02-Shifting Skin by Chris Simms

anything in particular?’ She was standing by the coffee table, carrying a tray with a teapot, milk jug and three cups.
    Jon shook his head. ‘Not really. We’re just trying to get an idea of his typical movements.’
    She put the tray down and approached them. Rick was flicking through the receipts for that month. Mrs Dean watched him, fingers of one hand massaging the thumb of the other. Jon waited for her to come out with whatever it was she wanted to say.
    Eventually she spoke. ‘I had a look through his suits earlier on. I found some statements there.’
    Jon raised his chin. ‘What sort of statements?’
    ‘Credit card ones. The bills go direct to his office, but it’s not a company credit card. They’re old statements from the last two months.’
    ‘Do you still have them?’
    She dropped her hands to her sides. ‘I’d never go through his pockets normally...’
    Jon stood up. ‘I understand, Mrs Dean, but these are special circumstances.’
    She nodded in agreement. ‘They’re here.’ She opened the drawer beneath the dining table but, rather than get them out, walked back into the living room. ‘Do you take milk and sugar?’
    ‘One, please.’ Jon’s eyes were on the sheets of paper as Rick shook his head politely at Mrs Dean. Jon put the statements on the table and sat down. The card had taken quite a hammering. ‘Piccolino’s. That’s the new Italian near the town hall,’ he murmured.
    ‘Twenty-six quid. Probably a meal for one,’ Rick whispered back.
    ‘Via Venice, Stock, Don Antonio’s. He likes his Italian food.’ Jon pointed at an item on the list. ‘Is that a restaurant?’
    ‘You’ve never heard of Crimson?’ Rick’s voice was barely audible.
    Jon checked that Mrs Dean was still out of earshot and whispered, ‘No. But he was there three times last month. What is it?’
    ‘It’s in the Gay Village, on a side road behind Canal Street. A wine-bar upstairs, cabaret and dance floor downstairs. Very trendy.’
    ‘With who?’
    ‘It started as a gay venue. There’s a drag queen called Miss
    Tonguelash. All sorts go nowadays to hear her bitching.’
    Jon glanced at Rick, ready to ask how he knew so much about a place in Manchester’s Gay Village. But his partner’s eyes were frozen on the statement, a red flush creeping up his neck. The words died in Jon’s throat.
    Mrs Dean walked back through the archway. As she held the china cups out, they began to rattle in their saucers. Tea started to spill. ‘He’s not coming back. The bastard.’
    The word seemed so foreign coming from her lips. She started to cry. Jon quickly stood up and took the drinks from her quivering hands. Rick pulled a chair out and she collapsed into it, raising a hand to her face.
    Awkwardly, Jon stood to the side. Rick fetched her cup of tea and sat down next to her. Taking her hand in his, he said quietly, ‘Why do you say that, Mrs Dean?’
    She looked up, tears brimming. ‘Those.’ She pointed accusingly at the credit card statements. ‘He’s been hiding something for a long time now. There’s always been something distant about him, but recently there’s been a change. He’s found someone else, I know it.’
    ‘How has he changed recently?’ Rick asked.
    She extracted her hand from his and pulled a hanky out of her cardigan cuff. ‘His behaviour. Like he’s having a midlife crisis. He was talking about getting a motorbike, for God’s sake. And he got a tattoo. Of all things.’
    Jon sat down. ‘What sort of tattoo?’
    ‘A ladybird, on his shoulder. What came over him? He’s thirty-nine.’
    Jon looked at the framed photo on the wall: Mrs Dean standing stiffly next to a thin man with a sweeping side parting and feeble moustache, the Eiffel Tower rising into the sky behind them. They were in the city of romance but a good ten inches separated them.
    Jon searched the walls for photos of children. There were none. ‘Mrs Dean, is there anyone Gordon may have gone to? A close friend, a