Authors: Chris Simms
Breast augmentation (C cup)
Alex appreciates that the treatment is on an unofficial basis and that the prices I charge reflect that. He has stated that he will pay for the procedures on a stage-by-stage basis as the necessary funds become available to him
.
A hand shook Jon’s shoulder and he looked up at the officer who’d spoken earlier.
‘I said, how is she? What’s he done to her?’
‘Sedated her somehow.’ Jon held a finger to her neck. ‘Her pulse and breathing are regular. Where are the bloody paramedics?’
‘On their way.’
Cursing, Jon returned to the file and flipped the page. A photo of Alex with bandaging around his ears, cheeks swollen and red.
16.7.01
Octoplasty and cheek implants. Paid cash
.
On the next page Alex was pouting at the camera, make-up and mascara on. 23.3.02.
Breast augmentation, lip enlargement and laser hair removal. Paid cash
.
On the next he was wearing a wavy red wig. 5.12.02
Chin implant
. Jon realised he was looking at the woman from the garage forecourt CCTV footage.
His mind started ticking. The false eyelash in the boot of Gordon Dean’s car. The last withdrawal on his credit card from a cashpoint that wasn’t overlooked by CCTV cameras. Gordon Dean’s car turning right as it left the garage forecourt, heading towards the Platinum Inn.
The pieces were coming together.
Alex Donley had killed Gordon Dean in that hotel room and put his body in the boot of the car. Then he’d driven to the Manchester Ship Canal and rolled the corpse in. After that, he’d cleaned out Dean’s credit-card account and left the car at Piccadilly station to create a false trail.
Fiona Wilson had indeed heard a prostitute and a punter in the next room – but the person choked to death wasn’t Alexia, it was Gordon Dean.
Jon turned the page and felt his scalp contract. There it was.
3.3.03 – the day after Gordon Dean had disappeared.
Rhinoplasty and mandibular osteotomy. Paid cash
. Alex Donley had funded the procedure with the money he’d taken from Gordon Dean’s bank account the night before.
Rick sat down next to him. ‘Just spoke to McCloughlin. He’s on his way, though it nearly choked him to say it.’
Jon reached for his mobile, then realised he’d left it in the incident room. ‘Give us your phone a second.’
Rick flinched at his abrupt tone but handed it over.
‘Keep a check on her breathing,’ Jon said, whipping out the notebook from his jacket. He flicked through to Fiona’s mobile and rang it. Answerphone. He cut it off and thought for a second. It was evening opening at the salon. By the time Alice answered, he was standing on the front steps, noting with relief that the night was now clear. ‘Ali, it’s me. Your friend Fiona, where did you say she is?’
‘She moved into a bedsit near Manchester City’s old ground.’
‘She still trying to find Alexia?’
Alice sighed. ‘She thought she had the other day. But it was a mix-up of names. Yeah, she’s out most nights I think.’
‘I need her address, Ali. Have you got it there?’
‘Jon, I’m with a customer. Can’t it wait?’
‘Alice, she’s in real danger. I need it right now.’
Jon heard her making apologies to her client. Movement as she left the room.
An ambulance pulled into the driveway. The driver cut the engine and Jon heard the rear doors being opened. A moment later two paramedics appeared.
‘Straight down the corridor into the kitchen,’ Jon told them. At the other end of the line he heard Alice call out, ‘Has someone moved Fiona’s address? It was in the back of the appointments book.’
A female voice just audible. ‘Oh, sorry, it’s by the till. I had to give it to someone trying to deliver her some flowers.’
Alice again. ‘You what? Who did you give it to?’
‘A woman. She had a bouquet for Fiona.’
‘When was this?’
‘Earlier today. Lunchtime.’
‘Jesus Christ, Zoe, that address was a secret. Jon?’ Her voice was louder now. ‘It’s Flat 2, 15 Ridley Place, Fallowfield. Can you get over there now? I think her husband may have tracked her down.’
He turned and shouted down the corridor, ‘Rick! I’ve got to go, that friend of Alice’s is in serious trouble.’
Rick strode towards him, astonishment on his face.
‘McCloughlin isn’t here yet.’
‘I know.’ Jon handed back the phone. ‘I’ll let you fill him in.’
Rick’s hand was still out, the phone resting on his upturned palm. ‘You’re not serious?’
But Jon was already jogging down the garden path, pulling the car keys from his pocket.
Chapter 34
Alex Donley paused at the front door of 15 Ridley Place. A huge bouquet of soaking flowers lay on the top step. The card read,
Together for ever
.
As he adjusted his wig and pulled the chiffon scarf up to hide the stitches running along his jaw, he noticed the door was slightly ajar.
With the tips of his varnished nails he pushed it open. The hallway was deserted. He could hear loud music upstairs. He looked at the doors in front of him and saw that number two was slightly open as well.
His heels clicked lightly as he stepped across the plastic tiles. Silence from Fiona’s flat. Carefully, he pulled the kitchen knife from his handbag and eased the door open.
Thick fingers grabbed him by the wrist and he was yanked into the wrecked room beyond. A big man, growling with fury, swung him against the wall. The tip of the knife struck a radiator and was knocked from his grip. Another hand locked on to his jaw.
Alex smelled whisky as the man looked him up and down before saying, ‘What sort of a fucking freak are you?’
He tried to escape the man’s disgusted stare by turning his head, but the man yanked his chin round. Sharp pain shot along his stitches.
‘I said, what sort of a fucking freak are you?’
‘Let me go.’
But the man’s grip on his face was steadily increasing. He felt the stitches starting to tear. Rage erupted in him like a geyser going off. He brought his hand up between the man’s legs, grabbed his scrotum and twisted as hard as he could. The hands clamped on his jaw and wrist instantly released. Alex’s free hand came up under the man’s chin, preventing him from doubling over. Their eyes met for an instant, then Alex crashed his forehead against the man’s nose. He dropped to the carpet as if taken out by a sniper.
Alex felt his face. His fingers came away covered in blood. The pain, the days spent in that bed, all for nothing. ‘You fuck!’ He stamped on the man’s face, high heel snapping off as it connected with his teeth. ‘You fuck, you fuck, you fuck!’ he screamed, bringing his foot down again and again and again.
As he turned away he spotted a hand mirror on the shelf. When he looked into it he saw that his wig was hanging off one side of his head, an eyelash was missing and a four-inch slit had opened up along his left jaw, blood streaming down into the folds of his scarf.
‘You piece of shit,’ he said to the prone form curled on the floor, aiming one last stamp at the man’s blood-filled ear.
He took out his mobile phone, waited until his breathing slowed down. ‘Dawn, she’s not here. Where else might she be? Didn’t you mention a sal—’
Dawn cut in. ‘She’s here.’
‘What, now?’
‘Yes. She’s asleep in one of the upstairs rooms. She turned up around half an hour ago and drank half a bottle of brandy straight down.’
‘What did you tell her? Did you tell her about me?’
‘No, I hardly said a word. She was going on about her husband finding her. Alex, what are you going to do?’
‘Don’t let her out.’ He kicked the bouquet into a bush and staggered down the steps.
Ten minutes later Jon slipped cautiously into Fiona Wilson’s flat and looked down. A large man with tight grey curls lay on the floor, face bruised and swollen, blood oozing from his nose, mouth and ears. Jon couldn’t tell if it was Jeff Wilson or not. Next to his head was the broken-off heel of a woman’s shoe.
Jon crouched down and started to put him in the recovery position. An eye opened, slit-like in the puffy flesh.
Jon tensed, unsure of what the man might do. ‘Can you hear me?’
‘Bitch,’ he mumbled through thick lips, blood bubbling out of his nostrils.
‘I’m a police officer. Can you tell me your name?’
‘Red-haired bitch.’
Jon opened his jacket, removed a mobile phone and wallet. He glanced at a bank card. Yes, it was the husband. ‘Mr Wilson. Jeff. Can you hear me?’
The man coughed a few times and the eye swivelled round a bit.
‘Where’s your wife, Mr Wilson? Have you seen her?’
‘She’s gone.’
‘Who did this to you?’
‘Red-haired bitch.’
Jon’s mind went to the person with Gordon Dean at the petrol station’s cashpoint. ‘A woman with red hair? About five feet eight or so?’
‘Red-haired bitch.’ His hand moved to his crotch and he winced with pain.
Jon got up. ‘Don’t try to move. I’m calling you an ambulance.’ Fumbling through the unfamiliar menu on the phone, he called for help. Then he rang Alice. ‘It’s me. I’m at Fiona’s place but she’s not here. Where else might she be?’
‘I don’t know. Patrolling Minshull Street, maybe. That’s where she’s been looking for Alexia.’
Jon shut his eyes. ‘Where would she go if she needed somewhere to stay?’
‘Well, she just moved out of that refuge. Maybe back there?’ Jon ran upstairs and hammered on the door of the flat playing loud music. It opened on a dingy interior, a student blinking stupidly out at him from a haze of cannabis smoke. His eyes nearly popped out of his head when Jon thrust his warrant card in his face and demanded, ‘What’s your name?’
‘Er, er...it’s Raymond. I can explain.’ He waved at the thick fumes flooding out from his flat. ‘I’m a student here at the university. But I also went to—’
‘Raymond, shut up. I need you to look after a casualty until the ambulance arrives.’
Jon drove round to Stanhope Street, got his warrant card out and knocked on the door.
A very wary-looking woman answered. ‘Hello?’
‘I’m looking for Fiona Wilson. Has she turned up here this evening?’
‘No. I’m Hazel, the manager. She moved over two weeks ago.’
‘Do you know where to?’
‘No, she didn’t say.’
‘OK, thanks.’ He walked back to his car. Somewhere in the distance a burglar alarm let out an insistent wail into the night. He called Alice again. ‘Think. Where else could she be?’
‘What about the motel in Belle Vue? She mentioned the woman who runs it. I think they’ve become quite friendly.’
Dawn Poole stood behind the reception desk of the Platinum
Inn, twirling a strand of hair round and round.
She’d run to the bathroom and vomited as soon as the front door had banged shut. Then she’d just sat on the bed for a while. None of this was happening. Her dreams of a life with him were falling apart.
Had he really killed that man? No. Coming off his hormones, and the business with Fiona, had upset him. Made him tell a load of lies.
So why are you packing your suitcase? she’d asked herself, pausing to look around their bedroom.
She stopped, a pair of jeans in her hand. Her usual response to violence was to curl up until it was over, then run away. But the thought of being alone again terrified her. She couldn’t abandon everything with Alex so abruptly. Her mind swung back to how he’d pushed her. No. He wasn’t really a violent man. She couldn’t accept she’d got involved with one yet again.
Glancing at the half-packed suitcase, she’d had a desperate desire to talk to him. Unable to decide what to do, she’d caught the bus and gone to work as normal.
A gasp of shock escaped her as Alex tottered into the foyer.
‘What have you done to your face?’ she said, opening the counter flap and hurrying to him. ‘You’re bleeding!’
Alex slapped her hand away. ‘Which room is she in?’
Dawn’s voice faltered. ‘Alex, you’re making me so scared. What’s happening?’
‘Listen,’ he hissed, bringing his face close to hers. ‘Do you want her to ruin our future together?’
‘No.’ A tear started down Dawn’s face and she bent her head.
‘Good. We’ve got enough cash to get out of this country right now. Tonight. We’ll make a new start together. You and me, Dawn. Just us. But this woman will wreck it all. She will. Now give me the fucking room number.’
Dawn’s shoulders were drooping as she tried to control her sobs. ‘What will you do to her?’
Alex slammed her up against the counter. ‘Which fucking room!’ he shrieked.
No. Oh God, no, it was happening again. She shut her eyes and heard a long moan coming from deep inside her. Be small. Don’t do anything to make it worse. It will end soon.