Chris Simms - Shifting Skin

‘What’s Taurus?’

‘It’s a sort of restaurant bar at the very top of Canal Street. Nice cocktails, decent menu. Might as well start there.’

Jon tried to form an impression of Taurus as they walked through the doors — muted lights and clusters of candles were fighting a losing battle with the shadows encroaching from all sides. He almost stumbled on the sloping floor that led up to the tables, half of which were taken by people dining.

The shelves behind the bar at the top of the room glowed with an impressive assortment of spirits. A glass-fronted fridge was stacked full with bottles of champagne.

Jon tried to look relaxed as he perched on a corner stool. A large glass bowl was at his elbow and he casually picked up one of the things in it. Holding it close to his face, he squinted at the writing. Free safer sex pack for men — two extra-strength condoms and two sachets of water-based lube .

He dropped it like a hot coal and glanced at Rick, just able to see the smile at the corner of his mouth as he addressed the barman. ‘Hi, there. A double gin and coke and. .’ He looked at Jon. ‘Pint of lager?’

‘I’ll get these,’ Jon said, standing up and taking a ten-pound note from his pocket. They watched in silence as the barman poured their drinks. As he placed them on the counter, Rick laid down the photo of Gordon Dean, his warrant card beside it. ‘We’re trying to trace the movements of this man. He was in here last Thursday night.’

The barman looked barely past the legal age for drinking. He ran a hairless hand across the black top that clung to his perfectly flat stomach. Rings glinted on three of his fingers.

‘Black shirt, hair was cut much shorter, and the moustache had gone,’ Jon prompted.

The barman snapped his fingers and said to Jon, ‘Yeah, he sat where you are now. I remember because he put his credit card behind the bar, even though he was on his own. He was drinking champagne by the glass.’

‘Did he remain on his own?’ Rick asked, elbows now on the counter.

‘Yeah, I think so. He chatted to people a bit as they were waiting for drinks, but no one actually joined him.’

The barman moved off to serve another customer. Jon risked a look at the two women eating at the nearest table. They were engrossed in conversation, a bottle of Pino Grigio between them. He found himself studying them, wondering why they looked slightly odd. Then it clicked: their hair wasn’t natural. The styling was overdone and he realised they were wearing wigs. Masculine fingers picked up a wine glass, and Jon looked away.

The barman returned a moment later. ‘Why, what’s he done?’ Rick put the photo back in his pocket. ‘We just need to ask him a few questions. So, do you think he was cruising?’

The barman pouted. ‘Not really. He was just getting merrily pissed. He left after a bit — gave me a good tip, as well.’

Rick straightened up. ‘Thanks for your help.’ Once the barman had moved out of earshot he said to Jon, ‘Not much happened for him in here, then.’

Jon had to make an effort not to let his eyes stray back to the couple. ‘No, but I guess it was early in the evening. What about all this champagne? He was celebrating something.’

Rick finished his drink. ‘Maybe it was a case of him celebrating the anticipation of something. Like his next murder, for instance.’

He’s not the killer, Jon thought, knocking back the rest of his pint. ‘When did he get to the next place?’

‘Natterjacks?’ Rick studied the record. ‘He paid the entrance fee at eight fifty-six, so he must have gone straight there.’

Music was thumping through the plate-glass windows making up the front of Natterjacks. Two bouncers stood at the entrance, barely acknowledging the flow of customers heading through the doors.

In the small lobby area people were flicking ten-pound notes under the window of the till counter, then heading into the bar. When it was Jon and Rick’s turn to pay they flashed their warrant cards at the cashier. ‘Mind if we have a quick look around?’ asked Rick.

She looked towards the customers behind them and called,

‘Next!’

Inside, it was getting towards uncomfortably busy. Throngs of people filled the area in front of the main bar. Jon looked around, relieved that there were at least a few groups of women in the mostly male crowd.

Rick pointed to a flight of stairs. As they headed down them Jon took in the ornately carved wooden balconies. Male faces peered down from all around. He followed Rick into a quieter side bar where the music was lower but the temperature far higher.

‘This place is busier than I expected,’ Rick said, taking his jacket off and loosening his tie. ‘Aren’t you hot in that?’ he asked, nodding at Jon’s battered leather jacket.

‘No, I’m all right,’ Jon replied, aware of the sheen of sweat on his forehead.

Once again Rick took the initiative with the bar staff. The girl serving them shook her head. ‘Wasn’t on that night. Hang on, I’ll get Steve.’ She moved to the till.

A thin man appeared, the low ceiling behind the bar causing him to stoop slightly. After looking at the photo he scratched his head. ‘I’m fucked if I know, mate. The capacity of this place is over seven hundred. There are bars and dance floors on three storeys.’

Rick took the photo back and looked at Jon. ‘Drink?’

‘I’ll need a piss first. Where’s the men’s in this place?’

Rick pointed to the side. ‘Nearest ones are down those steps and on the right.’

At the bottom of the steps was a small dance floor. A line of men stood with their backs against the wall, each holding a drink in his hand. As Jon came down the steps he could feel their eyes crawling over him. Suddenly he realised what it must feel like to be a woman. Self-consciously, he wove between the few people dancing, noticing that the song playing was the one on the tape in Gordon Dean’s car. Relieved to find that the toilets were empty, he took a corner urinal, hoping no one would come and stand next to him.

Back in the bar upstairs he walked straight over to Rick,

‘Listen, there’s no point in staying here, is there?’

Rick glanced at him. ‘No, you’re right. Let’s move on.’ Jon made straight for the stairs.

Outside, Rick said, ‘That place not really your style?’

‘What do you mean?’ Jon answered, surprised at how uncomfortable the crude assessment he’d experienced on the stairs had made him.

‘Loud music, cramped bars. All that stuff.’

Jon looked up at the sky, relishing the cool air on his face.

‘I felt like a right twat. Do you drink in those places out of choice?’

Rick smiled. ‘If I’m out to party.’

Jon sighed, not knowing if that was a euphemism for picking up. The basement dance floor hadn’t looked like it was being used for much else. ‘Nah. Give me a proper boozer any time. Somewhere you can be comfortable and have a conversation.’

As they were talking, Rick had led the way to a darker side street. Halfway up it a red sign seemed to float in the air. Crimson. ‘Here we go,’ said Rick, examining the printout. He paid to get in here at ten twenty-one, then forked out another thirty-eight quid at two thirty in the morning. Closing time.’

Jon took a deep breath in. ‘Is this going to be like the last place?’

Rick couldn’t help laughing. ‘This isn’t like any other place.’

‘Oh, Jesus, I don’t like the sound of that.’

Dodging the debris scattered across the cobbles, Rick went up to the door. ‘Usually there’s a queue.’ There was a notice stuck to the door. ‘Ah. Miss Tonguelash is away. The place is shut for the night.’

Jon looked at him questioningly.