02-Shifting Skin (20 page)

‘And who’ll clean this place?’

‘I’ll do it. Tomorrow before work, OK?’

Alice shrugged. ‘I’ll have to get pregnant more often.’

Christ! The prospect of one baby was frightening enough. He looked round, hoping to see an expression on Alice’s face that would tell him she was joking. But her back was to him as she sorted through the pile of ironing.

‘So how was Fiona?’

Alice’s hands paused. ‘She worried me, actually. I mean, she’s sorting herself out, looking to rent somewhere, so she’s finally free of that arsehole she married. But she was going on about what she thinks she heard in that motel room.’

Jon stood in the doorway, arms crossed.

‘She’s determined to find out what happened to that girl Alexia, or whatever her name was. She went to some escort agency, the one whose business card she found.’

He nodded.

‘The owner had interviewed someone, but didn’t take her on. So Fiona said she’s going to start asking street hookers if they know her.’

Jon pictured what went on in Manchester’s red-light areas after dark. It was a sad fact, but even many of his colleagues considered the working girls fair game for a bit of fun. Stories occasionally circulated of prostitutes being invited into the back of police vans, of freebies demanded in return for increased patrols whenever a violent punter was on the prowl. It was a brutal place for Fiona to be wandering around asking questions. ‘She needs to be very careful.’

‘I know. But she’s determined to find out if she’s alive. It’s like some sort of fixation.’

‘Listen, if she tells you anything more about what she’s up to, let me know. I don’t want her getting into trouble. There’s some very nasty operators making their living from those women.’

As Fiona drove through Belle Vue her eyes were drawn to the Platinum Inn. Lights shone behind the curtains in a few of the ground-floor rooms. Several couples were walking along the pavement, and she wondered which were genuine and which were not.

Five minutes later she was driving round the back of Piccadilly station. Spotlights ran along the top of a huge billboard poster. Stretched out in their glare was a bikini-clad woman, leaning towards the camera, lips slightly apart. Fiona just had time to see the ad was for a forthcoming plastic surgery programme on TV before the road turned left, leading her down a dark street bordered by several locked Manchester University buildings. It was a part of town she was unfamiliar with, and she slowed to a crawl. At once she became aware of women she’d been oblivious of a moment before. Now that she was looking properly, she could see more of them, some hanging back in the cobbled side streets that branched off from the road. A sign caught her eye. Minshull Street. One woman stepped to the edge of the kerb and started to beckon. The car passed under a streetlight and, seeing that it was a woman at the wheel, the prostitute’s hand fell.

Fiona speeded up a little, shocked by the existence of a world which, until a few seconds ago, she had only been vaguely aware of. She carried on, the bright lights of Canal Street just visible away to her left. The girls here were dressed more gaudily, and had exaggerated perms and overdone lipstick. She glimpsed silver platform shoes and microskirts and couldn’t decide if they were just drinkers heading into the Gay Village.

Soon she was approaching the brightly lit area of Whitworth Street. As pubs and restaurants began springing up the girls evaporated away. She did a U-turn and drove back, scanning the dark doorways and shadowy areas under trees. How had they ended up here? she wondered. How many were escaping violent fathers, husbands or partners? She stared at them, feeling sick with the realisation that, in many ways, the only thing separating her from them was the thickness of her car window.

Jon looked around the Yates’s pub. A few commuters with coats and briefcases were sipping pints before their trains home. No sign of Rick. He leaned on the bar and decided on a pint of Stella to help settle his nerves.

The change in his hand didn’t cover the cost of the drink and, sheepishly, he had dig out another fifty pence while making the decision to never drink there again.

He chose a table in full view of the entrance, put his drink down and started to shrug his leather jacket off. Then he remembered his figure-hugging T-shirt and changed his mind.

The top half of his drink disappeared in two gulps and he began fiddling with a beer mat, pondering the possibility that his new partner was reporting back to McCloughlin. Although he had initially suspected he was, now he wasn’t quite so sure. The limited exchange between them at the third victim’s crime scene indicated that Rick and McCloughlin had met, but it was a big jump from that to concluding they were in a hidden agree- ment.

Jon stared at his drink, considering his options like a chess player. Booze. That would be his next move. Get him drinking, then drop in an awkward question or two.

A couple of minutes later Rick walked in, still wearing his suit. Wilting with the realisation he had misjudged his dress, Jon gave a weak wave.

Rick spotted him and crossed the room, taking in Jon’s clothes as he did. ‘Shit, I didn’t think we were going casual.’ His eyes caught momentarily on the rip in the knee of Jon’s faded jeans.

Jon moved his leg under the table. ‘I thought we were trying to mingle a bit.’

There was an awkward pause, broken by Rick’s half-chuckle.

‘Well, you’ll certainly manage that. Drink?’

Jon tipped his glass to the side. ‘Go on then. Another Stella please.’

Rick returned with two drinks, Jon eyeing the other glass suspiciously. ‘Is that a Coke?’

Rick took a long swallow. ‘With a double gin.’

Resisting the temptation to pick up the drink and sniff it, Jon gulped down some more beer.

Rick took out the credit-card company’s breakdown of Gordon Dean’s last transactions. ‘So, his card was swiped in Don Antonio’s at seven forty-nine. Next is a bill for thirty-six quid in Taurus. Transaction went through at eight forty-one.’

‘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?’