Jon looked at his watch and saw how late it was. ‘Good idea.’
Rick wrote a receipt for the garage’s tape and they let themselves out. The door clicked shut behind them and Rick buttoned his jacket up. ‘I’ll walk from here, I’m only five minutes away. The cab rank by Piccadilly station is probably your nearest.’
Jon glanced at the traffic. ‘No, you’re all right. There should be plenty of cabs passing this way. Nice work tonight, mate. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
As they shook hands Rick said, ‘Cheers for that outside
Crimson by the way.’
Jon met his eyes. ‘My pleasure.’
Rick let go of his hand and laughed. ‘Yeah, I got the impression it was.’
As he wandered off Jon looked down, embarrassed that Rick had witnessed him in the alley spoiling for a fight. He found it hard enough to accept that, rather than fear or anxiety, the prospect of violence gave him a jolt of excitement. But he couldn’t deny it was there, ready to erupt whenever anger flooded his veins.
He looked up the road, forcing his thoughts back to the investigation. Gordon Dean had signalled to turn right when he left the forecourt. The centre of town and the Novotel were to his left. He stared in the other direction, towards the roundabout and the start of the A57, leading towards the Platinum Inn and Belle Vue.
Even if Gordon Dean had driven the hooker from the CCTV footage straight to the motel and Fiona Wilson heard her being murdered, time of death was all wrong for her to have been the third victim. But as he shifted from foot to foot, uneasiness was gathering at the back of his mind like the beginnings of a headache.
Chapter 19
It was the angry throb bouncing back and forth between her temples that dragged Fiona from the depths of unconsciousness. She kept her eyes shut, trying to gauge if more sleep might be enough to make it go away. But then other parts of her mind started to function. She heard the sound of traffic passing in a continual stream. The smell of stale sweat and alcohol filled the air. Her eyes were still shut but she could tell it wasn’t dark. She tried to turn over onto her back, but her arms were restrained.
Her eyes snapped open, trying to focus. She couldn’t see. Something was covering her face and she started to panic. As she tilted her head back the material slipped from her face. A bedside table, the surface bare except for a lamp and a small foil square, almost ripped in half.
She began to wriggle and realised her arms were only caught up in the sheet that had been covering her face. Behind her someone grunted in their sleep. Her eyes went back to the square of ripped foil. It was a condom wrapper. As she sat up and straightened her legs she could tell that she’d recently had sex. She was naked and a wave of nausea welled up. Looking over her shoulder she saw the salesman, his face pressed against the pillow and saliva glistening at the corner of his mouth. Meredith? Mercier? He was asleep next to her, a half-drunk bottle of champagne on his bedside table. Slowly she looked around. She was in a hotel room, her clothes lying in a pile on the floor next to the bed. Carefully she climbed out, scooped them up, let herself into the bathroom and locked the door.
She just got to the sink before violently retching. Two mouthfuls of acrid brown liquid came out and a sour, fruity smell filled her nostrils. She turned on the taps and as water started to wash the liquid away, strings of mucus-like saliva were revealed in it. She retched again.
Her brain felt like it was clenching in on itself, sending waves of pain right down into her molars. She grabbed a glass, filled it with water and started to sip. Her stomach heaved, but it stayed down. The self-loathing that trailed her heaviest drinking sessions, like a rusting old tanker being pulled by a tug-boat, loomed over her. But this time it was compounded by shame. She wanted to curl up and cry, but not here. Anywhere but here.
She climbed into her clothes, careful to keep her head up to minimise the pounding in her temples. A wash bag was on the shelf above the sink. Guiltily, she lifted out his toothpaste and squirted some onto her finger. She smeared it over her teeth and worked it around her mouth. Her tongue soon felt like it was burning and she thought that the pain served her right.
Looking at herself in the mirror, she adjusted her hair and used a tissue to wipe off the smears of mascara. The bathroom door clicked loudly as she opened it. Round the corner, in the main part of the room, she heard movement and held her breath.
‘Jesus, what a night,’ he groaned.
Fiona moved quickly to the door and let herself out. She eventually found a lift, walked through reception and out on to the street. Wincing in the bright light of day, she looked to her left and right. She was on Portland Street, Piccadilly Gardens and the bus terminal almost opposite. A digital clock read 8:43 a.m., cars filled the road and people hurried by, freshly showered and ready for work. Fiona folded her arms across her stomach and set off towards the bus station, eyes fixed on the pavement in front.
After thirty metres she realised the bar where she first met him was on her right. The doors were shut and a couple of cleaners were clearing the tables of glasses, many half finished. Her stomach flipped over.
The station was filled by a disorderly procession of buses, some trying to pull in and drop off passengers while empty ones queued to pull out. Engines revved, horns blared and exhaust fumes filled the air. Fiona felt like she could die at any moment.
Miserably she approached a noticeboard, trying to work out how to get back to her bedsit.
The bus dropped her off at the top of her road half an hour later. Breathing a sigh of relief, she slid the key into the front door and almost walked straight past the small pile of post with her name on.
Dreading they were bills, she opened her room, threw the envelopes on the bed and headed straight upstairs for a shower. Quarter of an hour later she sat down, a dressing gown on and a towel wrapped round her head. She selected the handwritten envelope first. A card from everyone at the salon, wishing her the best in her new home. Looking at their signatures, a tear sprang up in her eye and she forgot her headache for a moment. But the next letters brought it back with a vengeance. Payment forms for electricity, gas and water. Recommendation to pay by Direct Debit, £5 off if she did. Fiona looked at her purse — she’d barely had enough money for the bus fare home.
Woodenly she got to her feet and opened the cupboard above the sink. There was a couple of inches left inside the bottle of gin. She tipped it into a glass and sat down, tears springing to her eyes as she thought about the last few years of her marriage.
As Jeff’s intimidation worsened, she’d started taking the odd nip of gin in the evenings when he was at the pub. Had fear or loneliness prompted it? Take your pick, she thought, raising a silent toast.
The nips became larger and more frequent. Finding the money for new bottles became ever more difficult. She’d got Melvyn to pay her partly in cash, hiding her supplies under the sink or inside the big casserole dish. Places he’d never look.
She hadn’t dared consider how much she was growing to need it. Empties were spirited out of the house in her handbag, dropped in shop bins or even the hedge if the street was quiet.
Fiona looked at her glass and a wave of self-pity washed over her. God knows, if anyone deserves a drink it’s me. It doesn’t mean I have a problem, she thought, gulping the gin down.
Chapter 20
Once again Rick was in before him and Jon felt a slight pang of irritation. ‘Up with the chirp of the sparrow again.’
‘Where’s that expression from?’
Jon thought for a moment. ‘My grandpa used to come out with it. Must be an Irish one.’
‘Yeah, you mentioned your family was originally from