Chris Simms - Shifting Skin

The town hall bells started to slowly toll. The chorus came to an end and a single, funereal strike let them know it was one o’clock. Jon’s eyes flickered from the gargoyles on its gothic spires to the people around him. Not for the first time, he wondered how close the killer might be at that very moment.

Rick said, ‘Shall we get some lunch? I’m starving.’

‘Good idea,’ Jon agreed.

‘The sandwiches are excellent in there,’ Rick said, pointing at the Pret a Manger further down the street.

Jon groaned inwardly, thinking of the variety of breads and choices of fancy fillings. He nodded towards a Gregg’s bakers on their side of the road. ‘They do a decent bacon barm in there.’ Now distaste showed in Rick’s face. ‘Aren’t those places a bit

… you know…?’

Jon looked at him. ‘If you mean they do no-nonsense stuff without ripping you off, yes.’

Rick glanced in and spotted a couple of construction workers still wearing their hard hats in the queue. ‘Shall we just meet back at the car?’

‘Your money,’ Jon replied. Rick crossed the road, and Jon went into Gregg’s.

He ordered two bacon barms with brown sauce and a cup of coffee, then wandered into the square. Rick was already sitting on a bench in front of the ancient church overlooking the square, enjoying the intermittent bursts of sun breaking through the broken cloud above.

Deciding there was no immediate danger of being doused in a sudden spring shower, Jon sat next to him. As he did so he glanced across towards the glass-panelled corner of the Marks amp; Spencer’s built on the site where the IRA bomb had gone off in 1996.

His mind went back to the event and the years leading up to it. He didn’t suppose there ever was an ideal time for becoming a copper. He’d joined in 1991 at the age of twenty-one, suddenly finding himself patrolling the streets in a policeman’s uniform. He’d kept on expecting members of the public to laughingly point at him in disbelief.

The city’s nightclubbing scene was then in its prime and the place was known throughout the world as Madchester. But, as the nineties wore on, venues like the Hacienda were increasingly being taken over by gangs from Cheetham Hill and Salford. Every night was turning into a scrabble for the police station’s bullet-proof vests as they were repeatedly called out to shootings. The gangs didn’t care who died in their battle to control the lucrative drugs trade, and the press had started to call the city Gunchester.

Many of his colleagues had spent their weekends working undercover in nightclubs and bars, shitting themselves as they tried to gather evidence of drug dealing so the places could be shut down. Even now the thought made Jon almost laugh with relief — thanks to his conspicuous size, and the fact he was playing for the Greater Manchester Police rugby team each Saturday afternoon, it was a role he was spared.

As the Madchester period began to stutter and fizzle the city had seemed to be searching for a new identity. He remembered mentions of somewhere called Canal Street, rumours of it being a safe drinking haven for gays. Sankey’s Soap opened in Ancoats. Alice started raving about a local band called Oasis and suddenly Manchester appeared to have rediscovered its spirit.

Then came the coded phone call on the fifteenth of June. A bomb was set to go off in one of the city’s busiest shopping areas, just as the Saturday crowds were pouring in.

He remembered running down Market Street in his bobby’s uniform, one hand holding his helmet on his head, the other furiously waving members of the public away from the Arndale. Intelligence was shaky and he had no idea when the bomb might go off. The only times he’d sweated so much was on the rugby pitch.

Within an hour they’d cleared an area in the immediate vicinity of a large white van. He was keeping the crowds back from the cordon tape at the far end of Market Street when the thing went off. It was the loudest noise he’d ever heard, a roar that jarred the air so violently it made him stagger. Then came the cascade of glass. Even a good four hundred metres away, shards rained down all around them. Miraculously, no one was killed, but the centre of the city had been devastated.

He looked towards the gleaming building. Another example of how the city had evolved and adapted from its origins as the world’s first industrial city.

As he bit into his large flat roll, he spotted Rick sipping from an absurdly small bottle. ‘What’s in there?’

‘Banana and mango smoothie.’

Jon shook his head, thinking of Alice’s love of reducing perfectly good fruit and vegetables to mush. ‘You should meet my missus.’

It was just a short drive to the next address on the list. The building was on the Rochdale Road, imposing and dark. They parked in the rear yard, next to a brand-new Range Rover.

‘Jesus, there’s some money to be made in this game,’ observed Jon.

They walked back on to the main road, clangs from a construction site clearly audible over the sound of traffic rushing past. Rick gestured to several cranes that towered like sentinels over the nearby roofs. ‘Something major’s going on over there.’

‘That’s Ancoats,’ Jon replied. ‘It’s received huge amounts of regeneration money from the EU. The place is finally getting a facelift.’

Rick checked the printout and then the brass plaque by the door. ‘This is it. ‘The Beauty Centre, Dr O’Connor.’

Jon looked dubiously at the stone surrounding the door. It was stained almost black by exhaust fumes.

Rick had to buzz twice before a voice sounded on the intercom.

‘Who is it?’ A faint Irish accent, the voice casual and friendly.

Jon was surprised; compared to the glossy organisation they’d just come from, it was hardly a businesslike greeting.

‘DS Saville and DI Spicer, Greater Manchester Police.’

Plastic clattered as the handset was dropped. ‘Sod it! Sorry, come right up.’

They exchanged a look as the door clicked open, allowing them to enter a softly lit lobby. The air was slightly musty and Jon looked down at the deep-red carpet at his feet. The groundfloor doors were all plastered over and Jon guessed the rooms on the other sides were offices of companies in the adjoining buildings. The only way to go was up the stairs, and the heavy carpeting completely muffled their footsteps as they climbed. At regular intervals were facial portraits of models, a small notice below each photograph. Collagen. Restylane. Hylaform. Laser skin resurfacing. Temporary wrinkle filler. Cool touch laser.

Jon nodded knowingly at Rick, ‘Non-surgical procedures only.’

At the top of the stairs was a short corridor with two doors leading off. The one marked ‘Treatment Room’ was closed, the other open.

‘Please come in,’ the same voice called from inside.

They entered an office that looked like it should have belonged to a lawyer. A huge wooden desk dominated the end of the room, rows of books weighing down the shelves behind it. The daylight that made it through the windows seemed to be instantly soaked up by the red carpet and wooden wall panels.

A distinguished-looking man was seated behind the desk, wiping the handset of the intercom phone with a cloth for cleaning glasses. ‘Slippery bugger. Hope it didn’t sound too loud your end. Take a seat, why don’t you.’

Jon drank in the Irish lilt. As they walked across the room, he took in the doctor’s full head of white hair, guessing he was in

his late fifties. Closer, he reassessed the doctor’s age. If he was approaching sixty, he wore his years incredibly well. His jawline was firm, the skin around his eyes smooth.

When he smiled, his teeth were perfect. ‘How can I be of help?’