Shifting Skin

Chapter 1 - Page 2 of 2

Get a grip, he told himself, placing it on the table and examining his thumb. The red line ran across his knuckle, merging with an old scar from where an opposition player had stamped on his hand while wearing illegal rugby studs. Jon sucked the back of his thumb, then blew a thin stream of air on to the wet skin, the coolness detracting from the pain. He peered into the open tin, frowning at the purplish red paint inside. Then he picked up the plastic spoon and scooped a dollop of viscous liquid into the tray.

Immediately an image of the pathologist dropping Carol Miller’s liver into a stainless steel tray appeared in his head. As the pathologist had stepped across to the mortuary’s scales, Jon couldn’t help staring at the corpse on the autopsy table before him.

She had been found early in the morning, naked except for her knickers, stretched out in the middle of a small park in Belle Vue. The skin from her upper thighs, stomach, chest and neck lay in a neat pile beside her, muscles, tendons, ligaments and subcutaneous fat exposed to the world. The home office pathologist who attended the crime scene quickly concluded that she had been moved there from another location. Lifting up an arm, he had pointed to the long grass beneath it. ‘No blood. If she had been flayed here, this whole area would be soaked.’

Jon had stepped out of the white tent shrouding the body and looked around. He was standing in the centre circle of a badly neglected football pitch. It had rained during the night, washing valuable forensic evidence off the body and blurring the many footprints in the patches of mud around it. The entire area was overlooked by residential properties. Dotted in the unkempt turf was lump after lump of dog shit – apart from really late at night, the animals’ owners must be using the area as a toilet for their pets almost continually. Even now a woman with a brindle Staffy was hovering beyond the perimeter tape, surreptitiously watching. The ghoul. Jon walked round the white tent, putting it between him and the woman’s inquisitive glances. He looked at the modern built, cheap council stock, ground floor windows long and elongated to deter burglars. They had a defensive appearance, like machine gun slits in pillboxes.

Looking beyond them he saw a large church spire thrusting upwards, the flat grey sky making the green copper stand out. Jon shook his head: there was little evidence of the forces of good in this grim place. He dropped his eyes back to earth, looking at the scattering of seagulls waiting at the far end of the pitch. Their hunched postures made them appear resentful of his presence on their feeding ground.

Behind him came the low rumble of traffic, a steady stream of it passing along the A57. He moved away from it, stepping between the team preparing to go over the immediate area on their hands and knees, and walked over to the park’s perimeter fence. Rubbish was piled against its base, deposited there by the unrelenting wind that blew across the bleak expanse of grass. At the top of the park was a basketball court, the concrete cracked and furred with patches of moss. Fragments of glass crunched under his foot as he paced across it. On his left he counted another gate into the park. That was the fifth. By the time he’d circled the perimeter he’d counted seven more. Twelve possible entry points for the killer. The whole place would need sealing off. He halted under a wiry tree, noticed the beginnings of small buds on the bare twigs above him. He took small comfort in the thought that spring would soon be here to transform the desolate place he found himself in.

Why take the risk of leaving the body here, in a park overlooked by so many houses? Perhaps the victim was being made an example of. Some sort of warning?
Jon had to agree with the pathologist. There was no way this was where the killer had carried out his…what? Surgical procedure? He walked back to the tent and stepped inside. ‘There was a bit of disagreement about the first victim. Whether her killer had any surgical knowledge. Assuming the same person is responsible for this one, what’s your opinion?’

The pathologist was about to take a glove off. He stopped, allowing the rubber to snap back over his wrist. ‘As I understand it, the first victim only had the skin from her chest and upper arms removed?’

Jon nodded.

‘And here we see he’s removed the skin from her throat, chest, stomach and upper thighs. In both cases it’s not a particularly difficult procedure to perform. Anyone with the most basic knowledge of surgery, probably even a butcher, could manage it.’
‘Really?’ Jon sounded surprised.

The pathologist smiled. ‘Ever peeled the skin off a raw chicken breast? Not much more to it than that – you just use the tip of a very fine scalpel to help divide it from the layer beneath. Something to think about next time you’re making a casserole.’

Jon felt a wave of revulsion at the pathologist’s reply. He’d sat in on a lot of post mortems over the years. But he never could get used to the macabre comments that bounced between the mortuary staff with the same ease as the pre match banter in his rugby club’s changing room.

‘So he may not have medical training?’ he asked, suddenly aware of the muscles moving beneath his flesh.

The pathologist stood up and removed his gloves. ‘He’s got some skill, but it could have been gained from practising on dead pigs for all I know.’

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