She looked over his shoulder, an intrigued expression on her face. ‘To that one? Melvyn’s Salon?’
‘Yes, that’s where she works. I’ve been plucking up the courage to do this for days.’
‘OK,’ she smiled. ‘But you do know it’ll be £12.50?’
‘A small price to pay, believe me. The lady’s name is Fiona. Fiona Wilson.’
After writing down his message, she carried the bouquet across the road and into the salon. When she walked in, Zoe’s eyes widened in hope at the huge spray of flowers.
‘Hi, there,’ the florist announced cheerfully. ‘A bouquet for
Fiona Wilson.’
Zoe looked disappointed. ‘She’s taking some time off work.’ The florist’s shoulders slumped. ‘Oh. Well…that’s a shame.’
She turned towards the door.
‘Hang on!’ Zoe exclaimed. ‘Her home address is here somewhere.’ She opened the appointments book and turned to a load of loose bits of paper at the back. ‘Yes, I thought it was. They can go to Flat 2, 15 Ridley Place, Fallowfield. Here, I’ll write it out for you.’
‘Thank you.’ The florist took the piece of paper.
Back in her shop she felt a surge of sympathy over her customer’s concerned expression. ‘Don’t worry. She’s off work for a while, but I’ve got her home address.’
‘Really?’ Jeff Wilson replied. ‘That’s smashing.’
When they walked into the tiny tattoo parlour, Jake was sitting behind the desk, blowing smoke rings at the ceiling. Jon hooked a finger through one and then withdrew it, the gesture making the pale loop bend and waver.
‘Gents, good to see you again.’ Jake sat up, not bothering with any clever comments. Jon stood aside to allow Rick up to the desk.
‘Jake, we won’t take up any of your time. The girl who picked the Betty Boop tattoo on the same day as Gordon Dean was in here getting his ladybird. Is this her?’
He laid the photo on the desk.
Jake leaned forwards and studied it. With his head still bowed, he said, ‘She’s the Butcher’s third victim, isn’t she?’
Jon and Rick said nothing and he looked up. ‘The papers said she had a distinctive tattoo on her lower abdomen. It’s her, right?’
‘We’re not at liberty to say,’ Rick replied, voice tight.
Jake’s eyes narrowed and moved to Jon. ‘It is. That’s heavy shit.’ He let out a whistle and picked the photo up. ‘Yes. I’m pretty certain that’s her. She’s got the line of earrings and everything.’
‘What happened that day?’ asked Rick. ‘Think back. You finished the Maori armband. You showed the customer out. Gordon Dean and this girl are sitting here.’ He pointed to the two stools. ‘Their thighs must have been practically touching. What did they say?’
Jake shut his eyes and started twiddling the rod in his nose.
‘Nothing. I took the armband guy’s cash and then said Gordon Dean was next. He stood up, squeezed round her knees. She smiled and wished him good luck.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘Just thanked her, I think.’
‘And afterwards? You’ve completed Gordon’s ladybird tattoo. You show him back through the curtains. .’
‘Yeah, she’s still sat there.’ Jake opened his eyes and looked at the empty stool. ‘Dean pays me, says he’ll call again soon. Then he wishes her luck, says she’s made the right choice, and walks out.’
‘The right choice?’ said Jon, pushing himself clear of the doorframe.
‘Yeah, the right choice.’
Despite the street being bathed in cold sunshine, a flurry of raindrops started to fall around them. Squinting, Jon looked up but could only spot a few tiny clouds in the sky. Then a breeze whipped up from nowhere and the air abruptly cleared. Jon looked back down, thinking that nothing felt quite right.
‘There’s something in this,’ Rick said, holding up a hand and testing the texture of the air between a forefinger and thumb.
Jon kept silent, desperate to get over to Stepping Hill hospital.
‘“The right choice”. What did that mean? Tattoo? Job? Decision to see him again?’ Rick frowned. ‘I want a word with that Dr O’Connor. He seemed fairly friendly with Dean.’ He set off towards the Rochdale Road.
Just give it up, will you? Jon thought, following along behind.
As they reached the Beauty Centre, the door opened and a woman who appeared to be in her late thirties stepped out. She looked like someone had just punched her mouth and, on seeing Jon’s stare, she raised a self-conscious hand to her swollen lips. She hurried past and Rick caught the door before it could shut, while Jon buzzed the intercom. ‘Dr O’Connor, it’s DI Spicer and DS Saville. Could you spare us a couple of minutes?’
‘Of course. Please come up.’ The lock clicked uselessly. Halfway up the stairs, Rick tapped a photo on the wall. ‘Her with the trout-pout we just passed? That’s what she’d had.’
Jon looked at the image of a woman with puckered, glossy lips. The words below read, Softform. For enhancing lips and eradicating deep wrinkles.
Jon shuddered. Why did women feel the need to do this to themselves? If it was to attract men, it did nothing for him.
O’Connor rose to his feet and extended a hand across his desk as they entered his office. After they’d shaken, he gestured to the pair of chairs and sat down. ‘Officers, how can I help?’
Rick reached into his pocket. ‘Doctor, we’re still following up leads regarding Gordon Dean’s disappearance.’
The doctor crossed his legs. ‘Any progress?’
‘The investigation is ongoing,’ Rick replied. ‘However, we’re still trying to fill in some of his movements after he last saw you.’
At that moment they heard the door across the corridor open, and a woman came into the room. Mid-forties, hair tied back.
Poking out from beneath her coat was the hem of a starched white dress. ‘Sorry to disturb you, Doctor. Everything’s locked up.’
‘Good, then I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he smiled.
‘See you tomorrow.’ She disappeared down the stairs.
‘Jenny Palmer,’ said O’Connor, ‘my nursing assistant. Wonderful woman.’
Rick nodded. ‘Did Mr Dean ever mention any lady friends in Manchester?’
The doctor frowned. ‘No. But wasn’t he married?’
‘Yes,’ Rick answered. ‘But perhaps not as happily as he might have been. .’
The buzzer sounded on the wall. Rick waited but the doctor waved it away. ‘Kids, I imagine. I have no further appointments this morning.’ The buzzer sounded again and he leaned forward.
‘You were saying?’
Jon got up, went over to the window and looked down at the street below. The receptionist from the Platinum Inn was staring up. On seeing Jon, her eyes dropped and she scurried off down the street. He was about to ask O’Connor what was going on but changed his mind, sensing that, for the moment, it might prove more useful to keep what he’d seen to himself.
‘You seemed quite friendly with Mr Dean. Did he ever mention a girl fitting this description?’ asked Rick, putting the photo on the table.
O’Connor took it. ‘No, I’m afraid not.’ He glanced at the image again. ‘Pretty young thing, though a bit too young for Mr Dean, don’t you think?’
Rick took the piece of paper back, disappointment obvious on his face. ‘Well, thanks, that’s all.’
They stood and shook hands again.
‘Please let me know if you hear anything about Gordon,’ said the doctor.
‘Will do,’ Rick answered after a moment’s hesitation.
Jon waited until they were outside before saying, ‘The buzzer, it was the night receptionist from a motel in Belle Vue called the Platinum Inn.’
‘How do you know that?’ asked Rick.
‘Because I spoke to her a few days ago. Favour to that friend of my girlfriend — the one who thought she heard a prostitute being killed in the next room.’