Chris Simms - Shifting Skin

The first girl she got to was dressed in a surprisingly conservative way. Her skirt was a little too short, but the shoes weren’t ludicrously high heeled and the jacket looked practical. She had heard Fiona’s approaching footsteps and was keeping one eye on her and one eye on the road in front.

As Fiona slowed to a halt, the girl turned to look at her properly. Fiona guessed she was in her late twenties. ‘Hello.’

She nodded back.

‘I wonder if you could help me. I’m looking for a girl. I’ve heard she’s often around here.’

The woman raised her eyebrows, so Fiona pressed on. ‘She uses the name Alexia, but I’m not sure if it’s her real one.’

‘How come you’re looking for someone and you don’t even know their name?’

Her voice had a pleasant Scottish brogue and visions of unspoilt glens sprang up in Fiona’s mind. How had she gone from there to here? ‘Well. .’ Fiona dried up. The question cut straight through her story of Alexia being a friend’s daughter.

‘It’s a strange story.’

‘I bet,’ the girl replied looking away. ‘Never heard of her.’ Another car was slowly approaching and she stepped nearer the kerb, one hand on her hip. Fiona moved back against the tree trunk until the car had passed. When it had, the girl didn’t turn back and Fiona guessed the opportunity for questions was over.

The next girl was older and slightly overweight. She also wore a sensible jacket but it was almost fully unzipped. A white lycra top bulged with flesh underneath. This time Fiona chose a more direct approach. ‘Hello, I’m looking for Alexia. Have you seen her around?’

She turned, jaw moving and lips apart as she worked on a piece of chewing gum. Her open-mouthed expression lent her a vacant air. ‘You what?’

‘I’m looking for a girl called Alexia. Have you seen her?’

The girl scratched at her neck. ‘Reddish-brown hair? This tall?’ She held a hand up to the level of her ears.

Fiona nodded.

‘Not for a bit. Who are you?’

‘A friend. Her mum and me are best mates.’

The girl’s voice hardened. ‘Maybe she doesn’t want to see her mum. Not after she sided with the dad over what he did to her.’

Despite the implications of the comment, Fiona felt a surge of excitement. This girl was more than just a casual acquaintance.

‘She’s sorry. And he’s gone now. Her mum just wants her back. Listen, can we go for a coffee and talk?’

Another car was coming. The girl looked at it, then back at Fiona. ‘If you’re paying. It’ll be thirty quid.’

Fiona’s hopeful smile gave out. ‘I’m sorry. I haven’t got that kind-’

The girl cut her off. ‘Prime time, love. I can’t afford to be sitting in cafés right now.’ She stepped towards the kerb and the car slowed to a stop.

Fiona turned away, feeling as awkward as if she was watching another person going to the toilet. She started towards the other side of the road.

The girl opened the passenger door. ‘Try Crimson,’ she called. ‘She might be hanging around there, pocketing the free rubbers.’ She got in and the car pulled away.

Crimson? What was that? Fiona started back towards the first girl, but she’d obviously heard the exchange. ‘Second on your right, back that way.’ She pointed behind Fiona towards the area of Canal Street.

‘Thanks,’ Fiona replied, turning round.

The side street was like a narrow alleyway, barely wide enough for a car and she hesitated before setting off down it. Black forms crouched menacingly in the doorways and Fiona couldn’t be sure they weren’t all full bin liners. With her first step, her heels caught uncomfortably on the cobbles. Up ahead people mingled in a pool of soft red light. They were going in and coming out of a doorway. She looked back towards the normality of Portland Street, bathed in brilliant light and she thought about the man in the bar and his bulging wallet.

Jon was hunched over his pint, enjoying Beth Orton’s tremulous vocals when he heard Rick’s voice behind him. He looked round, relieved to see that he was dressed casually in a striped shirt that hung outside his trousers.

‘Yeah, I’m all right, mate,’ Jon replied. ‘What are you having?’

‘Gin and Coke. Cheers.’

As Rick took the bar stool next to him, a wave of aftershave washed over Jon. ‘So, you all set?’

‘Ready as I’ll ever be.’ Jon picked up his pint and took a sip. They went over the day’s progress, or lack of it. Still no one had come forward to report a missing female who matched the third victim’s description. Missing reports from all over the country had been checked for matches on fingerprints, DNA and dental records, but with no joy.

All the information about Gordon Dean and the tattoo artist from Affleck’s Palace had been entered into HOLMES and a new index on ‘Body Art/Piercings’ opened. Despite Rick’s optimism, it failed to make any cross-connections with Angela Rowlands or Carol Miller.

They saw off their drinks, then headed for Crimson. Down the narrow side street they saw a number of people disappearing into the red glow. Jon thought of moths being drawn into a flame.

A group of three lads — late teens or early twenties — were gathered at the doors. They were wearing jeans, trainers and baseball caps.

‘No chance,’ Rick said quietly as they got closer.

Sure enough, the bouncers were letting other people in, but not those three.

‘Fucking full of poofters, anyway!’ one snarled, realising the type of venue they’d stumbled across. They backed out of the bouncers’ punching range and began hurling abuse.

Jon automatically increased his pace, keen to get there before things escalated.

Rick put a hand on his arm. ‘Let the bouncers sort it.’

One stepped out into the side street and the group shied backwards. They were all mouth. After spitting towards the door and making a last few gestures, the group of three walked straight towards Jon and Rick.

The first held up a hand, face red with excitement. ‘I wouldn’t bother. It’s full of shirt-lifters.’

One of his mates cut in. ‘Sharpy, leave it. They’re probably a pair of bum bandits, too.’

The lad looked at Rick, his expression rapidly turning ugly.

‘You fucking are, aren’t you?’

In the periphery of his vision, Jon saw the lad’s hand curl into a fist and shoot towards Rick’s face in a vicious uppercut.

Jon swung his forearm out in a short chopping movement, knocking the punch away before it even got to chest height. The movement left his hand close to the lad’s throat. Before either of his mates could react, Jon grabbed his windpipe, digging his fingers into the ridged cartilage. Then, locking his elbow, he propelled the lad across the alley, putting distance between him and his mates before slamming him into the wall. A jerk of his arm sent him stumbling away, coughing and gasping simultaneously.

He spun round and faced the other two. Air was pumping in and out of his lungs, the oxygen making him feel light-headed. He stepped forwards, waves of energy radiating through him, every muscle in his body singing. And in that instant he wanted — more than anything in the world — one of them to go for him. Knees slightly flexed, he stared at them, picturing the havoc he could wreak on their faces. ‘Who’s next, then?’

They looked at him uncertainly, neither prepared to make a move. Things hung in the balance as, off to the side, their friend started vomiting down the wall.

‘Listen, mate, no bother, hey?’ one said quietly.

Jon said nothing.

The other took a step back. ‘Let’s go.’

His fists still clenched at his sides, Jon watched as they cautiously helped their friend upright and guided him away. With their retreat the adrenalin drained away and he suddenly felt dizzy. He leaned a hand against the wall.