Chris Simms: Shifting Skin

‘Want anything from the shop at the garage?’ he asked.

‘No thanks.’

‘OK, I won’t be long.’ He bent over the arm of the sofa and dropped an awkward kiss on the top of her head.

He pulled up in the car park of Stepping Hill hospital twenty minutes later, then followed the signs directing him to the maternity suite.

The front doors were locked; a notice instructed him to buzz the intercom if the time was outside normal office hours. A camera stared down at him from its wire cage above the door. Jon got his warrant card out, held it towards the lens and pressed the button.

His arm was beginning to ache by the time a crackly voice said, ‘Hello?’

‘DI Spicer, Greater Manchester Police.’ He pushed the door but it remained locked.

‘Yes?’ the voice said.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ Jon muttered under his breath before looking up and saying, ‘I’m investigating the murder of Carol Miller.’

‘Oh.’ The lock buzzed open.

The foyer smelled fresh, the painted walls almost pristine. He wondered if the maternity ward they would be going to for their baby’s birth at Withington hospital would be so recently decorated.

A sign by the lifts told him that reception was on the third floor. As he waited for the lift to arrive blue light began to flicker across the walls around him. He turned to see an ambulance pulling up in the emergency bay outside. The driver jumped out and jogged round to the rear of the vehicle. Seconds later the back doors were thrown open and a gurney was wheeled out. The mouth of the woman lying on it was drawn tight and Jon could hear her moans, low and guttural, through the glass. Two male paramedics started pushing her towards the doors, the woman’s partner flapping along behind, a large bag hanging from his arm.

As they wheeled her into the foyer the lift arrived. ‘Hold the doors!’ one of the paramedics called. Then he looked down,

‘Nearly there. Keep breathing and don’t, whatever you do, start to push.’

Jon had stepped into the lift and he kept his finger on the button with two arrows pointing away from each other.

‘Cheers, mate,’ one of the paramedics said with a smile. ‘This pair of charlies’ — he nodded jovially at the couple — ‘didn’t want to bother anyone by coming in early. Waited until her contractions were nice and close. A bit too close, though!’

Damp hair plastering her forehead, the woman was deaf to his attempt at humour, eyes tightly shut, focus directed entirely inwards. The moaning began again and Jon saw a glance of concern flit between the two paramedics. He wondered if he could jump back out of the lift, but the doors were sliding shut.

Jon looked at her partner, searching for clues as to how he should handle himself when it was his turn. The man began to brush strands of hair from her forehead and Jon thought what a futile gesture of comfort it was. But what else could he do? He was no more part of the process, no more able to share in what she was going through, than the rest of them. Jesus, thought Jon, everything about parenthood scares me shitless.

‘God,’ she growled. Her tone was masculine, like someone straining to lift a barbell in a gym. She began a shallow and desperate panting and her eyes snapped open, the look in them giving Jon the impression of a wild animal in pain. Her eyes settled on him for a second before shutting again, and somehow he felt guilty for being a man.

At last the lift came to a halt and the doors opened. A midwife was waiting for them and the group sped off to the nearest delivery room. Jon found himself alone in a corridor plastered with thank you cards and badly taken snaps of women lying on beds, tiny babies clutched in their arms. He leaned closer for a better look, alarmed at the lines of exhaustion on so many of the new mums’ pale faces. Except for the pride shining out from their sunken eyes, they looked ideally suited to a hospital ward. And the babies. So small, so fragile. Dough-like features as if their faces had not yet formed, and some with plastic nasal tubes taped to their tiny cheeks. Not for the first time he looked at his thick fingers with their network of nicks and cuts from rugby matches and thought he was the last person on earth suited to this sort of thing.

‘Can I help you?’

Guiltily he dropped his hands to his sides and looked at the bird-like woman who had appeared silently at his side. ‘DI Jon Spicer.’ He started fumbling for his ID, uncomfortably aware that he was wearing trainers, paint-flecked tracksuit bottoms and an old rugby shirt beneath his jacket.

‘I just spoke to someone on the intercom about-’

‘Yes, I heard. I’m Sister Cooper.’ In order to meet his eyes she had to bend her head back. ‘They certainly breed them big in the police nowadays.’ Her eyes snagged on the bump in the bridge of his nose before dropping to the club badge on his chest, where they found an explanation for his injury. ‘Rugby player?’

Jon nodded, never sure whether the admission would bring a knowing smile or a wary look.

Sister Cooper smiled. ‘So was my husband. He’s confined to criticising it from his armchair nowadays.’

‘Oh well,’ said Jon. ‘I suppose you get to spend more time with him at the weekends now.’

‘More’s the shame,’ she rolled her eyes theatrically. ‘Always under my feet, he is. Like a lost puppy, now he doesn’t play.’

Jon laughed.

‘Please.’ She waved him on down the corridor and into a staff room. A couple of other midwives were sitting on the padded blue seats that lined two sides of the room. ‘Do you need to speak in private?’

The midwives had obviously been tipped off he was coming and were already beginning to stand. ‘No, that’s fine,’ said Jon, gesturing. ‘Please don’t get up. I just need to check something.’ He moved a copy of the local newspaper out of the way and took a seat, aware of the fact that his towering form didn’t exactly encourage a relaxed atmosphere. ‘I was talking to Carol Miller’s mother and she mentioned Carol was trying to lose a bit of weight. She said Carol had come back from work excited about discovering a new way to regain her shape. I’m interested to know if you have a staff noticeboard where people advertise things for sale.’

‘It’s right behind you.’ Sister Cooper pointed above his head.

Jon craned round and saw a noticeboard plastered with pieces of paper. He stood up and started to scan them.

Salsa lessons. Spanish teacher. Thursday evenings.

Panasonic video camera.

Income tax and preparation of accounts.

Garden maintenance and lawn-mowing services.

Britax Excel 3 in 1 travel system.

‘Did she mention anything to any of you?’ he asked over his shoulder.

One of the midwives said, ‘Yes. Is there an ad for a rowing machine up there? One time she was talking about how effective rowing machines are for burning off calories.’

All three of them joined him and they began searching through the notices together. Within two minutes they’d checked the entire board, but without success.

Jon was about to give up when Sister Cooper announced,

‘Here you are.’ She was lifting up a large sheet with a photo of a Nissan Micra for sale. Beneath it was a plain postcard.

York Sprinter Rower. Computer screen showing strokes, time, distance, calories. Cost £139, will accept £80. Never used. Call ext. 241 and ask for Pete .

Jon removed it, hoping none of the women had seen the extension number. ‘I just need to borrow this. Thanks very much for your help. I won’t take up any more of your time.’ Hoping his exit wasn’t too abrupt, he started for the door.

‘DI Spicer?’ It was Sister Cooper’s voice. He turned round.