Chris Simms - Shifting Skin

‘Affleck’s Palace? Come and take a look.’

They pushed through the doors and found themselves in a room crammed with racks of old denims, corduroy jackets and military-style clothing. Joe Strummer bellowed that they should know their rights, the music unbalanced by the heavier beats of an Eminem track coming from the next room. They went through a doorway into a narrow space lined with T-shirts. Rick pointed out the lettering on one: Fat people are hard to kidnap . ‘Strange, but true I suppose,’ he said.

‘Just about sums this place up,’ Jon answered. He was about to point out another that read, Roll me in chocolate and throw me to the lesbians , but changed his mind.

They crossed into another room, this one piled high with memorabilia. A seventies-style telephone with a blue neon dial glowed from its position on an impossibly chunky Betamax video recorder which sat next to a ZX Spectrum. Finding a flight of stairs, Jon scanned the list of stalls. ‘Jake’s, third floor.’

When they reached a relatively quieter landing, Rick took the opportunity to speak. ‘What a bizarre place.’

‘Yeah, it hasn’t changed in years. In fact, most of the stuff for sale looks like it hasn’t changed in years, either.’

They emerged on to the third floor, the sound of the Fun Lovin’ Criminals booming out from a stall selling semi-precious stones and wind chimes. Jon pointed down the narrow aisle. ‘It’s in the corner I think.’

They passed through four more zones of music before reaching a stall which differed from the rest in that it had a glass front. Jake’s Body Works. 2 for 1 on all piercings . Close-up photos of tattoos filled the windows, most so fresh they were fringed by angry red skin.

Jon leaned closer, trying to work out the part of the body each image had been drawn on. Nipples, pubic regions and stomach buttons emerged from the patterns. They went inside. There was barely enough room for both of them to stand, but at least the cacophony of music outside dropped a fraction.

A man sat in the corner, shaved head bowed over a manga comic. He looked up, face glinting with clusters of studs. They protruded from his ears, lips, cheeks, nostrils and eyebrows. One ran through the upper part of his nose and Jon wondered how it didn’t make him go cross-eyed.

He folded his comic shut. ‘A Prince Albert, gentlemen?’

Jon was unsure what he meant, but knew from the man’s expression they’d been sussed immediately for police.

He took out his ID card anyway. ‘DI Spicer and DS Saville.’

‘You don’t say,’ he interrupted, eyes moving to Rick for a second. ‘I’m Jake.’ He waved a hand so covered in tattoos, it was almost blue. ‘You’ll be wanting a seat before we get started.’

The comment was phrased so Jon wasn’t sure if the man was referring to them asking questions or getting a Prince Albert, whatever that was. A mischievous light danced in Jake’s eyes and Jon wondered just how much pressure would be required to rip the bolt out of the bridge of his nose.

Rick sat down on one of the stools and said, ‘We’re trying to trace the movements of Gordon Dean. You purchase your medical examination gloves from him.’

Jake’s eyes were still on Jon, who remained standing by the door. ‘Ease up, man. I’m only fooling around.’

Jon raised and then dropped the corners of his mouth, the smile over in a blink.

Jake turned his attention to Rick. ‘Gordon? He was in here two days ago.’ He shook his head and laughed.

‘Why’s that funny?’ Rick said, half smiling, too.

Jake clicked a tongue stud against his teeth. ‘He was just passing through. He was on a voyage.’

If the man’s eyes hadn’t been so alert, Jon would have guessed he was on something.

‘What sort of voyage?’ Rick asked. Jake leaned back. ‘Self-discovery.’

‘Meaning?’

‘You tell me. After all, you’re looking for him. I just spied him off my port bow, heading God knows where. Perhaps you know more about the course he was plotting.’

Jon shook his head. ‘Jake, you’re making me feel seasick. Just let us know why you thought he was on a voyage.’

Jake burst out laughing. ‘OK, man, I like your style. For a start, he came back after his other appointments for another tattoo.’ He twisted round, took a large book off the shelf by his head and opened it up. ‘This little baby. Right on his left arse cheek.’ He tapped a design of a pudgy red imp with red skin, horns and a trident.

‘You did his first tattoo?’ asked Jon. ‘The ladybird?’

‘That’s right.’ Jake looked up and his smile faltered. ‘You’ve seen it? Don’t tell me he’s in the morgue?’

‘Why? Is that where you’d expect him to turn up?’ Jon held his eyes.

Jake’s shoulders shifted. ‘No. The guy was excited, a bit hyper even. But it was more. .’ He grasped at the air. ‘Positive, you know? He was bursting with energy. He’s not dead, is he?’

‘As I said, we’re trying to trace his movements. We don’t know where he is.’

Rick said, ‘So he was bursting with energy.’

‘Yeah, like he’d just had some good news. Grinning all the time.’

‘Didn’t say why, though?’

‘No. But he was on a mission. Said he was getting a haircut, too. That horrific side parting of his was going.’

‘Did he say where was he getting it cut?’ Rick said, pen and notebook out.

‘Zaney’s, downstairs.’

They clattered down the wooden steps, the incessant music and claustrophobic atmosphere beginning to get to Jon.

‘Yeah,’ said the hairdresser, sweeping a mane of crimson hair off her shoulder, ‘he was my last customer. Left just before six. Don’t get to lop fringes like his off very often.’

‘What sort of cut did you give him?’

‘The chopped look. Grade two back and sides, a bit longer on top. All messed up and spiky. He took a pot of extra-strong styling gel to make sure it stayed that way. Oh, and he let me get rid of that moustache, too.’

‘Did he say what he was doing, why the sudden drastic change in hairstyle?’ Rick asked.

‘Nah. Just gave me a good tip and skipped on out the door.’

Rick rubbed his hands as they walked back to their car. ‘A voyage of self-discovery. You reckon he was manic? About to go off the rails?’

Jon’s hands were in his pockets, eyes on the pavement in front. ‘I don’t think so. He was still seeing clients, chasing sales targets. Did you notice his house? There was something dead about it. I think the wife’s right — Gordon was on the verge of getting out.’

‘Yeah, but to do what? I think he was building up to something. Maybe it was his next murder.’

Jon looked away. ‘Just a gut reaction, but I can’t see it.’ Rick remained silent.

‘You don’t agree?’ Jon asked after a few seconds.

‘He was hiding a completely different side of himself from his wife. Maybe he was hiding a lot of rage, too. That tattooist said he was bubbling with excitement. Could have been with the prospect of skinning another woman.’

Jon jangled the change in his pocket, still not convinced. ‘By the way, what’s a Prince Albert?’

Rick snorted, but kept looking ahead. ‘It’s a ring. One that goes down your Jap’s eye and out under the rim of your fireman’s helmet.’

‘Oh, sweet Jesus,’ Jon groaned.

Cathy whispered, ‘It’s ringing.’

Fiona stood on the other side of the desk. She took the tip of a finger out of her mouth and, anxiously chewing a fragment of nail, hissed, ‘Don’t forget to say it’s a personal call if she asks.’

‘I know,’ Cathy mouthed. ‘Hello, could I have the fax number for Jeff Wilson, please?’ She jotted a number down. ‘And is he in the office at the moment?. . OK, thanks.’ She leaned towards the phone in readiness to replace the handset. ‘Sorry?…No, it’s a personal call…No, that’s OK, there’s no message… No, really, it’s not important.’