The Doll's House (17 page)

P
hil took a sip from his mug, grimaced. Incredible, he thought. Police officers could catch criminals and solve crimes. In their spare time they could run marathons, get rave reviews in amateur dramatics, write phone apps and computer programs. Even be gourmet chefs. But put them next to a kettle in a station house and they had a mental aberration. He had tried it from the machine and that was, if anything, worse.

He set the mug down on the desk beside him, knowing the sickly-looking pot plant in the corner of the room would be the eventual recipient of its contents, and looked round the room at the team.

His
team, he thought, not
the
team.
His
team. It still didn't feel like that. He hoped it would at some point. Soon, preferably.

He tried to concentrate, but his mind kept returning to Marina. Something was wrong, he knew that much. And she wouldn't tell him what it was. That wasn't like her. Usually if something was wrong they would work through it together. Both of them. But she was pulling away from him, withdrawing. And not only did that upset him, but, if he was honest, it scared him.

Driving into work, with Sparklehorse's bruised and damaged love songs playing in the background, he had found his mind coming up with all sorts of theories. And each one led back to the same conclusion: he wasn't enough for her.

She was having an affair and couldn't bring herself to end things with him.

She had had an affair, felt guilty and wanted to tell him.

She was sick of him.

He didn't normally get like this. He was usually strong, could cope with whatever was thrown at him. But the events of the last year, nearly losing his life, moving to a different part of the country, not fitting in, doubting himself and his capabilities while Marina flourished, all conspired to bring him down. And now this.

He turned, back in the room, looking at the murder wall behind him. A photo of Glenn McGowan as he used to be. Then as his alter ego, Amanda. The progression in his journey was evident. Then a post-mortem photo, almost unrecognisable from the first two. Phil tried to blink the thoughts away. Compartmentalise them to a part of his mind where he could deal with them later. For now, he had a job to do. A team to lead.

‘Good morning,' he said, looking at the assembled faces before him. ‘Only thirteen more shopping days to Christmas. Thanks for coming in, and think of the overtime.'

A couple of polite laughs. He cleared his throat, continued.

‘Glenn McGowan, where are we?' He turned to Khan. ‘What have we got from the door-to-door?'

Khan looked at his notes. ‘From what we've been given so far,' he said, ‘we know that he kept himself to himself. That was the main thing that came up.'

‘That's what they said about Dennis Nilsen,' said Sperring. That got laughs, including from Khan.

‘It's that kind of estate,' said Phil. ‘Small. Gated. Attracts people who want to be anonymous. Perfect for what happened.'

Khan continued. ‘None of the neighbours noticed anyone else besides Glenn McGowan. Not coming to visit, anyway. Just dropping stuff off.'

‘Like what?' asked Phil.

Khan went back to his notes. ‘Furniture. Carpet. He had that delivered and laid about a week before we found him.'

‘The pink carpet in the living room looked new,' said Phil. ‘There must be a receipt for it somewhere. Let's see if we can trace it back to where it was bought from. He had it laid as well? Might be an idea to have a word with the fitter.' He nodded, indicating for Khan to continue.

‘Neighbours saw a dining table going in, chairs. Some boxes. They saw McGowan carrying bags and boxes in too. Like he'd been on a spending spree. Or Christmas shopping.'

‘Did he have a car?' asked Phil. ‘Do we know where it is?'

A DC on the team, someone Phil didn't yet know the name of, answered. ‘Ford Focus,' he said. ‘We've brought it in to have it looked over. Nothing so far.'

Phil nodded. Khan continued.

‘All this furniture and stuff was also about a week or so before we found him. Nothing after that.'

‘Which leads us to thinking two things. It was well planned, and that's when the murder was carried out. Or the earliest date.' Phil looked at Khan. ‘Thanks.'

The DC nodded, closed his notebook.

‘We need to track down not just the carpet fitters but the furniture deliverers too. Get some photos of them, take them round the neighbours again. See if there's anyone of interest there or if we can eliminate them as suspects. See if that leaves us with anything.' He looked at Khan once more. ‘Did no one mention anyone suspicious coming or going? Anyone who looked like they didn't belong there?'

Khan took his notebook out once more.
Boy's got a bad memory
, thought Phil. Not a good trait in a copper. He read down his notes. Shook his head. ‘No one said. If they did see someone, they must have thought he was delivering furniture or something.'

‘Thanks,' said Phil. He turned to Sperring. ‘Post-mortem. We've spoken to Esme. Where are we with that?'

Sperring spoke without recourse to notes.
He's good
, thought Phil.
Whatever
I think of him as a person, he's a good copper
.

‘We're still only at the preliminary stage,' he said. ‘And some of you know this already. So to recap. Glenn McGowan was murdered by person or persons as yet unknown. He had his genitals removed. This seems to have been done in the bathroom, and there are no signs of him putting up a struggle. This leads us to conclude one of two things. That Glenn McGowan was complicit in this, or he was drugged. Or perhaps both.'

He paused while the team grimaced, groaned and uttered a few expletives and oaths.

‘My thoughts exactly,' said Sperring. ‘He died, as far as we can tell, from massive blood loss caused by this mutilation. His body – and we have good reason to believe he was still alive when this was carried out – was then placed at the dining table, where he and his murderer sat down to eat. The meal was McGowan's own genitals.'

More groans, more expletives.

‘They were found partially digested in his stomach. And there's more. His arm was wired so that his hand could hold a teacup.'

‘Which leads us to believe the whole thing was deliberately staged,' said Phil. ‘DNA results in yet?'

Sperring shook his head. ‘Nothing yet. Our lad was careful. And we haven't managed to trace what drug was in McGowan's system when he died. Esme's still looking into it. We should know soon.'

‘Anything else?'

Sperring continued. ‘There are signs that McGowan had engaged in anal sex. Before death, at least. Wouldn't want to think he was weird or anything.'

That got a big laugh. Of relief, mainly.

‘And I think,' said Khan, talking loudly to be heard over the noise, ‘we might have got it on camera.'

T
hey gathered round the TV screen. Khan smiled, looked round. Opened his mouth to say something.

‘First one who shouts “Showtime!” is demoted to traffic duty,' said Phil without looking up.

Khan's mouth immediately closed. There was laughter at his expense. He clearly didn't like it. Phil smiled inwardly at that, then chastised himself for being so petty. Khan was young. He would learn. Hopefully.

The DVD started playing. It showed Glenn McGowan, dressed as Amanda, sitting on the sofa in his living room.

Sperring pointed at the screen. ‘That's…'

Khan nodded, triumph in his eyes. Pleased he had something to show off about. ‘DC Oliver and me watched this yesterday. We thought we were on to something. And we are, just…' he shrugged, ‘dunno what yet.'

As they watched, there was a ring at the door. Amanda got up to answer it. A heavily disguised man entered and the two of them began to have sex.

‘Has he come to read the meter?' said Sperring. ‘Jesus. Looks like an old porn film.'

More laughter.

‘That's what we thought,' said DC Oliver. ‘We also thought we were watching Glenn McGowan's last night on earth,' she added. ‘But sadly we weren't that lucky. Sadly for us, that is.'

‘You mean he's still alive at the end of it?' asked Sperring.

‘Yeah,' said Oliver. ‘That's what gave it away.'

They kept watching. The sex took a diversion into pain, Amanda the recipient.

‘Watch here,' said Khan. ‘The guy gets so into it that it looks like his wig's about to come off.' He froze the screen and pointed. They all peered in, trying to make out the colour and style of his real hair underneath.

‘Dark hair,' said Phil. ‘Same as the wig.'

‘Gets better,' said Khan. ‘You don't mind?' He fast-forwarded the action to another spot. ‘Here.'

The disguised man had stripped off fully now. His body looked young, hard. The camera went between the two protagonists, trying to get as much action and reaction in frame as possible.

‘There. Just… there. That.'

Khan froze the screen once more. There was a near close-up of the man's right arm. On the inside of his forearm was a tattoo.

‘Looks like a twisted staircase,' said Cotter. ‘Or the bars of a cage.'

‘It's a double helix,' said Phil. ‘Isn't it? Human DNA structure.'

The rest of the team looked at him. DC Oliver nodded, glancing at Khan. ‘That's what I thought, boss. I made a sketch of it and checked it out. It is.'

‘Good work,' said Phil.

Khan didn't look so happy.

‘So he did it already in his living room,' said Sperring. ‘What's this, then, d'you think, a dry run?'

‘Doesn't look that dry,' said Khan, the picture still frozen, his back to the screen, addressing the group. ‘Not when you see some of the stuff later.'

‘Right,' said Phil. ‘So this must have been after McGowan moved in. And after he decorated, by the looks of it. I don't suppose there's a date on the film anywhere?'

Elli shook her head. ‘Sorry, boss.'

‘Not to worry,' said Phil. ‘We'll find another way in. If McGowan only moved into the house a couple of weeks ago, and he's been dead, I don't know, one week, five days, let's say for argument's sake, then he must have worked bloody quickly to get this place decorated and the camera up and running.'

‘Something else,' said Imani Oliver. ‘McGowan's in a pretty brutalised state by the end of this film. He's got wounds that must have taken some time to heal. Did the post-mortem mention them?'

‘No,' said Sperring. ‘Scars, yes. And fairly recent. But healed. Not wounds. Not the kind that would be still be around from such a short time ago.'

‘Gets better,' said Phil. He looked at Khan. ‘Do we need to watch this through to the end?'

‘Only if you want to, sir,' said Khan, an insolent smile on his face.

‘I meant is there anything else we can pick up from it?'

‘Just one thing,' said Oliver. ‘McGowan refers to the other man as Ben. We don't know if that's his real name or all part of the scenario, a role he's playing, but when he – she, sorry, says it, he stops and looks up. Like he's not happy.'

‘So that would lead us to believe it's his real name,' said Phil. ‘That also fits with something Julie McGowan told us. That her husband had been – as Amanda – seeing a man called Ben. Right.'

Show over, mercifully for most of them, they turned away from the screen. Returned to the usual briefing.

‘OK,' said Phil. ‘So where does this leave us? Well, we've got a name. Ben. We've got a tattoo of a double helix. I would imagine that would be quite distinctive. We need someone to check the local tattoo parlours. See if it was done in the city. See if anyone answers his description. Tall, dark-haired young man.'

‘That should narrow it down a bit,' said Sperring.

Phil stared at him, but realised that the older man, for once, wasn't being facetious. Just showing his desperation.

‘And the big one,' said Phil. ‘He hasn't been in that house for long. How did he manage to film this in there and then for his wounds to heal before he did it all again, but fatally?'

T
he Arcadian was in the Bullring branch of the Entertainer. He thought he had got away with it. The phone call he received told him he was wrong.

He was standing there, the cheapest, blondest doll he could find in his hand, when he heard the voice. He immediately put the doll down, left the shop as quickly as he could. The mall was crowded almost to overflowing with pre-Christmas Saturday shoppers, all pushing and jostling for their own bit of personal space, forcing themselves and their bags through. It looked like a slow-motion riot.

Usually he enjoyed being among the masses. It made him feel different, superior. He wasn't there for the same things they were after. He liked to move through them, mix among them, unobserved, unnoticed, an invisible shark. But not today. Not now. Because the voice had spoken.

Ignoring the mass of humanity around him, he took himself off somewhere quiet – or as quiet as he could manage – and tried to concentrate. He found a passageway that led to toilets and stairs and stood there. Closed his eyes.

‘You fucked up.'

‘I… I… didn't…' His voice sounded weak, even to his own ears. He hated to hear weakness, especially his own. It made him angry but there was nothing he could do about it.

‘You did.' Strong, no arguing. ‘You took the woman as well. You weren't supposed to do that.'

‘No, no…' He was shaking his head as he spoke, knowing he would attract attention, starting not to care. This was important. More important than Christmas shoppers. ‘I… She came in. When I was there. She wasn't supposed to.'

‘So what did you do?'

He almost smiled as he said the word. ‘Improvised.'

A sharp intake of breath. He didn't like the sound of that.

‘But… but… I made it good. Made it look like a robbery. Threw some, some stuff around. Broke things. You know.' He recounted it as quietly – as professionally – as possible, making no mention of the rage he had experienced. That wasn't important. Not now.

‘And left your DNA all over the place, too.'

The Arcadian froze. He had gone over this in his mind, time and time again since the previous night. He was sure he had left nothing incriminating behind. Sure of it. ‘No,' he said, trying to pump strength into his voice. ‘No. I didn't.'

‘You sure?' It was clear he wasn't believed. ‘Doesn't sound like it.'

‘No,' he said shaking his head rapidly. ‘No. I didn't. I swear I didn't.' He took a couple of deep breaths, tried to calm himself. Compose himself. Speak like a professional. One professional to another. ‘I was controlled.' He swallowed hard at the lie. ‘I made sure nothing of mine was left at the scene. Nothing.'

There was a pause. ‘You sure?'

A sudden image came into his mind. The cheap blonde slut lying on the floor the way he had left her. The mess she had been in. And how he had wallowed in that mess. He swallowed again. Felt his fingers shaking as he held the phone. ‘Yes,' he said. ‘I'm sure. Definitely. Definitely… definitely sure. Yes.' He nodded to emphasise the point. To convince himself of it, if not the voice on the phone.

Silence. He wondered if the voice had hung up.

The Arcadian felt he had to say something. His reputation was being eroded. He had to do something, say something to bring it back. To convince the voice that he was a professional, that he could be entrusted with jobs like the one the previous night. If he didn't, then his plan was in jeopardy. He was just another loser. Another sad wannabe.

No. That wasn't him. He was better than that. And he would prove it.

He took another deep breath. Then another. When he spoke, he modulated his voice so it was lower, slower. Calm and controlled. He had read in one of his self-help books that people responded better to slow, deep voices. Found them more trustworthy. That was what he would do now.

‘There's no problem,' he said slowly, ‘none at all. The woman complicated things, yes, no doubt, but, as I said, I did what anyone would do in the circumstances. Any
professional
. I improvised. There's no way it can be traced back to me. And there's no way they'll connect it with the doll.'

‘The doll?'

‘The last one.'

‘Right.'

‘As I said…' He paused, building up to the last part of his speech, ‘no… trouble… at… all…'

The voice made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snort. ‘What you talking like that for? You on Mogadon or something?'

The Arcadian felt himself blush. No one made him blush. No one. ‘Everything's fine,' he said, quick as he could.

‘It had better be.'

‘And the next one will be perfect too.'

But the voice had gone.

He stared at his hands. They were shaking. But not just from fear. From anger. From… He didn't know. So many conflicting emotions.

He pocketed the phone and stood there staring straight ahead, seeing everything. Seeing nothing. The mall was playing the same irritating Christmas songs on a continuous loop that were always played at this time of year. He hated them. Each and every one. Didn't know how the masses listened to them. Well, he did. Because they were thick. Stupid. Because they knew no better. Not like him.

He thought back to what the voice had said. How it hadn't replied at the end. And his hands started to shake again. He had to have another one, he had to. If he didn't, he would just be back in the crowd. No better than the hordes in front of him. And that could never happen.

He blinked. Once. Twice. Felt tears well up. Kept them down.

‘No,' he said, not realising he had spoken aloud. ‘I can't. I can't. I've got… There's things. Things I've got to do.'

He looked back at the toy shop.
Yes
, he thought.
Buy the doll. Go home. Everything will be all right when you get home. You're safe there
.

He walked towards the shop, knocking shoppers out of the way, not caring, not apologising. He had work to do. He was on a mission, a calling. He went back to where the doll had been. It was still there, right where he had left it. He wasn't surprised. What child would want that cheap piece of shit?

He picked it up, walked to the till, ready to pay.

And stopped dead.

There, on a shelf right in front of him, was a red fire engine.

He stood there staring. The years fell away. And there he was, sitting in front of the TV in a flat in Rotherham, his mother pocketing the money, disappearing out of the door.

‘No… no…'

He tried not to think of what had happened next, but his mind was set on a track it couldn't get off. He felt their hands on him again. Their breath. Making him… making him…

He tried to think of later, when he was out of the YOI, working for them. When he was in charge, when he wasn't being hurt. But he couldn't. All he could think of was that poor, sad, hurt little boy. The red fire engine.

The doll dropped to the floor. People were scared. He wondered why. Then he realised he had been shouting.

And crying.

He turned and ran from the shop.

Ran all the way home.