‘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-’
‘Please, call me “Miss”. You’ll find we’re feminine, not feminist, at Cheshire Consorts.’
Jon smiled; the lady was good. ‘Miss Perkins. Do you have a girl on your books called Alexia?’
‘Why?’
‘A possible missing person. We have reason to believe she worked as an escort for your company.’
A cigarette lighter flicked and breath was exhaled against the mouthpiece. He could almost feel the smoke washing over his face. ‘No surname?’
Jon shook his head. ‘Afraid not.’
‘No, I don’t.’ The answer was too abrupt.
‘Have any girls failed to check back with you since their last job?’
‘DI Spicer, I’m not their nanny. The customer gives his credit card number to me, I send the girl to him. Apart from passing a percentage of his payment to the girl, I’m out of the equation.’ That was more like it, Jon thought. Cold and selfish. He guessed her experience of customers wasn’t limited to just the management side of things. ‘And you’re sure no one of that name works for you? It sounds like an alias to me.’
‘All my girls use aliases. Go to Cheshire Consorts dot com. They’re all listed there. Now this is a business line. I really must go.’
Jon made sure he got the phone down first. Small recompense for being brushed off. A few seconds later he knocked on McCloughlin’s door, opened it and let Rick step in first. McCloughlin’s face lit up. ‘DS Saville.’ His eyes moved to Jon.
‘And DI Spicer.’ Less enthusiasm in his voice. ‘Sit down.’
‘Sir,’ Jon began, ‘we spoke to Pete Gray, the porter at Stepping Hill hospital.’
‘And?’
‘As soon as Carol Miller was mentioned, his mouth clammed shut. In fact, he got up and walked away, not prepared to talk any further.’
‘Interesting.’
Rick spoke up. ‘He was arrested for sexual harassment in
1989. His ex-wife.’
McCloughlin inclined his head. ‘And I can tell you have more.’
Jon nodded. ‘When we saw him at the hospital, Rick noticed he was wheeling a box of surgical gloves. They’re manufactured by a US company called Mediquip, but distributed in this region by a British firm called Protex Ltd.’
McCloughlin’s eyes lingered suspiciously on Jon before turning to Rick. ‘Have you called Protex yet? We could do with knowing who the area rep is, at least.’