The Doll's House (19 page)

M
arina's heart was pounding, her arms and legs shaking. She pushed her body up against the kitchen door, felt like she was about to have a heart attack or pass out.

The knock at the door, the ring of the bell.

Phil. This afternoon, he had said. Later. He was the last person she had expected to see. Or wanted to see. Especially after what she had said to Gwilym.

‘I've got to go,' she had said.

‘Why?' said Gwilym. ‘Worried about what your husband will say?'

‘No,' said Marina, thinking quickly, ‘worried about what he'll do to you if he finds me here.'

‘Oh. Well. You can't,' Gwilym had replied fearfully. ‘I mean, yes. I want you to go. But you can't. The front door is the only way out.' He rubbed his chin. Usually so artfully stubbled, this morning it just looked unkempt.

‘There must be a back way.'

‘There is. But it leads round to the front.'

‘They'd see me.'

‘Yeah,' said Gwilym, eyes alive with hatred, voice spitting bile, ‘they'd see you. And we wouldn't want that, would we? Hubby coming round and spoiling wifey's big moment.'

Marina ignored him. ‘Then I need to hide. Where can I hide?'

There was another knock at the door, another ring of the bell.

Gwilym looked round. ‘There,' he said, pointing towards the kitchen. ‘Go in there. Close the door.'

‘What if they want to come in? What if you need to get something?'

‘They can't. I won't.'

They looked at one another once more. Co-conspirators in a play neither of them wanted to take part in.

‘Quick. In there. Now.'

Marina had pushed Josephina, falling asleep in her buggy, into the kitchen and closed the door behind her. Stood with her back against it, heart pounding.

Everything had gone wrong. Quickly, in the snapping of fingers. Gone from good to bad. She'd had him. Exactly where she wanted him. Admitting he was a rapist. Then this. She'd known Phil was coming to see him but thought she would have had time to get there first. Clearly not.

She looked down at Josephina. The little girl's eyes had been getting heavy while she talked to Gwilym. The house was warm compared to outside and she was well wrapped up. She had been growing drowsy and now she was off. Good. That was one less thing on her mind.

Marina tried to get her breathing, her pulse under control. She pressed her ear against the door, straining to listen. No good. All she could hear were the voices, not the actual words. The door was old, heavy. Designed not to let sound pass through.

She sighed. She didn't have a clue what would happen next. Would Gwilym confess before Phil had even asked him anything? Break down and tell all? She doubted it. A thought occurred to her. She should have told him to do that. Thought more quickly and explained that that was why the police were there. To arrest him. And that if he confessed before they said anything, before they even accused him, he would be looked on more favourably. It might have worked. But the best ideas, as she knew, always appeared after the event.

She tried to listen again. No good. She thought of cracking open the door slightly, just a little bit, letting the sound through. Too risky; they might see the handle move, want to know who else was there.

So what? part of her brain said. Would that be so bad? Yes, said the other part. Because everything she had told Gwilym was a lie. And there was no way of knowing if Phil would go for it.

She sighed once more, checked Josephina. Still asleep.

She looked round the kitchen. It continued the theme of the living room – designer, a couple of years old – but didn't seem to have been used much. The pans hanging over the central island were dusty and untouched, the chopping boards relatively unmarked, the knives hanging on a magnetic strip above the hob had dull blades. A cursory look in the nearest two cupboards showed that Gwilym lived mainly on ready-made sauces and pasta. He might have been able to impress the ladies, but it certainly wasn't with his cooking.

Something caught her eye. On the draining board at the side of the sink were two glasses, both heavy-bottomed tumblers. One was empty; the other had a small amount of amber liquid left in it. And lipstick marks on the rim.

She crossed to the glasses, picked up the one with the remaining liquid, smelled it. Grimaced immediately. Marina was no whisky drinker, but that was terrible. Even peaty Scottish malts didn't smell as bad as that. She sniffed at it again. It wasn't whisky. Or brandy. In fact, she didn't know what it was. It had elements of both but something more, like a local tipple picked up on a foreign holiday that never got drunk at home and was left at the back of the drinks cupboard. There was something else in there too. A strong chemical aroma. Medicinal.

As soon as she thought that, she knew what it was. Not its actual chemical composition. But what it was meant to do. What Gwilym used it for. It was probably what he had given her at the dinner. Slipped it into her wine, let her drink it. His date-rape drug.

And he had used it on someone else recently.

She picked the other glass up, smelled that one. Whisky. Straight. No date-rape drug chaser.

Her heart was beating fast once more, but no longer in desperation. This time she was energised. Focused. She looked round the kitchen. What she wanted wasn't there. She started opening drawers, cupboards. As quietly as possible.

In her buggy, Josephina stirred. Marina stopped moving until her daughter went back to sleep.

She kept on opening drawers and cupboards until she found what she needed. Cling film. She carried the roll over to the lipsticked glass, pulled off enough film to give it an airtight seal, wrapped the whole thing up and slipped it into her handbag. She smiled.

‘Gotcha,' she said.

‘Is that Daddy's voice? Where's Daddy?'

She looked round. Josephina had woken up.

‘
I
s there someone else here, Mr Gwilym?'

At the sound of the voice, Phil's eyes darted to the heavy wooden door at the back of the room.

Gwilym's eyes were wide, staring once more. ‘No… no… there's… No.'

‘No one listening in to our conversation?'

Gwilym shook his head. ‘No. Definitely not.'

‘I heard a voice. A child's voice.'

‘So did I,' said Gwilym, then smiled, trying to regain control. ‘Must have been…' He shrugged. ‘I don't know. A radio next door? Perhaps I left it on upstairs.'

Phil stood up. There had been something familiar about that voice. ‘D'you mind if I take a look?'

Gwilym stood also. ‘I do mind, yes. This is my house, Mr Brennan, and I don't like people to just go walking round it without my permission. And you need my permission.'

Phil, sensing he would get no further, sat down again, resumed questioning straight away. ‘The assistant's name. What was it?'

Gwilym's eyes widened. He too sat back down. ‘Erm… I can't remember.' He was taken aback by the sudden resumption of the interview.

‘Try.'

‘I can't, not off the top of my head. Is it important?'

‘It might be. We would like a list of all the assistants who conducted interviews. Would that be a problem?'

Gwilym looked between the pair of them. There was something going on behind his eyes that Phil couldn't read. ‘I… don't know. You'd have to speak to the university, not me. They hold those kinds of records. Yes. Talk to them.'

‘We will,' said Phil. ‘And we'd like to look at the tapes of the interviews too, please. Especially Glenn McGowan's. Do you have that?'

‘Erm… at the university, I should think.'

‘If you could arrange that, please, we'd be very grateful. So what was the book about?' asked Phil. Sperring, he noticed, was now looking round the room. ‘Transvestites?'

‘No, no. Not at all. No. Free will.'

‘Free will?'

‘Yes,' said Gwilym, leaning forward, gesticulating. ‘Free will. Its concept and actuality in our society today.'

‘And where did Glenn McGowan come into all this?' asked Sperring, with the tone of a man clearly wanting the interview to be over. ‘Because he liked to dress up in women's clothes?'

Gwilym gave him a patronising smile. ‘Not quite. Although the dressing up plays a large part in it. In Glenn McGowan's case, anyway.'

‘You wanted to look at what would make someone want to live that way, pretending to be a woman, is that it?' asked Phil.

‘Partly,' said Gwilym. ‘Glenn McGowan was an extreme case, even amongst the transgendered community. He hated himself. Loathed and despised who he was. Or who he had once been.'

‘The Glenn side.'

‘The Glenn side. Very good, Mr Brennan. Exactly right. Very astute. Psychologically.' Gwilym locked eyes with Phil, gave a secret smile. It unnerved Phil slightly. Angered him. He tried not to let it show. Gwilym continued. ‘Glenn suffered from a very extreme form of gender dysmorphia. He hated his body. Or parts of it. He wanted those parts taken away.'

‘Which parts?' asked Sperring.

‘The parts to do with his gender,' said Gwilym. ‘His genitals.' He smiled, enjoying the reaction. ‘Not as uncommon as you might think, you know. You'd be surprised how many extreme castration fantasies I've encountered over the years. I've even met some individuals who have gone through with it.'

‘And that's what Glenn McGowan wanted?'

‘Yes and no,' said Gwilym. ‘He wanted much more than that. He was only happy when he felt nothing. When he was numb. He enjoyed living as Amanda so much more than living as Glenn. He was much happier doing that.'

‘His wife might disagree,' said Phil.

Gwilym shrugged. ‘Wives, eh?' he said, eyes glittering with that secret smile once more. ‘You just can't trust what they say, can you?'

‘She seemed pretty insistent when I talked to her,' said Phil, feeling his hackles rise.

‘Oh,' said Gwilym, laughing. ‘They're always insistent. Wives.'

Phil had been undecided before. But now he had made his mind up. He definitely disliked the man.

‘So this book,' said Sperring, his eyes metaphorically on the exit. ‘Free will, yes?'

‘Yes,' said Gwilym, turning to him. ‘As I said. But more than that. It examines how we have the right to live our lives as we want to. As we choose to. This might be despite – or because of – the way society views those who want to do that. Who want to transgress. Deviate. Be deviants. It also examines – in detail, I might add – what lengths some of those deviants will go to to do just that.'

‘Right,' said Phil.

‘It also examines, through the case studies, the boundaries and barriers that those who want to live that way might – or do – encounter. Social, economic, moral, whatever.'

‘So it's about living your life as you want to,' said Phil.

‘That's right.' Gwilym nodded.

‘And dying as you want to,' Phil said.

Gwilym became uncomfortable. ‘Well, that was… that was part of the… that was one of the reasons behind the book. Of course.'

‘Because Glenn McGowan was murdered, Mr Gwilym,' said Phil.

‘Professor, actually.'

‘
Professor
Gwilym. Murdered. We have reason to believe the murder was planned and premeditated. We also believe Mr McGowan freely invited his murderer into his home. And that he was complicit in his own killing.'

Gwilym was looking suddenly uncomfortable once more. ‘I don't know what you're —'

‘Suggesting?' Phil leaned forward. ‘I'm
suggesting
that if you had prior knowledge that a murder was going to be committed, you had a duty to inform the police.'

‘Otherwise you could be an accessory after the fact,' said Sperring.

‘Exactly,' said Phil.'

Gwilym's face reddened. ‘May I speak freely, Mr Brennan?'

‘Please do. And it's Detective Inspector.'

‘The people I have interviewed were all extreme cases. Some were fantasists, happy to define their boundaries and live within them. One, as I have just discovered, actually went further than that. He acted out his fantasy.'

‘So you knew about it?' said Phil. ‘It was there in the interview?'

‘Yes, it was in the interview. It was his ultimate fantasy. His ultimate desire.'

‘So why didn't you —'

‘What? Try to stop him? Talk him out of it? Why should I do that? Doesn't it negate the whole point of the book? Which is, of course, that we all have free will to do whatever we want to with our own lives.'

‘Not reporting it was illegal,' said Phil. ‘Not to mention immoral.'

‘But that's the whole point!' Gwilym was off his seat, gesturing. Phil stayed where he was. Stared at him. Hard. ‘What about those people who take their terminally ill partners off to Switzerland and help them to die? Is what they're doing illegal? Immoral? Is it?'

‘That's a different issue,' said Phil.

‘No it isn't,' said Gwilym. ‘It's exactly the same. That's the whole point of the book. To stir things up. Shift attitudes.'

‘Or manufacture controversy and shift units,' said Phil. ‘If you want to be cynical about it.'

Gwilym stared at him. Anger in his eyes.

‘We'll need to look at the book,' said Phil standing up. He looked directly at Gwilym. ‘And we'll need that list of your assistants and researchers and access to the taped interviews as well, please.'

Gwilym stared back at him. ‘I'm not sure I want to do that, Detective Inspector. Maybe I do need my solicitor after all.'

Sperring stood also.

‘I'll see you out,' said Gwilym. He walked them to the door. Phil and Sperring were crossing the threshold when he spoke again. ‘Oh, I did enjoy having your wife the other night.'

Phil turned, stared at him. Gwilym had a smile of triumphant self-satisfaction on his face.

‘What? What did you say?'

Gwilym's eyes widened. ‘Your wife. Had her for dinner the other night. We're in the same department at the university. The Christmas dinner? I was with her.'

‘Really?' Phil felt his hands start to shake, his anger build. He wasn't sure why. ‘She didn't mention you.'

‘I'm surprised. We had quite a time together. Goodbye, Detective Inspector.'

The words sounded like both an insult and a threat.

Phil walked straight to the car, started it up. He almost didn't wait for Sperring. He drove away not looking back.

He knew Gwilym would be standing there laughing.