Chris Simms - Shifting Skin

Fiona shook her head.

‘Just past the Apollo on the A57. You can’t miss it. All the windows are blacked out, for a start.’

Fiona ignored Joanne’s movement towards the door. ‘What did she look like?’

Joanne sighed. ‘Skinny little thing — a good sign she was using. About your height, late teens, early twenties. Hair darkish brown. Down to about here.’ She held a hand to her collarbone.

‘She was still pretty, not for much longer. The bruises round her eye certainly didn’t help.’

‘Bruises? Someone had been hitting her?’ Fiona asked with dismay, imagining the wretched life the poor girl must lead.

An indifferent shrug. ‘Goes with the territory, that end of the market.’

Fiona almost felt sick, acutely aware that Emily would have been roughly that age now. She held the image of the girl in her mind’s eye as she finally stood. ‘Thank you. And sorry to have wasted your time.’

Joanne looked her up and down. ‘Listen, when your face has cleared up and you’ve got your own clothes back, call me.’

Fiona stared at her, unsure of what she meant. Realisation struck and she quickly made for the door.

By the time she got back to the outskirts of town, it had gone ten o’clock. The information Joanne had given her burned in her head. The Hurlington Health Club. A skinny girl with dark brown hair, around twenty years old.

The desire to find her dragged Fiona towards the city centre and she found herself driving along the A57 towards the Apollo. A few minutes later purple neon lettering caught her eye. The Hurlington Health Club. It was halfway down a short row of shops, sandwiched between a place selling antique fireplaces and another selling second-hand furniture. The doors and windows of both shops were concealed behind grey metal pull-down shutters.

She eased into a lay-by and looked across the road. The front of the Hurlington Health Club had been returned to something resembling a residential, not business, property. A terracotta pot holding a miniature conifer stood on either side of the front door, and in the front garden a tiny fountain sprinkled water, lit mauve by an underwater light, into a small, square pond. She peered more closely at the windows. The curtains, of red material which had the heaviness of velvet, were open, but even so it was impossible to see inside. Joanne was right: there was an inner layer of glass and it had been blacked out.

Nervously, she checked in her rear-view mirror. There was no traffic coming. She climbed out and crossed the road. The front gate was open; water tinkled into the square pond. A small sign on the door read: Open 11 am until late. All major credit cards accepted .

Fiona took a deep breath and walked quickly towards the door. It opened and a man stepped out, buttoning up his coat. Their eyes met and his immediately moved down to her chest. He stared with no attempt at subtlety.

Fiona shrank back, bumping into the gatepost. He realised she wasn’t coming in. The look that came into his eyes reminded Fiona of her husband before he punched her. He moved towards her and she turned and scuttled back across the road to her car.

Once inside she locked the door. He sauntered off towards the small car park by the Apollo. Her eyes turned to the front door again. She couldn’t go in now, not at night. Any visit would have to be during the day when, she hoped, the place would be quieter.

Jon checked his watch. Eight thirty-five, not too early to ring.

‘Morning. Martin Appleforth, please. It’s Detective Inspector

Spicer.’

A few seconds of Handel’s Water Music before Martin spoke.

‘Morning, DI Spicer. I was just going through my emails. The sales department have sent over Gordon’s client list as requested. Is there any news of him?’

‘I’m afraid not. We’re trying to locate his Passat, but nothing yet. And it hasn’t shown up on the national database as abandoned or burned-out. Anyway, thanks for getting the information on Mr Dean. Did you find out if your firm has a contract with Stepping Hill hospital?’

‘I did and we haven’t. Have you an email address I can forward Gordon’s client list to?’

Jon gave it to him and the message appeared a few seconds later. There were two attachments, a complete list of Gordon Dean’s clients and a shorter one of the people he was due to visit in the last days before he vanished.

Jon dragged his eyes from the screen to see Rick hanging up his jacket. ‘All right?’

‘Morning.’ Rick’s voice was reserved, the comment made over his shoulder.

Jon watched him sit down. Rick glanced across, then broke eye contact and reached for the paperwork on his desk.

‘I’ve got the last clients Gordon Dean was due to see,’ Jon said.

Rick looked up, the tension around his eyes easing. ‘Yeah?’

‘On the day before he disappeared he had one client to see in the morning, then another three in the afternoon, two in central Manchester and one in Worsley.’

‘Shall we start with his last ones first?’

‘I reckon so.’ Jon printed the list out. ‘Might as well go over to the NHS clinic in Worsley.’ He looked at his watch. ‘No point in setting off now — the M60 will be a nightmare.’

They spent the next forty or so minutes filling out report sheets until the receiver called across the room to them, ‘The preliminary analysis has come in for the footprint recovered at the latest crime scene.’

Heads across the room turned.

‘It’s a shoe, not a trainer. Size eleven, left foot. Owner likely to weigh in excess of twelve stone. The grip on the sole is quite distinctive and it’s completely worn away on the inside edge, suggesting that the wearer pronates quite heavily. As a result, he’s highly likely to have an unusual gait.’

The scene in the hospital corridor flashed into Jon’s mind. He had thought Pete Gray swaggered as a result of his beer belly. Now he wondered if the swivel in his hips could have been the result of one foot turning inwards with each step.

The clinic in Worsley was tucked away behind the pleasant green. It was part of a cluster of council buildings including a small swimming pool, exercise hall, doctor’s surgery and the clinic itself.

The reception area was plastered with a haphazard collection of posters. Professionally produced NHS ones on giving up smoking sat alongside home-printed ones on dieting groups, childcare support and mothers’ meetings. Jon looked with interest at a cluster of smaller, handwritten cards advertising everything from breast pumps and second-hand prams to babysitters and exercise bikes.

He heard someone cooing. A young woman in the seating area was bouncing a baby on her knee. The infant’s head rocked gently back and forth but its eyes were locked on its mother’s, the rest of the world completely irrelevant to them both. She held it up and the sight touched something in Jon. Just as he was about to smile, the baby vomited down its mother’s shirt.

‘Good morning.’ The rosy-cheeked receptionist was studying them through the glass screen.

‘Hello, there,’ Jon replied as they produced their warrant cards. ‘Who could we speak to about the medical supplies the clinic orders?’

‘For my sins, that’s me,’ she replied, sliding a plate with a half-eaten muffin to the side.

‘Does that include such things as medical gloves?’ asked

Rick.

‘Yes,’ she beamed. ‘In fact, I took a new order the other day.’

‘From Protex?’

‘That’s right.’ Her voice slowed down. ‘From Protex.’

Rick took out Gordon Dean’s photo. ‘You dealt with this man?’

‘Gordon,’ she started to smile again, then stopped. ‘What is the. .’ Her voice faded away.