Chris Simms: Shifting Skin

‘I was just coming to give you a knock. The day manager’s due any minute. I need you out of here.’

Fiona hurried down the corridor, gulping back the emotion that threatened to erupt as tears. ‘Dawn, I know this sounds mad but, I think I heard someone being strangled last night.’

‘Where? Outside your window?’

‘No. In the next room.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I could hear everything through the walls.’ She breathed deeply, forcing herself to slow down. ‘A couple came in just after three thirty this morning. At first the sounds were them, you know, having sex. But then they changed to choking. It was horrible. I’m certain he killed her. Not a word was said after the struggling stopped. I heard him moving around the room, there was a loud bump and then he walked across the view from my spyhole, carrying something wrapped in a blanket over his shoulder.’

‘I’d have seen him come through reception,’ Dawn stated flatly.

‘He went out the other way, through the fire-escape door at the other end of the corridor.’

Dawn’s eyes skittered nervously towards the door to room number nine. ‘No, I don’t think anyone was in that room last night. Listen, Fiona, you’ve got to leave. I could lose my job here.’ She opened the doors to reception and beckoned. ‘Come on.’

Fiona hesitated, looking back down the corridor, wondering if the sounds could have come from another room. She pressed her fingers against her temples, trying to suppress the ache pulsating through her skull. ‘But Dawn, that door wasn’t properly shut. I looked inside and the spare blanket is missing.’

Dawn’s voice was agitated. ‘Half the spare blankets are missing in this place. Please, you’ve got to go.’ Her hand flapped more desperately.

Fiona walked reluctantly through the double doors and across the reception area to the exit. Dawn produced a sheet of paper.

‘Here. This place is run by decent people. I rang last night after you went to bed. They’re expecting you to call.’

She looked at the number, knowing she had nowhere else to go. ‘Thank you, Dawn. You’ve been so kind.’ As she folded the paper into her pocket she felt the business card in there already.

‘Look! There was this as well. Under the bed.’

But Dawn’s eyes were on the main road. ‘That’s him.’ Fiona looked, saw a silver Volvo turning into the car park.

‘Take care, Fiona.’ The outer doors swung shut.

‘Come on, boy.’ The man waited as his elderly labrador climbed slowly down the front steps and on to the garden path.

Once on the pavement the man glanced towards the A57 and the park on the other side. Ever since the lady’s body had been found there he’d been put off walking his dog around its litter-strewn confines.

Instead he turned in the other direction, walking along Mount Road, the greyhound racing stadium on his right. This early in the morning the neighbourhood was unusually quiet. Mist filled the street and, as he paused to light a cigarette, the only sound was the scrape of the match and the drip of water hitting the damp pavement as it fell from the glistening tree to his side.

The man continued past a shop. Tip-Top Electricals, all appliances bought and sold. Fridges. Freezers. Washing Machines.

After a couple of boarded-up houses he came to the offices that stood on the corner of the grassy area around which he now walked his dog. Belle Vue Housing Offices said the graffiti-covered sign, a few crocuses flowering in the bare earth beneath it. The building’s windows were clad in metal grilles, and a spiked rail ran below all the gutters.

The sun had seemed about to come out, but now its promising glow faded once again. The morning felt heavy and subdued, as if waiting for something to give it a kick-start. He breathed out smoke and it soon churned to a stop in the motionless air above his head, hanging there like a phantom.

His dog began to pull excitedly at the lead. ‘Bit eager today, Prince,’ he said, not sharing that enthusiasm. He undid the clip and watched the animal disappear into the thick haze.

He stepped over the tyre tracks joy-riders had gouged in the grass, and walked for a short while. ‘Prince!’

No response.

He waited half a minute, then tried again. Tutting, he cut across the verge in the direction the dog had vanished, soon spotting paw-prints in the dew-covered grass. As he moved forwards the mist seemed to recede at the same pace, never allowing him to see more than about fifteen metres ahead. Eventually he discerned a dark form in front of him. ‘Prince,’ he said impatiently,

‘what are you doing?’

Prince’s head was down, nuzzling a discarded white sack.

‘Come on, will you.’

The dog looked up, a bluish loop in its teeth.

The man squinted, then walked closer. It wasn’t a sack. It was a corpse, white skin ending at an expanse of red where the abdomen began. The swathe of raw flesh continued upwards to where the person’s face should have been.

The dog began to slink guiltily away, the section of intestine dangling from its jaws.

Jon Spicer walked into the incident room expecting to be one of the first people in. But there was a man sitting at the desk opposite his. Late twenties, dark brown hair that had been freshly cut, crisp pale-blue shirt. So this is my new partner, Jon thought.

The day before, his boss, Detective Chief Inspector McCloughlin, had mentioned with a meaningful wink that he was being paired up with someone. New resources had been released to the murder investigation and Rick Saville, promoted to detective sergeant only a few months before, was one of seven new officers assigned to it. McCloughlin had described him as

‘slick’. Scrutinising him from across the room, Jon wasn’t sure if the word applied to his ability as an officer or to his appearance.

He thought about the meaning of McCloughlin’s wink. Last summer he’d fallen out with the DCI over the Chewing Gum Killer investigation. Jon suspected Rick Saville had been paired with him to report everything they did back to McCloughlin.

Easy, he told himself. Reserve judgement. As he crossed the room Saville glanced up, spotted him and immediately began to rise.

‘In early,’ said Jon, taking his suit jacket off and hanging it on the back of his chair. ‘Rick Saville, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah. Good to meet you.’ Not overdoing his smile.

Jon shook the sergeant’s hand, feeling slightly less pressure returned. Jon kept his grip, waiting for the subtle press of fingers that would indicate membership of the Masons. Nothing happened. Maybe he was a DS this early in his career because he actually merited the rank.

‘Where are you joining us from?’

Rick sat down. ‘I’ve just completed a stint at Chester House

— a project for reducing bureaucracy.’

‘And did it amount to anything, apart from producing more paperwork?’

Rick smiled briefly, though his eyes remained guarded. ‘Not really.’

‘I take it you’re on the accelerated promotion scheme, then?’

He nodded. ‘I did my two years’ probationary down in Chester, but all the action’s up here, so I applied for the fast track with Greater Manchester Police as soon as I could.’

‘Graduate?’

‘Yes, Exeter University. History and Law. You?’

Jon shook his head. ‘Joined as a bobby over twelve years ago.’

‘You’ve done bloody well to make DI by now, then.’

‘Cheers. How do you find the accelerated promotion scheme?’

Rick kept his hands on the table, interview-style. ‘Very challenging, to be honest. It’s all the tests — they never seem to end.’

Jon leaned back and looked at the paperwork spread out on Rick’s desk. Statements from friends, relatives and associates of the Butcher’s second victim.