02-Shifting Skin (7 page)

‘Anyway, back to the present,’ said Rick, sitting down. ‘First victim.’

Jon took a seat opposite him. ‘Angela Rowlands.’

Rick sat forwards. ‘Forty-two years old. Divorced for just under two years. Got the three-bedroom semi in Droylesden as part of the settlement. Worked part-time as a legal secretary in a solicitor’s just off Deansgate.’

Jon nodded. ‘You’ve done your homework.’

‘That’s just surface stuff. I’m hoping you know something more interesting.’

Jon took a sip of coffee and grimaced slightly with pleasure at its sharp taste. ‘Her daughter, Lucy, lives down near Castlefield, doing very well in web site design. Lucy told us her mum had been very lonely since the divorce. Hurt too. The husband dumped her for a “younger model”, to use Lucy’s words. Rowland’s stage in life: mid-forties, married for twenty years. She was in a routine. It was safe and comfy, but totally devoid of single men. Lucy had encouraged her to get out and start trying to meet someone, but apparently the idea terrified her.’

‘Don’t blame her,’ Rick leaned back. ‘Playing the field after being out of it for that long?’ He shook his head.

‘Exactly. Apparently, Lucy took her to a singles’ night at a bar in town. Lucy did very well, but her mum didn’t get a second glance. After that Lucy suggested she try dating agencies – but only the upmarket ones.’

Rick toyed with his drink. ‘Ones that advertise in the broadsheets?’

‘Yup. And at several hundred quid just to join, they’re not cheap.’

‘So we’ve got her coming into contact with various men, none of whom had a previous social connection with her. Have we got the list of people she had dates with?’

‘Only just. They were reluctant at first, because their members’ records are strictly confidential. Then someone pointed out to them that having the Butcher of Belle Vue on their books was probably more of a risk to their profits than a few disgruntled members. Rowland received dozens of member profiles, but only had around fifteen actual dates, we think. Each one’s being looked into now.’

Jon downed his coffee in one gulp. ‘According to Lucy, she hadn’t had much luck with any of them. Her confidence was low. Before the divorce she’d only ever dressed up for a few gin and tonics at their local every Friday. Now her wardrobe was hopelessly out of date.’ He tapped a forefinger on the table to emphasise his next point. ‘Then she mentioned to her daughter over the phone that she’d decided to do something. She sounded nervous and excited. She wouldn’t say what, just that it was something she should have done a long time ago.’

‘Did Lucy find out what she was up to?’ Jon shook his head. ‘Next time she saw her mum, it was in the mortuary. We’ve gone over her phone records and bank statements, but nothing of much help there.’

Both men were silent as they turned possibilities over. Jon looked up. ‘What about the porter selling this rowing machine? That was a surgical glove back there. They must be two a penny in hospitals. How about nipping over to Stepping Hill hospital?’

Rick looked uncomfortable. ‘Shouldn’t we run it by

McCloughlin first?’

‘Strictly speaking, yes.’

Rick hesitated before pulling out his mobile. ‘I’ll give him a quick ring, then. May as well play things by the book.’

Jon gave a noncommittal shrug as Rick made the call.

Chapter 4

Rick snapped his phone shut. ‘Yeah, he says to get over there, but stressed just for a chat. What did he think we were going to do, batter him?’

Jon knew the comment was directed at him. In McCloughlin’s view, Jon’s temper was his Achilles’ heel, a constant threat to his career.

Half an hour later Jon laid his warrant card on the counter in the main reception at Stepping Hill hospital. A different woman looked up at him.

‘Could I use the phone please?’ he asked. ‘Internal call.’

‘Here you are.’ She turned it round and put it on the counter. Jon dialled 241. He was about to give up when the phone was answered. ‘Is Pete around?’

‘Pete Gray?’

‘I don’t know his surname.’

‘Well, there’s only one Pete works in here. He’s on his way with some supplies to the surgical wards. Left two minutes ago.’

‘Cheers.’ Jon handed the phone back and looked at the site map. A very cheerful volunteer with the name ‘Sue’ on her badge pointed out the way they needed to go. Thanking her, they set off down a long corridor, passing a procession of hospital staff, patients and visitors. Soon they reached a T-junction and followed the overhead sign. At the next crossroads, they could see the surgical ward immediately in front. Jon glanced to his left; a man with a large paunch was swaggering towards them, pushing a trolley piled with boxes. As he got nearer Jon said to Rick, ‘Check out the box on top of his pile.’

The label said:
Mediquip Inc. Powder-free surgical gloves. Sterile.

24
boxes of
200.

‘Pete Gray?’ Jon asked. Taking in the porter’s jet-black laquered quiff, Jon guessed he was in his late forties and clinging to the same haircut of twenty years ago. When baldness hit, it was going to hit hard. The heavy gold neck chain seemed incongruous with the simple white overalls he was wearing.

‘Yes?’ he said, slowing down.

Jon held his warrant card up. ‘DI Spicer and DS Saville, Greater Manchester Police. Once you’ve dropped that lot off, can we have a quick word?’

The porter seemed to think about this for a second, eyes fixed on Jon’s badge. Nervously he raised a hand to his chin. No wedding ring. ‘Here? What’s it about?’

‘Perhaps a café area would be more comfortable,’ Jon replied, ignoring the second question.

Pete’s eyes flicked from Jon to Rick and back again. ‘OK.’ He pushed the trolley through the double doors, Jon and

Rick watching him through the windows.

‘Him selling a rowing machine? No wonder. He obviously didn’t get much use out of it,’ Rick said quietly.

Pete re-emerged and, confidently now, led them to a quiet café area round the corner. After they’d all got a drink, Pete walked over to a table with a discarded copy of the
Sun
on it, peeling back the front page to stare at the page three girl beneath.

‘I wouldn’t kick her out of bed. Tits are fake, though.’

Jon studied his face. With the build-up of flab on his cheeks and below his jaw, there was a faint resemblance to a Las Vegasera Elvis. In his younger days he’d probably been quite the ladies’ man. The way he passed judgement on a topless model some thirty years younger than him suggested that he thought he still was.

‘How long have you worked here, Pete?’ Jon placed a white plastic stirrer in his upturned cup lid.

Pete finished pouring a third sachet of sugar into his coffee.

‘About eight years.’

‘Ever have to work nights? I could never get used to them when I was in uniform.’

Pete’s shoulders relaxed a little. ‘I don’t mind them, actually.’ Jon stretched his legs out to the side of the table, took a sip of coffee. Allowing a note of boredom into his voice, he said,

‘This is just routine stuff because your name was thrown up as part of an ongoing investigation – it shouldn’t take long. Were you working yesterday?’

‘Yeah, I finish at eight in the evening.’

He wasn’t quite sure why, but Jon was getting a feeling about the man. Keeping it casual, he looked away, appearing to be more interested in the Give Blood poster on the wall. He was about to ask his next question when Rick jumped in, ‘What did you do for the rest of the night?’

A wary expression slid across Pete’s face. ‘Watched a couple of videos.’

Jon tried to steer the conversation back to just a chat. ‘A couple? You a film buff?’

‘Just Elvis ones.’

‘I think I’ve only ever seen
Viva Las Vegas
. What else was he in?’

‘Loads.’

The man had clammed up and Jon could tell he was only going to get more tense. Cursing Rick for having jumped in so clumsily, he decided to go for it. ‘Did anyone watch them with you?’

‘No, I live alone.’ Guarded now.

‘Pete, are you into exercise?’

‘Not really.’

‘What about rowing?’ He shook his head.

‘You’ve never tried a rowing machine?’

Pete blinked. ‘Oh, yeah. I’ve tried it a couple of times.’

‘At a gym?’

‘No, I bought one. The thing’s still in my house.’

‘Must clutter the place up. Ever considered selling it?’

The stream of questions was irritating Pete and he tried to reverse the flow. ‘Why? You want to buy it?’

Jon laid his forearms on the table. ‘Did Carol Miller want to buy it?’

He watched as connections came together in the other man’s head. ‘I’ve never laid eyes on her.’

‘Was she looking to buy your rowing machine? The one you’re trying to sell on the noticeboard of the maternity ward?’ Pete ran a hand back and forth across his chin, eyes shifting to the side. ‘We spoke. She was interested, but she never followed it up.’

‘You spoke? You mean over the telephone?’

‘That’s right. She rang me – internal call.’

No record of calls made on an internal phone system, Jon thought. He was considering his next question when Pete spoke first. ‘I don’t like where this is going. I’m not prepared to continue.’ He finished his coffee and got up.

Jon shrugged. ‘One last thing before you go. I’ve been meaning to see
Viva Las Vegas
again for a long time. Where do you hire your Elvis videos from?’ He could check on Pete Gray’s story with the shop.

‘I have my own collection.’ He walked quickly away.

Jon waited until he’d disappeared round the corner. ‘Well, that got him all shook up.’ Rick’s face was blank, completely missing the joke.

Jon pulled an evidence bag from his pocket, then, using the end of a pen, picked up the cup Pete had been drinking from and dropped it inside.

‘What are you taking that for?’ asked Rick.

‘It’ll have his prints and DNA on it.’

His partner laughed incredulously. ‘You’re not seriously thinking of trying to use that as evidence in court?’

Jon gritted his teeth and waited for the flash of annoyance to pass. ‘No. But it could come in useful if any DNA’s recovered from the third victim’s body.’

With a little shake of his head, Rick stood up.

As they crossed the canteen Jon stared at the back of Rick’s neck, thinking that his new partner had a lot to learn and deciding that he wasn’t the one who’d do the teaching.

Chapter 5

The woman shook her head. ‘Don’t worry, love. We’ve had women turn up here in just their nighties before. Barefoot and everything.’

Fiona saw the woman’s eyes shift to the cut above her eyebrow yet again. She turned away to look around the bedroom. It was more like a nun’s cell: narrow single bed, tiny table next to it, simple wardrobe in the corner. The only splash of colour was three dahlias in the vase on the bedside table.

‘Talking of nighties, we’ve got spare ones, or pyjamas if you prefer. Clothes and basic toiletries, too. A lot of people donate items.’

Fiona smiled. ‘Thank you, Hazel, you’re so kind. I don’t know what to say.’

‘You can say that we can take some photographs of your face.’

Her voice had hardened and Fiona looked at her with surprise.

‘Photographic evidence makes it more difficult for him to get away with it.’ She was staring intently into Fiona’s eyes.

‘I...I don’t know. What do you mean, “get away with it”?’

Hazel backed off. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t let it anger me like this. What I mean is, if there comes a time when you want to press charges or divorce him, it helps to have some kind of record. A written diary is good, but photos are far, far preferable. There’s no pressure for you to do anything now, except get better. But it helps if we can get some record while the injuries are still fresh.’

They stepped out of the room, Hazel gesturing to the many doors in the short corridor. ‘With the exception of the two family rooms and the old servant’s quarters up in the attic, all the bedrooms have been divided. It’s a bit like a mini-hotel, complete with my office just inside the front door. Shall we go down?’

‘Actually, do you mind if I make a quick call in private?’ Fiona said, glancing back into the empty room.

‘Certainly,’ Hazel replied. ‘But I must stress that this address has to remain a secret.’

Fiona nodded and then went into her room and closed the door. She lifted her mobile out of her handbag and switched it on. Before she’d even found the business card from Cheshire Consorts, her phone was beeping with answerphone messages.

She listened to the first, heard Jeff’s drunken threats, and deleted it. The next three were him again, angrier and more drunk, remorseful and pleading, then snarling and vicious. She deleted them, too. The last was from that morning, a colleague from the salon ringing to see if she was OK.