Chris Simms - Shifting Skin

Rick took out his sheet of paper. ‘Do you run this place all on your own, Dr O’Connor?’

‘I have a nurse on the days we carry out procedures. But there’s no point in paying her to be here when it’s just paperwork that I’m tidying up.’

‘Perhaps we should be talking to her. It’s about whoever orders your medical supplies.’

‘I do a lot of that myself.’

‘Including medical gloves?’

‘Indeed.’

‘We’re trying to ascertain the recent movements of a sales rep from Protex.’

‘Young Gordon Dean? He was in here only two days ago.’ He plucked a tangerine from the pile of fruit in a polished wooden bowl on his desk, then nodded towards it. ‘Gentlemen?’

Jon and Rick shook their heads and the doctor held up a finger. ‘Five pieces a day.’ He leaned forwards conspiratorially.

‘If more people kept to that little maxim there’d be a lot less work for me.’ He dropped the peel into a bin and popped a segment of tangerine into his mouth.

‘How did Gordon Dean seem to you?’ Jon asked.

‘His usual cheerful self.’

‘He normally strikes you as happy?’

‘He does. Seems to enjoy his work visits to Manchester, at least.’

‘How about non-work issues? His personal life, for instance?’ The doctor paused. ‘He’s married, I gather. No children, though I don’t know why. I’m not sure what answers you’re looking for.’

Jon smiled. ‘Neither are we. We’re just trying to get an idea of him.’

‘He’s in trouble, I take it?’

‘No. We just need to trace him. He seems to have disappeared.

The last time you saw him, was there anything out of the ordinary? Was he agitated or preoccupied, perhaps?’

O’Connor shook his head.

‘Was he here for long?’

‘No longer than usual. He left at about three o’clock.’

‘Did you chat at all?’

‘We talked about the current best dining options in

Manchester.’

‘Those being?’

‘Gordon loves his Italian food. He mentioned he was staying over in Manchester, so I recommended a place I visited the other day. Piccolino’s. Have you tried it?’

Rick and Jon shook their heads.

‘Ah, Gordon had. I think he was eating at one of his regular places. A person’s name. Now let me think.’ He closed his eyes.

‘Don Antonio’s?’ Jon asked.

The doctor clicked his fingers, opening his eyes and bowing his head fractionally at Jon. ‘Don Antonio’s. I’ve not been there myself. Have you?’

‘No, but I think we will be.’ Jon started to get up, but paused.

‘We’ve just come from the offices of the Paragon Group. What do you think of them?’

The silence was a second too long before he answered. ‘A very efficient organisation.’

Jon sank back in his seat. ‘And your personal, not professional, opinion?’

Dr O’Connor looked into Jon’s eyes. ‘My confidential personal opinion?’

‘Won’t go further than us three,’ Jon replied.

‘A bunch of mercenary money-grabbers.’

‘Go on,’ said Jon.

‘They’ll employ anyone as long as they have one ethic.’ Jon raised his eyebrows in encouragement.

‘That they’re prepared to treat anyone, regardless of need or suitability.’

‘You mean surgery?’ asked Rick.

O’Connor nodded. ‘Their staff all have medical qualifications

and a basic knowledge of cosmetic surgery. But they don’t need any sort of track history — actually, they don’t need any history or experience at all. Add to that the fact that this is an industry woefully lacking in regulations. New procedures and techniques are appearing all the time, and all too often they’re driven by profit rather than patient well-being. Not, in my opinion, a healthy state of affairs.’

‘So you’ve never applied to work for them?’

O’Connor snorted. ‘Absolutely not. The reverse, as a matter of fact. They’ve tried to buy me out once or twice, but I’m not interested. I’ve also had doctors approach me looking for work. I’ve turned them away due to their lack of experience, only to hear they’re employed by Paragon weeks later.’

‘Performing full surgical procedures?’ Jon asked.

‘Full surgical procedures.’

‘As opposed to what you perform here?’

‘Correct. I specialise in aesthetic medicine — laser treatments, botox and filler injections, on the whole. Nothing more than skin deep. But the industry’s expanding at an incredible rate. Everyone wants a slice of the action, to employ the prevalent terminology. Dentists now offer Botox treatments on the side. Got a medical qualification and a syringe? Then join the party. There are rich pickings for all.’

Jon contemplated the doctor’s words. ‘Going back to the surgical side of things, how many people would you say are employed in the industry?’

‘Nationwide or just Manchester?’

Jon toyed with the idea of letting the doctor know which investigation they were on, suspecting that he’d soon guess.

‘Manchester for starters.’

O’Connor frowned. ‘Well, Paragon and their three main competitors have a total of around twelve doctors on their books, I’d say. Some of those work as surgeons in local NHS hospitals and do the private stuff on the side to boost their incomes. Of course, if you were going under the knife, that’s the type of surgeon you want. In addition, they employ several who do private cosmetic work full time. Those guys may do a couple of days a week in Manchester, one in Leeds and one in Liverpool.

They go where the business is. I’d hesitate to say how many of them are in Manchester altogether. Fifty, maybe?’

‘Thanks for your time, Doctor,’ Jon said, getting to his feet.

Out on the street Jon wrinkled his nose as a noisy lorry roared past, leaving a light haze of exhaust fumes in its wake. ‘We’d better recommend to McCloughlin that all surgeons employed by the likes of the Paragon Group are traced and interviewed.’

‘Should be easy to check the alibis of the travelling ones,’ Rick said.

‘True,’ Jon agreed. ‘Let’s see Gordon Dean’s appointments list again.’

Rick got the sheet of paper out, holding it taut against the buffets of air created by passing traffic.

Jon pointed to the final appointment of the morning. ‘Jake’s, in Affleck’s Palace. That’s a tattoo artist.’ He looked towards Great Ancoats Street. ‘It’s only over there. Shall we get it done?’

‘Why not?’ Rick folded the sheet up.

Jon led the way across the main road and into the jumble of narrow streets and derelict cloth shops that made up the Northern Quarter. Soon they rounded the corner of a multi-storey car park, the smell of curry filling the air.

Rick looked at the little café with its never-ending menu painted on the windows. ‘That must be the sixth one of those places we’ve passed.’

Jon nodded. ‘This is where Manchester’s first curry houses sprang up, serving lunch to all the Indian workers from the mills and warehouses that used to thrive around here. It was only after they’d made enough money from these places that the owners opened up other premises out in Rusholme.’

‘You mean the curry mile?’ Rick said, referring to the stretch of road just outside the city centre crammed with dozens of glitzy Indian restaurants.

‘That’s the one,’ said Jon. He pointed across another car park to a hulking old warehouse with strange flower-like lamps attached to its walls. ‘And that’s Affleck’s Palace.’

They walked past a row of market stalls selling fruit and vegetables, and stopped by a side entrance to the Palace. Rick looked at a montage of broken tiles mounted on the wall. Blue fragments spelled out, And on the 6 th day, God created MANchester . He smiled. ‘What is this place?’