Chris Simms - Shifting Skin

Jon glanced at the creep. He hadn’t moved an inch, unwilling to walk away from his claim. ‘Who’s the bloke?’

Fiona’s head lolled in his direction. ‘An old acquaintance.’

‘Is that right?’ Jon didn’t believe her.

‘See you around, Mr Spicer.’ She tottered away.

The salesman whispered something to her, and they moved off towards the stairs. As they went past, Jon pointed at his own eyes then at the man’s face. I’ve clocked you, the gesture said. Next instant, they were gone.

‘She’s heading for the mother of all hangovers,’ said Rick.

‘I hope that’s all she’s heading for.’

‘So what was she on about?’

‘She’s the one who thought she heard a prostitute being strangled in the next room at that motel. She thinks the girl worked for an escort agency and now she’s trying to track her down.’

‘Sounds dodgy.’

‘Exactly,’ Jon replied. He looked around. ‘I need a piss.’

The red bulbs lighting the toilets made the narrow room disorientating. Jon peered around in the half-light for any urinals, but saw only safe-sex posters lining the walls. He realised there were only cubicles. He took an end one and started emptying his bladder. Halfway through he noticed a waist-high hole in the partition wall between his cubicle and the next. At first he thought it was where the toilet roll holder had been ripped off. But the hole was properly drilled and, besides, the toilet-roll dispenser was mounted on the back wall.

He re-zipped his fly and bent down for a closer look. He could see straight through into the next cubicle, where an identical hole had been cut in the next partition wall. He realised he was looking through a series of holes that ran the entire length of

the toilets. The music got louder suddenly as someone entered the toilets. Jon quickly straightened up.

Back in the main bar he was shocked to see Rick sitting at the bar talking to Miss Tonguelash herself. Resisting the urge to flee up the stairs, he walked over and picked up his pint.

‘Jon, this is Miss Tonguelash.’

She swivelled round, one leg crossed over the other, a slit running up to mid-thigh. ‘Call me Andrea.’ Absurdly long eyelashes fluttered and the back of a hand was proffered, fingers pointing down.

Not prepared to kiss it, Jon grasped it lightly. ‘Hello.’ Looking mildly disappointed, she said, ‘You’ve just been holding your penis. I do hope you used the sink afterwards.’ Jon hadn’t. ‘Of course.’ He put his hand in his pocket.

Rick looked amused. ‘I was asking Andrea about the night we’re interested in.’

‘Mmmmm,’ she said, sipping her cocktail through a long straw, talon-like nails giving her fingers a more feminine taper.

‘He was larking around down here with some little hussy on his arm.’

‘A slim girl with brown hair?’ Jon asked.

Miss Tonguelash nodded at the people on the dance floor.

‘What colour hair do you think they all have?’

Jon looked. Banks of lights flickered on and off, bathing the dancers in a succession of colours. ‘OK, I take your point. But you’d say this girl had darkish hair?’

‘Girl? I used the word “hussy”.’

‘OK, hussy, then. But why call her that?’

‘I imagine she’d only come in her to help herself to free condoms before her next trick. Looks like this Mr Dean was it.’

‘You mean she was a prostitute?’

‘Absolutely, darling.’

‘And you don’t mind prostitutes roaming around in your club?’

‘Not if they’re in here to pick up condoms. I’m all for safe sex, whatever form it may take. Aren’t you, Mr Spicer? In favour of safe sex?’ She brushed her lips over the end of her straw and fluttered her eyelashes at him.

Jon gave a businesslike smile. ‘Of course. And did they leave together?’

‘I can’t say for sure, but it seemed pretty likely.’ He looked at Rick. ‘Is that all we need?’

Rick nodded. ‘Thanks for your help, Andrea.’

‘Not at all,’ she answered, eyes still on Jon as they turned to the door. ‘Oh, one more thing.’

They stopped and turned back.

‘You two make a lovely couple.’

Out on the street Jon breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Christ, that was embarrassing.’

Rick chuckled. ‘I thought you handled her very well.’

‘Her or him?’

‘Her when she’s working.’

‘But him at other times?’

‘I don’t know. Probably.’

Jon shook his head. ‘And another thing. The partition walls in the toilets all had these holes cut in them.’

‘Glory holes. Surely you’ve heard of them?’

Jon rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah, it’s just I’ve never imagined them to be fitted as standard. What a place.’

‘But worth going. Now we know he didn’t leave alone.’

‘Yup.’ Jon took the credit-card company’s report out of his pocket. ‘From here, he headed to the twenty-four-hour garage up near the Apollo. Two transactions. Cashpoint for £150 and the petrol station itself for £9.99.’

‘OK, let’s head there.’

They walked up to Minshull Street, Rick looking with surprise at the number of women hanging around. ‘Jesus, do Vice realise it’s got this busy along here again?’

‘I’m sure. But until enough people start complaining, what’s the point?’

‘Bring on licensed brothels,’ Rick said, dismissing a hopeful girl with a wave of his hand. ‘Save everyone a load of hassle.’

They hailed a cab on Whitworth Street and pulled up on the petrol station forecourt a few minutes later. Jon tried the door, but it was locked. ‘Intercom service after ten,’ he said, reading the notice. ‘I hate this.’

They held their identity cards up at the cabin window. The bald man inside reached to his left and a small speaker crackled.

‘Can I help you gents?’

‘Could you let us in? We’ll talk inside,’ Jon answered.

The man stepped round the counter, crossed the deserted shop and opened the door.

‘Cheers,’ Jon said, locking it behind him. ‘Were you on duty last Thursday night?’

‘Yup, I’m on duty every night but Sundays and Mondays. Those nights are my weekend.’

Rick showed him the photo of Gordon Dean while Jon got out the credit-card record. ‘We believe this man called in here at 3:08 a.m. and purchased something to the value of £9.99,’ Rick said.

The man smiled. ‘Yeah, I sold out of three-packs that night.’

‘Three-packs?’

‘Condoms. Didn’t you see the report in the Manchester Evening News ?’ He said proudly, ‘Per head of the population, Manchester has more massage parlours than any other city in Britain. And we sell more condoms than any other petrol station in the country. What with the Hurlington over there and all the saunas and working girls around Piccadilly station. .’

‘So what costs £9.99?’ Jon asked.

The man pointed behind him to a twelve-pack on the shelf.

‘There you go. I’d sold out of them by the end of that night, too.’

‘Do you remember this man? He’d had his hair cut short and his moustache shaved off.’

He leaned over the photo. ‘No, ’fraid not.’

Jon looked at the security monitor. ‘Is that CCTV on all the time?’

‘Yes. You want the tape from that night?’

‘If you don’t mind,’ Jon replied, impressed by the man’s willingness to help.

‘There’s a VCR in the back office. Can you watch it in there?’

‘Sure,’ said Jon. He paused at the coffee machine. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘I bring my own flask in, cheers.’

‘Don’t blame you,’ replied Jon, getting a couple for him and Rick.

The tape was dated and timed, allowing them to picturesearch through until 3:05 a.m. ‘Here we go,’ said Jon, sitting back and stirring his coffee.