Chris Simms - Shifting Skin

‘Who?’ Alice said.

Fiona blinked. ‘Oh. I talked to the woman at the escort agency. She does remember someone, though whether she was called Alexia or Alicia I’m not really sure. Whoever she was, the woman wouldn’t take her on. Suspected a drug habit and sent her back to the streets, even though she was barely twenty.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know. Try and find out what happened to her.’

‘But you don’t know if you’re even looking for the right girl.’

Fiona shrugged. ‘I just need to find out if she’s OK.’ Alice was frowning with confusion. ‘How?’

‘Well, if she was sent back to the streets, I could start asking the girls who work there.’

‘Prostitutes?’

Fiona nodded. ‘Someone must know her.’

‘Fiona, be careful. Until they catch this man. .’

‘I’ve shared a house with a monster for long enough. I can watch out for myself, don’t you worry,’ she replied, not feeling the bravado she was trying to show.

Tentatively, she inched the door open and looked inside. The curtains had been opened and morning sunlight was streaming in. The air in the room reflected the temperature outside, and she realised the window was open as far as it would go.

The patient was half sitting up in bed, bandaged face directed to the world beyond the window, tips of spiky hair catching the sun’s rays.

Seeing him staring off to the side like that reminded Dawn Poole of how they’d first met. It was in the hair care aisle of Boots just over four years ago. She had seen him scrutinising the bottles, a slimly built man not much bigger than her. He looked strangely helpless. He’d sensed her watching and turned awkwardly to face her.

His clumsy request for advice about hair dye had almost made her laugh. She’d assumed he was buying it for his elderly mother or some other female relative. As she explained the different choices that were available, the mixture of vulnerability and embarrassment in his face started to interest her. She wasn’t used to a man relying on her for help and then attentively listening to everything she had to say. Normally in her relationships it was the other way round.

She gave him a couple of tips on how best to apply the colouring, and enjoyed the feeling of being needed as he eagerly absorbed her advice. Then he had surprised her by tentatively asking about how to apply false eyelashes.

Realising he was asking for the benefit of himself and not someone else, she had offered to let him know about applying false nails, too. He’d accepted with a smile.

An hour later they were sitting in a coffee shop, him with a large bag of make-up on the seat next to him.

‘He came right into the room just now.’

The words were whispered with hardly any movement of the lips and Dawn was reminded of a novice trying to master the art of ventriloquism.

‘Who?’ she replied, walking into the room and sitting on the end of the bed.

‘The robin. I put some crumbs on the bed. He hopped right in and ate them. So beautiful, so delicate.’

She could tell the bandages hid the beginnings of a smile. The feeling of foreboding that had been building since the policeman questioned her dissipated slightly and was replaced by a warm glow of admiration.

She couldn’t imagine the pain he was going through. Knowing that she wouldn’t have been able to endure it, she took one hand in hers and stroked the smooth skin. ‘It’s good to see you looking happier.’

The patient was still looking out of the window. ‘Speaking, eating, sleeping. Everything still hurts. But now I feel it’s worth it again. Worth it for who I’m going to be.’

Dawn nodded. ‘That’s the attitude. You know, I’m happy just to be out of that miserable motel. The place is falling apart. If it gets inspected, they’ll close it straight off.’ She hooked a strand of hair over her ear. ‘Your dressings are due to be changed later on. I’m sure he’ll bring some more painkillers, too.’ The room was silent as she judged how to articulate the next sentence. She opted for a casual tone. ‘A policeman called at the motel a few nights ago.’

Eyes swivelled towards her, blood still caught in the lower half of their orbits.

‘He was asking questions. Someone thought they heard choking coming from one of the rooms. Choking like the person was in serious trouble.’

She waited for a response, but nothing came.

‘I told him no one came to me needing help.’ She glanced up seeking affirmation, but the patient had turned back to the window.

She reached into the bag and got out some women’s magazines and a copy of the local paper. The outside column of the front page was devoted to conjecture about the Butcher's latest victim, who still remained unidentified. 'I brought you some things to read.'

At 11:17 the next day Jon’s computer pinged. Someone had entered the registration of Gordon Dean’s car in the Police National Computer’s database of stolen or abandoned vehicles. The system had then matched it to the flag he’d left earlier and relayed the alert to his computer.

He raised a hand and clicked his fingers at Rick. ‘Bingo! There’s a silver Passat at Piccadilly train station that has outstayed its welcome in the short-term car park. Registration matches our man’s.’

The car-park attendant looked at their identities with surprise. ‘I was just going to get it towed.’

‘No need for now,’ Jon replied. ‘Where is it?’

He led them up to the third floor, Jon’s head barely clearing the low concrete ceiling.

‘Over in the corner. See it?’

‘Cheers.’

They walked over and peered in through the windows. Rick leaned across the bonnet to see on to the dashboard. ‘Ticket purchased at five past seven in the morning five days ago. Fits with him checking out of the Novotel and coming straight here.’

Jon checked the back seat. ‘Empty. What do you reckon, then?’

‘Seems a bit early to be catching a train,’ Rick replied.

‘Unless you’re catching a train to catch a plane. They’re practically round the clock to the airport.’

‘Why not just drive there?’

‘True.’ Jon put his hand in his jacket pocket and hooked his fingers under the driver’s door handle. To his surprise, it opened.

‘That’s a result.’ He leaned inside; the interior was filled with the chemical smell of a cheap air freshener.

Rick used the same trick to open the passenger door without leaving any prints. He crouched down and popped open the glove compartment with the end of a pen. A tin of mints, a pile of compliments slips and an A to Z of Manchester.

Jon pointed at the music system. A tape was poking out of the cassette deck. ‘That’s a blank tape. Something could have been recorded on it.’ He took an evidence bag out of his pocket, pulled it over his hand, removed the tape and placed it in his pocket. Then he pulled up the lever for the boot. Inside were a few crushed boxes of latex gloves, a picnic blanket and a golfing umbrella, the Protex logo just visible among its folds.

‘Something heavy squashed those boxes,’ Rick observed.

‘Yeah,’ Jon nodded. ‘And my money’s on it being some wellpacked suitcases.’

Rick put his hands on his knees to push himself upright, then stopped. His head angled to one side and he got down on one knee to lean forwards into the boot. ‘Hello, this doesn’t look like Mrs Dean’s taste in cosmetics.’

‘What?’ Jon asked, trying to look in.

Rick took out a set of keys and used the tip of one to hook the tiny object up. It stuck to the jagged edge like an exotic insect clinging on for dear life.