02-Shifting Skin (9 page)

She sighed, and a tremor passed across her lower lip. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know.’

‘Are you OK, Fiona? We don’t have to do this if you’re not.’

She smiled bleakly. ‘Am I OK? I’ve just walked out on my husband. And then what I heard last night . . .’ She ground the cigarette out, drilling the filter hard into the ashtray. ‘Be strong, Fiona. Be strong,’ she said under her breath. Then she looked up. ‘I want to tell you about last night.’ Despite her determined tone, a shiver went through her.

‘Can I get you a coffee first?’

She smiled. ‘Thanks. A latte, please.’

Jon returned a couple of minutes later. He placed a frothfilled cup before her just as she lit another cigarette. ‘Take your time,’ he said, sitting down.

Fiona told her story, starting from when she’d staggered into the foyer of the Platinum Inn and had sat with Dawn in the back office, sharing a few drinks. She began to falter when she had to describe the sound of the couple undressing.

‘OK, Fiona,’ Jon helped her along. ‘They were on the bed by now.’

She nodded.

‘And I’m guessing you could hear them getting down to business? Pardon the pun.’

‘Yes. But then I heard them speak again and they moved. Changed – you know – positions I suppose. And that’s when the struggling began. And this awful choking sound. She was fighting to breathe.’

Jon knew the autopsies on Angela Rowlands and Carol Miller had shown evidence of strangulation. In the background the milk steamer’s splutters ground to a halt.

‘Eventually they stopped moving. Then one person got up, went to the bathroom and the taps came on. He wandered about the room for a bit, went back to the bed.’ She broke to spoon foam into her mouth, fingers trembling. ‘Then there was a thump, like something heavy being dragged off the bed and onto the floor.’

Jon tried to keep his thoughts objective, but he couldn’t stop the waves of excitement running through him. He dragged his eyes from the tip of her cigarette again.

‘I crept across to my door and looked through the spyhole. One person left that room, moving slowly, something big and heavy wrapped in a blanket over his shoulder.’

‘Did you see his face?’

‘No, just a flash of reddish-brown hair, but I reckon that was the girl’s, poking out from the top of the blanket. He headed away from reception to the door at the other end of the corridor. He must have left through the fire exit.’

‘Did any sort of an alarm go off?’

Fiona shook her head. ‘You should see the place. It’s falling apart. I doubt the alarms even work.’

Jon ran the information through his head. The motel was a few minutes’ walk from where the third body had been found. But where had the victim’s skin been removed? Did the killer have a van in the car park or had he even left the building at all? Could he have taken her to a storage room or perhaps the basement?

‘Fiona, do you know what time of night this was?’

She nodded emphatically. ‘Three thirty in the morning they woke me coming into their room. He left at about four I’d imagine.’

Jon’s excitement vanished. ‘You’re absolutely sure on that?’

‘Yes, I looked at my watch.’

‘And it was three thirty in the morning?’

‘Yes. Three thirty-six, to be exact.’

An image of the killer had just started to materialise in his head. Blurred and indistinct maybe, but just enough to create a tingle in his veins. It was a sensation he found completely addictive. Now the hazy silhouette evaporated like a mirage. His lips tensed in regret. ‘Fiona, I’m telling you this in confidence. The body found at just after six this morning. It had been there all night, not placed there just before dawn.’

Fiona frowned. ‘But I heard...What I heard, it wasn’t just sex.’ Her jaw set tight. ‘I really think I heard someone being killed.’

Jon took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling, wondering how much brandy she’d shared with the receptionist. Halogen bulbs glared down at him.

‘And I found this.’ Fiona patted her pockets and pulled out a slightly crumpled business card. ‘It was under the bed.’

‘Under which bed?’

‘The one in the next room. Number nine. The door hadn’t shut properly. I looked around it this morning.’

‘And?’

‘And it was spotless. The bed looked like no one had slept in it. The bathroom was immaculate. Everything had been wiped clean – to destroy evidence, I suppose. This was the only thing there. Oh, and the spare blanket was missing, too.’

The card was still in her outstretched hand, shaking slightly. Jon looked at it. It could have been lying there for days. ‘Fiona, you were attacked by your husband last night. You mentioned you had quite a bit of brandy with the night receptionist—’

‘Don’t say I imagined it!’ she hissed.

‘I’m not. I’m certain you heard something. But this motel

– it’s used on an hourly basis by prostitutes and their clients. All sorts are going on. Doors banging, people coming and going right through the night.’

‘I heard what I heard.’ The card was thrust defiantly towards him.

Reluctantly Jon took it, read the printed writing then flipped it over.

Fiona jabbed a finger at the scrawled biro. ‘I tried her number. A man answered. He hung up on me and when I tried again the number had gone dead.’

Jon raised an eyebrow.

‘Go on. Try it yourself.’

As he took his mobile out he got a surreptitious look at his watch. This was taking up too much time. He rang the number. It went through to a number unavailable announcement.

‘See?’ Fiona insisted. Her voice was beginning to grate. ‘He’s stolen her stuff. The phone’s probably been shoved down some drain by now.’

‘OK.’ Jon got ready to stand up. ‘This Platinum Inn. I’ll stop by and ask some questions, I’ll speak to Cheshire Consorts and I’ll check who this mobile number is registered to.’

Fiona relaxed a little. ‘Thank you.’

‘I’ve really got to go. I’ll call you. Have you got a mobile?’ She gave him her number.

*

When he walked into the incident room on the top floor of Longsight station, a new buzz was in the air.

Rick was at his desk, a couple of other officers complimenting him on spotting the glove. Jon saw the look of pleasure on his face, the easy way he was taking credit for the find. You’ll go far in this job, he thought.

As he got to their desks Rick finally saw him. ‘It was blood on that glove.’

Jon sat down. ‘That’s great news. Anything on who the girl is?’

‘No. She’s been fingerprinted and a DNA sample’s been taken. All missing reports for young female adults are being checked now, and word’s gone out to the neighbouring forces to do the same.’

‘Door-to-door around Belle Vue?’

‘As we speak.’

The other two officers moved off and Rick quietly said,

‘McCloughlin announced that I’d found the glove to the whole room. It’s been a good way of meeting everyone.’

That surprised Jon, and he thought that maybe there was no link between Rick and McCloughlin. But then he realised Rick could easily have told McCloughlin the true story and the announcement to the incident room could be just McCloughlin keeping up the pretence. ‘What about that footprint?’

‘The CSM – what was her name?’

‘Nikki Kingston,’ Jon replied, slightly irritated at the defensive note in his voice.

‘Apparently, she shoved a bucket over it and sent for a casting kit.’

Jon grinned in admiration of her efficiency.

‘But the best is yet to come,’ Rick carried on.

‘Go on.’

‘The glove. She’s testing it for fingerprints, something about amino acid deposits in sweat showing up on latex. If whoever dropped that glove is on NAFIS, we could have his name and address in a few hours.’

Jon looked around. ‘No wonder everyone’s looking so happy.’

Rick stood up. ‘I’m desperate for a leak.’

Jon waited until Rick had gone out, then picked up the phone and dialled Nikki’s number. ‘Nikki, it’s Jon. This glove.’

‘Bloody hell, Jon. Anyone else and I’d tell them to call back later. It’s right in front of me. We’ve already lifted a partial from the wrist where he gripped it to pull it on.’

‘Enough for a match?’

‘No. But there should be others – on the inside at the fingertips, for instance. If he wasn’t wearing them long enough to get them all smudged, they could prove useful.’

‘Great. Listen, can you tell me who made the glove? Can you see the word “Mediquip” on it?’

‘Hang on. There’s something on the back.’ Her words were drawn out and Jon could tell she was squinting, face inches from the glove. ‘Yes. It says “Size 8” and “Mediquip Inc”. Good news?’

‘Could well be,’ Jon replied, trying to suppress the excitement in his voice. He placed the bag with Pete Gray’s cup in on the desk. ‘Last thing, Nikki,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Can you run a couple of tests on a cup for me? Fingerprints and, hopefully, saliva for DNA.’

‘Are you taking the piss?’

‘I don’t mean straight away,’ he protested. ‘Just when you get the chance.’

She sighed. ‘You owe me. Big time. Where’s it come from, anyway?’

‘A suspect left it behind at an interview.’

‘So this is an unofficial test?’

‘Yeah.’ Jon smiled. ‘If it links him to what I’m hoping, we’ll pull him in on something else and then run a DNA mouth swab in line with the Police and Criminal Evidence Act.’ Seeing Rick coming back in, he quickly hid the cup in his drawer. ‘Right, I’ll leave you to it.’

‘Sure there’s nothing else?’ she said sarcastically.

‘No, that’ll do for the moment. Cheers.’ He hung up as Rick sat down. ‘I’ve just spoken to the CSM. The glove you found at the crime scene was made by a company called Mediquip.’

Rick raised a finger. ‘Same as the ones Pete Gray was wheeling to the surgical ward.’

Jon winked. ‘Have a check on the PNC, see if he’s got any priors. I’ll see what the internet has on Mediquip.’

Less than a minute later, Jon was reading out the company’s home page in an American accent. ‘Mediquip is one of the world’s leading manufacturers of latex and vinyl gloves for surgical and medical use. Our factory employs the very latest quality control standards in order to produce a range of gloves recognised across the globe for their reliability.’ A row of thumbnail-sized photos popped up across the the screen. ‘Powder-free vinyl. PE gloves for industrial use. Powder-free in natural colour. Latex surgical sterilised by EO gas. Copolymer sterile latex. Pre-powdered nitrile examination.’ He scanned the column on the left of the screen. ‘Here we go: suppliers.’ He keyed ‘United Kingdom’ into the search field. Four names came up, one based in Manchester: Protex Ltd, Unit 15, Europa Business Park, Denton.

Rick’s eyes were on his own screen. ‘Pete Gray. Cautioned for sexual harassment back in eighty-nine. Was going to court, but charges were dropped by his then wife, Helen Gray. There’s an addendum to contact the Domestic Violence Unit for more information.’

He called the unit and got them to pull their intelligence file on Pete Gray. There were two other incidents involving violence towards females, one in 1993 and another in 1999. Neither had resulted in a caution or conviction.

‘So he’s not had his DNA added to the national database,’ Rick announced, hanging up the phone.

‘Looks like he has an attitude problem with the ladies, though,’ Jon replied, printing off the contact details for Protex. ‘OK. I think it’s time for a word with McCloughlin.’

As he got up, he saw the business card for Cheshire Consorts lying on his desk. Flipping it over, he looked at the mobile phone number scrawled there and groaned. He’d assured Fiona that he’d look into it, and now he’d have to waste valuable time keeping his promise.

‘Two seconds, I just need to do a favour for a colleague of my girlfriend. She thinks she heard someone being strangled in the room next to her in a motel last night.’

Rick smirked at Jon’s tone. ‘Whereabouts?’

‘Belle Vue,’ Jon replied, picking up the phone.

‘Really? Near where the body was this morning?’

Jon nodded. ‘Yeah, but don’t get excited. Whatever she thinks she heard, it was at three thirty in the morning. The third victim’s time of death was hours before that.’

He called the communications liaison office. ‘DI Spicer here. Could you run a check on a mobile phone number for me, please?’

Next he flipped the card over and rang Cheshire Consorts itself. ‘Hello, this is DI Spicer from Greater Manchester Police. Who am I speaking to, please?’

‘Joanne Perkins. Are you on duty, Detective Inspector, or is this call for leisure purposes?’

But for a calculating note, the voice was very seductive. Jon imagined long, shimmering blond hair, arched eyebrows and full red lips. ‘I’m on duty, yes. Could I speak to the manager or owner, please?’

‘You are. I’m manager and owner.’

‘Ms Perkins—’