02-Shifting Skin (25 page)

Jon noticed that Rick was looking totally bemused. ‘Rick, this is Fiona. She works with my girlfriend. Fiona, Rick, my partner.’

Her eyes slid unsteadily towards Rick. ‘You’re his what?’

‘We’re partners,’ Rick replied with a grin. She looked lost.

‘In the police,’ Jon added.

She started giggling. ‘For a moment there I thought you meant—’

‘Yeah, I know,’ Jon interrupted.

The slimy creep appeared behind her. Jon instantly saw that he was trying to appear friendly and inquisitive but couldn’t hide the look of concern that his shag was escaping him.

‘Martin Mercer,’ he said, extending a hand towards Jon.

‘Jon Spicer.’ Briefly, they shook.

‘Fiona’s certainly got an interesting taste in night venues. One minute we’re in a place on the main road, next she’s dragged me in here!’

Jon looked away from his shining teeth. ‘So, Fiona, what are you up to?’

‘Trying to find out what happened to that girl. You know, the one you couldn’t give a shit about.’ She was tilting towards aggression again.

Taking her elbow, he guided her towards the corner of the room, out of earshot of the creep. ‘Fiona, Alice mentioned you’ve been making enquiries. You need to be careful.’

Fiona curled her lips in distaste. ‘Someone’s got to try and find out if she’s OK. No one else is.’ She took a large gulp of her drink.

‘What did the woman at Cheshire Consorts say?’

‘She had an Alexia come and try to get a job with her. But she thought she was on drugs. Sent her packing.’

‘And now you’re trawling round the red-light district, searching for her? Fuck, Fiona, it’s not safe. Specially at the moment.’

Fiona leaned against the wall and rolled the back of her head against it. ‘Not just trawling. I was told she comes in here sometimes. But no one’s seen her since the night I heard someone being killed.’ Abruptly, she tipped the last of her drink into her mouth, spilling an ice cube down her front. ‘Bollocks,’ she said, leaning forwards and shaking her top so it fell to the floor.

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.

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.’