02-Shifting Skin (24 page)

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.

Chapter 18

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.

‘Why did you do that?’ Rick was staring at him, shocked.

‘He was swinging for you. Didn’t you see?’

‘The one you grabbed by the throat?’

Jon held up a thumb and finger slightly apart. ‘You were this close to getting chinned. That would have been you flat on your back – the last place you want to be in a fight.’

Rick shook his head. ‘Shit. I didn’t see a thing.’ Jon dropped his hand and sucked in a deep breath.

‘You all right?’ Rick asked hesitantly.

He held his hand up again. ‘Yeah, just give me a second.’ He concentrated on taking regular, slow breaths and after a few seconds his heart rate levelled out.

By now the trio had reached the end of the alleyway. The two who could speak turned and shouted a quick chorus of

‘Does he take it up the arse?’ before running away.

Shaking his head, Jon pushed himself upright. ‘Let’s get a beer.’

When they reached the door, the bouncers waved them straight in with a smile, and one of them said, ‘Good to see a bit of bashing back, mate.’

Fucking great, thought Jon. They think I’m gay, too.

The upstairs area was dominated by the bar spanning the back wall. The lighting was subdued, small spotlights directed on the swathes of red velvet that hung down the bare brick walls. The same material was draped round marble pedestals on which stood full-length nude male statues. Apart from the figleaves over their groins, they were styled like Michelangelo’s
David
. Cascaded over the material at the base of each pedestal were piles of fresh oranges, lemons, apples, tomatoes, melons, grapes and peppers.

‘Is that all real?’ Jon said, trying to make it out in the half-light as he headed for the bar.

‘Absolutely,’ Rick replied. ‘It’s based on this amazing bar in Majorca apparently. The display gets changed every night. I think it helps that Miss Tonguelash’s brother runs one of the biggest grocers at Smithfield market.’

As Jon watched, a barman plucked a few lemons from the top of a pile and threw them to a colleague preparing cocktails behind the bar. The place was about half full, with many people heading down a staircase to the floor below.

‘What are you drinking?’ Rick asked.

‘Pint of strong lager,’ Jon replied.

They found a space at the end of the bar next to more glass bowls of the same safe sex packs he’d picked up in Taurus. Jon leaned against the counter and looked around. Immediately he spotted a group of transvestites at a nearby table. Seeing their big shoulders, square faces and bad wigs, he remembered an end-of-season party at his previous rugby club where drag was the obligatory costume. The rest of the clientele looked fairly ordinary, though dominated by men. Rick was talking to the barman and Jon had to concentrate to make out their words over the music floating up from downstairs.

‘That’s great. Thanks for your help.’ Rick slid a pint across to Jon.

‘What did he say?’ Jon asked, ducking his head and taking a massive gulp.

‘He remembers Dean. A bit of a regular. Says he often saw him in here chatting to various people.’

Jon knew more was to come. ‘What about the night in question?’

‘Usual thing, floating around up here, went downstairs for a bit.’ Rick smiled. ‘But thinks he saw him leaving at the end of the night with a working girl who sometimes pops in to grab free condoms off the bar.’

‘Any description?’

‘Shoulder-length reddish hair, five feet eight, slim build.’ Rick held up his drink and they clinked glasses. ‘I reckon if we ask about in here, we could find out more.’

Jon looked around. ‘I’ll let you do the honours.’

Rick gave a little snort. ‘Coward.’ He walked over to the nearest table, the photo in his hand. From the corner of his eye, Jon saw heads shaking.

Five minutes later Rick returned. ‘Nothing. You know what this means?’

Jon finished his drink. ‘Time to go downstairs.’

There was a small counter at the bottom of the steps. After flashing their warrant cards to the woman behind it, they showed her the photo of Gordon Dean, but she couldn’t remember seeing him.

Rick peered through the windows in the double doors before them. ‘Not too busy yet.’

Inside was a lot darker. A glitter ball hung over the dance floor and several couples were milling around to ‘Dancing Queen’. In the DJ box was a tall figure with a hairdo like Marge Simpson’s. She was wearing a satin dress covered in what looked to Jon like a collection of luminous ping-pong balls. As he and Rick made their way round the edge of the dance floor the song came to an end. But rather than another starting up, a beam of light swung across the room and settled on Jon.

Shielding his eyes, he squinted at the DJ box, the figure now barely visible behind the spotlight’s glare. ‘Fuck me, this one’s new in town.’ The voice was high, the words drawled. ‘Look at the size of him, girls. He can slip up here and butcher my snatch any time.’

As laughs of disbelief at the joke’s poor taste erupted all around, the spotlight was cut and the next song kicked in. Despite his embarrassment, Jon recognised the trumpets building in strength before the drumroll started. ‘Lola’s Theme’. Whoops of delight came from the dancefloor and a group of transvestites started sashaying around singing, ‘I’m a different person!’

When he reached the bar, Rick grinned at him and said, ‘That was Miss Tonguelash.’

Jon could feel his face was still burning. ‘I see how she gets her name.’ He looked around uneasily and saw Fiona Wilson staring at him. A slimy-looking creep was standing next to her. She lurched over, her large gin glowing faintly under the ultraviolet light mounted behind the bar.

‘Fiona.’ Jon nodded. ‘Enjoying yourself ?’

She raised a forefinger and tapped him on the chest. ‘You never checked that room. I spoke to the receptionist. She told me.’