Jon heard footsteps in the hallway. He looked up to see Rick and a couple of armed officers trooping towards him.
‘Where is he?’ the one in front asked.
Jon nodded towards the cellar door. ‘Down there, but you needn’t worry, he’s dead. It’s a crime scene now, so best keep out.’ He turned back to the file on his lap, the voices around him fading away.
I explained to Alex that I do not have the expertise or facilities to perform a vaginoplasty — recommending that he pay privately for the operation in Holland. Despite this, he was keen for me to perform facial surgery in order to feminise his features. We agreed that he should start a course of hormone therapy in order to develop breasts, redistribute fat around his hips and thighs, soften his body and facial hair and lift the pitch of his voice.
In terms of facial reconstruction we agreed on the following areas:
Octoplasty (to reduce the protrusion of his ears) Rhinoplasty (to create a thinner nose)
Thyroid chondroplasty (to reduce the prominence of his Adam’s apple)
Mandibular osteotomy (to reduce the squareness of his jawbone) Dermal implants to cheeks, chin and lips (to round out his face) Laser hair removal (back of neck, chest, nipples, underarms, forearms and hands)
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.