Chris Simms - Shifting Skin

The camera was set up high, looking down on to the forecourt below. Within seconds the grainy black-and-white footage revealed a Passat pulling up next to the cashpoint built into the wall by the cabin window. Gordon Dean, hair cut short and spiky and wearing a black shirt, got out first.

Then the door on the far side of the car opened. Jon and Rick leaned forward. A woman with dark shoulder-length hair got out. From the way she walked, Jon could tell she was wearing high heels before she came round the back of the car. Now she was fully in the camera’s gaze, Jon took in her body. Quite tall, slim hips and a hard, tight arse. His eyes rose to her breasts as she turned. They were high and jutting, the type only possible with the help of surgery or a push-up bra. To his dismay, Jon felt sexual interest stirring in him. The thought of fast and dirty sex in an anonymous hotel. He suppressed the thought by saying, ‘Gordon Dean’s happily driving round town with a load of champagne in him.’

Rick nodded, eyes on the screen as the woman caught Dean up at the cashpoint machine. She reached out a hand and cupped his buttocks. The entire time he was withdrawing money her face was out of sight, nuzzling at his neck.

Next, she said something into his ear and disappeared back inside the car. He went to the cabin window, handed over his card and seconds later it was returned with a box of condoms.

The tape ran on and they watched as the car moved off, started to indicate right then disappeared out of the picture.

‘Is it the girl in the morgue? I reckon it could be.’ Rick commented.

‘Time of death’s totally wrong,’ Jon answered. ‘Victim number three died early to late evening, according to the pathologist.’

‘There’s always a margin for error. Especially when the body’s been exposed to the coolness of the night air.’

Jon rubbed the back of his neck. ‘OK, it’s a possibility.’

Rick looked at the screen. ‘I get it. The £150 from the cashpoint is her charge for sex. Then she taps him for the condoms, too.’

‘But I thought she snaffled all the condoms she needed from

Crimson?’

Rick shrugged in reply.

As they got up, Jon snapped his fingers. ‘Shit! We forgot the tape from the Novotel. That woman on reception was keeping it for us.’

‘I’ll bob in first thing tomorrow morning. Shall we call it a day?’

Jon looked at his watch and saw how late it was. ‘Good idea.’

Rick wrote a receipt for the garage’s tape and they let themselves out. The door clicked shut behind them and Rick buttoned his jacket up. ‘I’ll walk from here, I’m only five minutes away. The cab rank by Piccadilly station is probably your nearest.’

Jon glanced at the traffic. ‘No, you’re all right. There should be plenty of cabs passing this way. Nice work tonight, mate. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

As they shook hands Rick said, ‘Cheers for that outside

Crimson by the way.’

Jon met his eyes. ‘My pleasure.’

Rick let go of his hand and laughed. ‘Yeah, I got the impression it was.’

As he wandered off Jon looked down, embarrassed that Rick had witnessed him in the alley spoiling for a fight. He found it hard enough to accept that, rather than fear or anxiety, the prospect of violence gave him a jolt of excitement. But he couldn’t deny it was there, ready to erupt whenever anger flooded his veins.

He looked up the road, forcing his thoughts back to the investigation. Gordon Dean had signalled to turn right when he left the forecourt. The centre of town and the Novotel were to his left. He stared in the other direction, towards the roundabout and the start of the A57, leading towards the Platinum Inn and Belle Vue.

Even if Gordon Dean had driven the hooker from the CCTV footage straight to the motel and Fiona Wilson heard her being murdered, time of death was all wrong for her to have been the third victim. But as he shifted from foot to foot, uneasiness was gathering at the back of his mind like the beginnings of a headache.

It was the angry throb bouncing back and forth between her temples that dragged Fiona from the depths of unconsciousness. She kept her eyes shut, trying to gauge if more sleep might be enough to make it go away. But then other parts of her mind started to function. She heard the sound of traffic passing in a continual stream. The smell of stale sweat and alcohol filled the air. Her eyes were still shut but she could tell it wasn’t dark. She tried to turn over onto her back, but her arms were restrained.

Her eyes snapped open, trying to focus. She couldn’t see. Something was covering her face and she started to panic. As she tilted her head back the material slipped from her face. A bedside table, the surface bare except for a lamp and a small foil square, almost ripped in half.

She began to wriggle and realised her arms were only caught up in the sheet that had been covering her face. Behind her someone grunted in their sleep. Her eyes went back to the square of ripped foil. It was a condom wrapper. As she sat up and straightened her legs she could tell that she’d recently had sex. She was naked and a wave of nausea welled up. Looking over her shoulder she saw the salesman, his face pressed against the pillow and saliva glistening at the corner of his mouth. Meredith? Mercier? He was asleep next to her, a half-drunk bottle of champagne on his bedside table. Slowly she looked around. She was in a hotel room, her clothes lying in a pile on the floor next to the bed. Carefully she climbed out, scooped them up, let herself into the bathroom and locked the door.

She just got to the sink before violently retching. Two mouthfuls of acrid brown liquid came out and a sour, fruity smell filled her nostrils. She turned on the taps and as water started to wash the liquid away, strings of mucus-like saliva were revealed in it. She retched again.

Her brain felt like it was clenching in on itself, sending waves of pain right down into her molars. She grabbed a glass, filled it with water and started to sip. Her stomach heaved, but it stayed down. The self-loathing that trailed her heaviest drinking sessions, like a rusting old tanker being pulled by a tug-boat, loomed over her. But this time it was compounded by shame. She wanted to curl up and cry, but not here. Anywhere but here.

She climbed into her clothes, careful to keep her head up to minimise the pounding in her temples. A wash bag was on the shelf above the sink. Guiltily, she lifted out his toothpaste and squirted some onto her finger. She smeared it over her teeth and worked it around her mouth. Her tongue soon felt like it was burning and she thought that the pain served her right.

Looking at herself in the mirror, she adjusted her hair and used a tissue to wipe off the smears of mascara. The bathroom door clicked loudly as she opened it. Round the corner, in the main part of the room, she heard movement and held her breath.

‘Jesus, what a night,’ he groaned.

Fiona moved quickly to the door and let herself out. She eventually found a lift, walked through reception and out on to the street. Wincing in the bright light of day, she looked to her left and right. She was on Portland Street, Piccadilly Gardens and the bus terminal almost opposite. A digital clock read 8:43 a.m., cars filled the road and people hurried by, freshly showered and ready for work. Fiona folded her arms across her stomach and set off towards the bus station, eyes fixed on the pavement in front.

After thirty metres she realised the bar where she first met him was on her right. The doors were shut and a couple of cleaners were clearing the tables of glasses, many half finished. Her stomach flipped over.

The station was filled by a disorderly procession of buses, some trying to pull in and drop off passengers while empty ones queued to pull out. Engines revved, horns blared and exhaust fumes filled the air. Fiona felt like she could die at any moment.