Authors: Chris Simms
‘You mean surgery?’ asked Rick.
O’Connor nodded. ‘Their staff all have medical qualifications
and a basic knowledge of cosmetic surgery. But they don’t need any sort of track history – actually, they don’t need any history or experience at all. Add to that the fact that this is an industry woefully lacking in regulations. New procedures and techniques are appearing all the time, and all too often they’re driven by profit rather than patient well-being. Not, in my opinion, a healthy state of affairs.’
‘So you’ve never applied to work for them?’
O’Connor snorted. ‘Absolutely not. The reverse, as a matter of fact. They’ve tried to buy me out once or twice, but I’m not interested. I’ve also had doctors approach me looking for work. I’ve turned them away due to their lack of experience, only to hear they’re employed by Paragon weeks later.’
‘Performing full surgical procedures?’ Jon asked.
‘Full surgical procedures.’
‘As opposed to what you perform here?’
‘Correct. I specialise in aesthetic medicine – laser treatments, botox and filler injections, on the whole. Nothing more than skin deep. But the industry’s expanding at an incredible rate. Everyone wants a slice of the action, to employ the prevalent terminology. Dentists now offer Botox treatments on the side. Got a medical qualification and a syringe? Then join the party. There are rich pickings for all.’
Jon contemplated the doctor’s words. ‘Going back to the surgical side of things, how many people would you say are employed in the industry?’
‘Nationwide or just Manchester?’
Jon toyed with the idea of letting the doctor know which investigation they were on, suspecting that he’d soon guess.
‘Manchester for starters.’
O’Connor frowned. ‘Well, Paragon and their three main competitors have a total of around twelve doctors on their books, I’d say. Some of those work as surgeons in local NHS hospitals and do the private stuff on the side to boost their incomes. Of course, if you were going under the knife, that’s the type of surgeon you want. In addition, they employ several who do private cosmetic work full time. Those guys may do a couple of days a week in Manchester, one in Leeds and one in Liverpool.
They go where the business is. I’d hesitate to say how many of them are in Manchester altogether. Fifty, maybe?’
‘Thanks for your time, Doctor,’ Jon said, getting to his feet.
Out on the street Jon wrinkled his nose as a noisy lorry roared past, leaving a light haze of exhaust fumes in its wake. ‘We’d better recommend to McCloughlin that all surgeons employed by the likes of the Paragon Group are traced and interviewed.’
‘Should be easy to check the alibis of the travelling ones,’ Rick said.
‘True,’ Jon agreed. ‘Let’s see Gordon Dean’s appointments list again.’
Rick got the sheet of paper out, holding it taut against the buffets of air created by passing traffic.
Jon pointed to the final appointment of the morning. ‘Jake’s, in Affleck’s Palace. That’s a tattoo artist.’ He looked towards Great Ancoats Street. ‘It’s only over there. Shall we get it done?’
‘Why not?’ Rick folded the sheet up.
Jon led the way across the main road and into the jumble of narrow streets and derelict cloth shops that made up the Northern Quarter. Soon they rounded the corner of a multi-storey car park, the smell of curry filling the air.
Rick looked at the little café with its never-ending menu painted on the windows. ‘That must be the sixth one of those places we’ve passed.’
Jon nodded. ‘This is where Manchester’s first curry houses sprang up, serving lunch to all the Indian workers from the mills and warehouses that used to thrive around here. It was only after they’d made enough money from these places that the owners opened up other premises out in Rusholme.’
‘You mean the curry mile?’ Rick said, referring to the stretch of road just outside the city centre crammed with dozens of glitzy Indian restaurants.
‘That’s the one,’ said Jon. He pointed across another car park to a hulking old warehouse with strange flower-like lamps attached to its walls. ‘And that’s Affleck’s Palace.’
They walked past a row of market stalls selling fruit and vegetables, and stopped by a side entrance to the Palace. Rick looked at a montage of broken tiles mounted on the wall. Blue fragments spelled out,
And on the
6
th
day, God created MANchester
. He smiled. ‘What is this place?’
‘Affleck’s Palace? Come and take a look.’
They pushed through the doors and found themselves in a room crammed with racks of old denims, corduroy jackets and military-style clothing. Joe Strummer bellowed that they should know their rights, the music unbalanced by the heavier beats of an Eminem track coming from the next room. They went through a doorway into a narrow space lined with T-shirts. Rick pointed out the lettering on one:
Fat people are hard to kidnap
. ‘Strange, but true I suppose,’ he said.
‘Just about sums this place up,’ Jon answered. He was about to point out another that read,
Roll me in chocolate and throw me to the lesbians
, but changed his mind.
They crossed into another room, this one piled high with memorabilia. A seventies-style telephone with a blue neon dial glowed from its position on an impossibly chunky Betamax video recorder which sat next to a ZX Spectrum. Finding a flight of stairs, Jon scanned the list of stalls. ‘Jake’s, third floor.’
When they reached a relatively quieter landing, Rick took the opportunity to speak. ‘What a bizarre place.’
‘Yeah, it hasn’t changed in years. In fact, most of the stuff for sale looks like it hasn’t changed in years, either.’
They emerged on to the third floor, the sound of the Fun Lovin’ Criminals booming out from a stall selling semi-precious stones and wind chimes. Jon pointed down the narrow aisle. ‘It’s in the corner I think.’
They passed through four more zones of music before reaching a stall which differed from the rest in that it had a glass front.
Jake’s Body Works.
2
for
1
on all piercings
. Close-up photos of tattoos filled the windows, most so fresh they were fringed by angry red skin.
Jon leaned closer, trying to work out the part of the body each image had been drawn on. Nipples, pubic regions and stomach buttons emerged from the patterns. They went inside. There was barely enough room for both of them to stand, but at least the cacophony of music outside dropped a fraction.
A man sat in the corner, shaved head bowed over a manga comic. He looked up, face glinting with clusters of studs. They protruded from his ears, lips, cheeks, nostrils and eyebrows. One ran through the upper part of his nose and Jon wondered how it didn’t make him go cross-eyed.
He folded his comic shut. ‘A Prince Albert, gentlemen?’
Jon was unsure what he meant, but knew from the man’s expression they’d been sussed immediately for police.
He took out his ID card anyway. ‘DI Spicer and DS Saville.’
‘You don’t say,’ he interrupted, eyes moving to Rick for a second. ‘I’m Jake.’ He waved a hand so covered in tattoos, it was almost blue. ‘You’ll be wanting a seat before we get started.’
The comment was phrased so Jon wasn’t sure if the man was referring to them asking questions or getting a Prince Albert, whatever that was. A mischievous light danced in Jake’s eyes and Jon wondered just how much pressure would be required to rip the bolt out of the bridge of his nose.
Rick sat down on one of the stools and said, ‘We’re trying to trace the movements of Gordon Dean. You purchase your medical examination gloves from him.’
Jake’s eyes were still on Jon, who remained standing by the door. ‘Ease up, man. I’m only fooling around.’
Jon raised and then dropped the corners of his mouth, the smile over in a blink.
Jake turned his attention to Rick. ‘Gordon? He was in here two days ago.’ He shook his head and laughed.
‘Why’s that funny?’ Rick said, half smiling, too.
Jake clicked a tongue stud against his teeth. ‘He was just passing through. He was on a voyage.’
If the man’s eyes hadn’t been so alert, Jon would have guessed he was on something.
‘What sort of voyage?’ Rick asked. Jake leaned back. ‘Self-discovery.’
‘Meaning?’
‘You tell me. After all, you’re looking for him. I just spied him off my port bow, heading God knows where. Perhaps you know more about the course he was plotting.’
Jon shook his head. ‘Jake, you’re making me feel seasick. Just let us know why you thought he was on a voyage.’
Jake burst out laughing. ‘OK, man, I like your style. For a start, he came back after his other appointments for another tattoo.’ He twisted round, took a large book off the shelf by his head and opened it up. ‘This little baby. Right on his left arse cheek.’ He tapped a design of a pudgy red imp with red skin, horns and a trident.
‘You did his first tattoo?’ asked Jon. ‘The ladybird?’
‘That’s right.’ Jake looked up and his smile faltered. ‘You’ve seen it? Don’t tell me he’s in the morgue?’
‘Why? Is that where you’d expect him to turn up?’ Jon held his eyes.
Jake’s shoulders shifted. ‘No. The guy was excited, a bit hyper even. But it was more . . .’ He grasped at the air. ‘Positive, you know? He was bursting with energy. He’s not dead, is he?’
‘As I said, we’re trying to trace his movements. We don’t know where he is.’
Rick said, ‘So he was bursting with energy.’
‘Yeah, like he’d just had some good news. Grinning all the time.’
‘Didn’t say why, though?’
‘No. But he was on a mission. Said he was getting a haircut, too. That horrific side parting of his was going.’
‘Did he say where was he getting it cut?’ Rick said, pen and notebook out.
‘Zaney’s, downstairs.’
They clattered down the wooden steps, the incessant music and claustrophobic atmosphere beginning to get to Jon.
‘Yeah,’ said the hairdresser, sweeping a mane of crimson hair off her shoulder, ‘he was my last customer. Left just before six. Don’t get to lop fringes like his off very often.’
‘What sort of cut did you give him?’
‘The chopped look. Grade two back and sides, a bit longer on top. All messed up and spiky. He took a pot of extra-strong styling gel to make sure it stayed that way. Oh, and he let me get rid of that moustache, too.’
‘Did he say what he was doing, why the sudden drastic change in hairstyle?’ Rick asked.
‘Nah. Just gave me a good tip and skipped on out the door.’
Rick rubbed his hands as they walked back to their car. ‘A voyage of self-discovery. You reckon he was manic? About to go off the rails?’
Jon’s hands were in his pockets, eyes on the pavement in front. ‘I don’t think so. He was still seeing clients, chasing sales targets. Did you notice his house? There was something dead about it. I think the wife’s right – Gordon was on the verge of getting out.’
‘Yeah, but to do what? I think he was building up to something. Maybe it was his next murder.’
Jon looked away. ‘Just a gut reaction, but I can’t see it.’ Rick remained silent.
‘You don’t agree?’ Jon asked after a few seconds.
‘He was hiding a completely different side of himself from his wife. Maybe he was hiding a lot of rage, too. That tattooist said he was bubbling with excitement. Could have been with the prospect of skinning another woman.’
Jon jangled the change in his pocket, still not convinced. ‘By the way, what’s a Prince Albert?’
Rick snorted, but kept looking ahead. ‘It’s a ring. One that goes down your Jap’s eye and out under the rim of your fireman’s helmet.’
‘Oh, sweet Jesus,’ Jon groaned.
Chapter 13
Cathy whispered, ‘It’s ringing.’
Fiona stood on the other side of the desk. She took the tip of a finger out of her mouth and, anxiously chewing a fragment of nail, hissed, ‘Don’t forget to say it’s a personal call if she asks.’
‘I know,’ Cathy mouthed. ‘Hello, could I have the fax number for Jeff Wilson, please?’ She jotted a number down. ‘And is he in the office at the moment? . . . OK, thanks.’ She leaned towards the phone in readiness to replace the handset. ‘Sorry?...No, it’s a personal call...No, that’s OK, there’s no message... No, really, it’s not important.’
She hung up and said, ‘Jesus, she was desperate to get my name.’
‘It’s him,’ Fiona said knowingly. ‘He goes mad if you fail to take a name and number when someone calls. It was the same for me at home – even though he refused to take messages for me. My friends gave up trying eventually.’
The comment made Cathy look exhausted. ‘Fucking men. Anyway, he’s in a meeting until lunch.’
Fiona nodded, but didn’t move.
‘Well, go, then!’ Cathy shoved her towards the door.
‘Yes, sorry.’ She whipped the car keys from her pocket and rushed outside. In her car she immediately began to fret again. What if the meeting was cancelled and his PA said someone had rung asking where he was? Would he guess it was her and rush home?