’

‘Absolutely. And it’s really not an issue for me,’ Jon replied, hearing his language slipping into the politically correct. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘See you tomorrow.’

Simultaneously they unlocked their cars, opened the doors and got in. As Jon turned the ignition key, he heard Rick’s engine start, too. Both sets of lights came on together. Jon leaned forward and gestured to Rick. The other car drove quickly away. Jon sat back in his seat. Jesus, his partner had just admitted he was gay. He wondered if it was common knowledge around the incident room.

Despite all the anti-discrimination regulations, homosexuality was still something plenty of his colleagues regarded as a laughable affliction. They were usually the same officers who believed most blacks were thieving, lazy niggers.

He hadn’t received any piss-take comments about working with a poof, so he concluded that no one could know. Then he remembered McCloughlin’s wink on telling Jon that he was getting a partner. Could it have been a hint?

Five minutes later he pulled into the Platinum Inn’s car park and looked across to the greyhound stadium behind. The floodlights were on and a crackly voice was announcing the runners for the final race.

Jon glanced around the car park. Two other cars, a Ford Mondeo and a Citroën Xara. Salesman choices. He pushed open the doors to reception. The place had obviously seen better days. The glut of cheap chain hotels in the town centre was slowly strangling it to death. Another few months and it would be boarded up, and shortly after that probably burned down by local kids.

Behind the counter was an alarmingly thin woman. You’ve had a tough paper round, thought Jon. He held up his warrant card. ‘DI Jon Spicer. And you are?’

‘Dawn Poole, night manager.’

‘Just the person I need to speak to. Were you on duty last night?’

‘I’m on duty every night.’

Jon looked around, not envying her lonely job in an area where women’s corpses were turning up, stripped of their skin.

‘Seems quiet. How’s business?’

She shrugged. ‘It’s been busier.’

‘Who do you get staying here? Company reps, mainly?’

‘Mainly. Some younger sorts having a night out in Manchester. Three to a room can work out cheaper for them than a taxi home, specially if they manage to sneak in an extra mate.’

‘Who else?’

‘That’s about it.’

‘So if I take a seat here, there’s no chance of any couples coming in to book rooms by the hour?’

Her mouth tensed up and she pointed to the tariff sheet on the wall. ‘The rates are for the night only.’

‘Come on, Dawn.’ Jon leaned on the counter, sensing it wouldn’t take much to make her crumble. It never did with the mouse-like types. Usually they’d do whatever it took to keep attention off them. ‘This place is used as a knocking shop. I don’t work Vice. Help me out here and I won’t need to get them involved.’

She crossed her arms, the bones in her elbows jutting out painfully. ‘What do you want to know?’

That’s more like it, he thought. ‘The girls you get coming in here, do you know their names?’

‘Some of them.’

‘Ever heard of an Alexia?’

The skin below her eyes flinched. ‘I don’t think so.’

Jon didn’t break his stare. ‘You don’t think so? How about a yes or a no?’

She dropped her head. ‘No, I haven’t.’

He took a breath in. ‘Last night, someone heard something. It could have been the sound of an assault. Did you have any trouble? A girl coming out of her room looking injured?’

‘No.’ She was still looking down.

‘Look at me, please. It was around three thirty in the morning.’

‘No. That Fiona what’s-her-name made a report, right? Listen, she staggered in pouring with blood. I helped patch her up, gave her some booze.’

‘How much?’

‘A lot. There wasn’t much left in the bottle by the time she went to bed. Probably shouldn’t have given her any, the state she was in. Totally stressed out, she was. Then she thinks she heard something in the middle of the night.’ Bony fingers fiddled with her necklace. She sighed. ‘Look, it can get pretty busy here, but I’d have noticed. Honestly.’