The Doll's House (29 page)

M
arina didn't feel like she had been asleep. She must have been, though, because the noise of her phone, sharp, insistent, startled her into wakefulness. She scrabbled for it on the bedside table, found it.

‘Hello?' Her voice anxious, breathing fast, heart hammering. Anticipating bad news.

‘D'you know what time this is?'

Marina smiled, relaxed slightly. Anni.

She looked at her watch. ‘Just gone six.'

‘Yeah. Just gone six. In the morning. Sunday morning. When we should all be sleeping off our hangovers.'

‘That what you're doing?'

‘I was trying. But this woman keeps texting me in the middle of the night.'

‘Sorry.'

Anni sighed. ‘It's OK. I know you would do the same for me if things were the other way round.'

‘You know it, sister.'

Anni laughed. ‘That accent was terrible.'

Just hearing Anni's voice was making Marina feel better. ‘Sorry.' She sighed.

‘How you feeling?'

‘No better, if I'm honest.'

‘What did Phil say?'

Marina didn't answer straight away.

‘Marina…'

‘I didn't tell him, Anni. I tried, I… couldn't.'

‘Oh God, Marina…'

‘I'm sorry, I did try. But the words wouldn't come. When he came in last night was the perfect opportunity. And I opened my mouth and… He was exhausted. Just in from doing overtime on a long shift. Should have been his day off. If I'd said something, what if he'd taken it the wrong way?'

Anni said nothing.

‘I'm going to tell him, though. Definitely.'

‘Where is he now? Can't you do it now?'

‘He's back at the office. Got called in. Has to question a suspect.'

‘Right. So when?'

‘When you get the lab results back. When I've got something concrete to take to him. So he'll know it's not just me being hysterical or making excuses for shagging some bloke when I was pissed.'

‘Marina, he won't think you're being hysterical. You know that. And he definitely won't think you've shagged some bloke when you were pissed. He knows you better than that. And you know it too.'

‘Thank you,' said Marina.

‘No problem.'

‘So… look, I hate to sound like I'm obsessed or anything, but…'

‘When will the results be in?'

‘Yeah. Sorry. Am I that transparent?'

‘No. Like I said, I would be doing exactly the same as you if I was in your position. I'd be in a state too.'

‘Yeah. Every woman would.' She paused, waited. ‘So. The results…?'

‘It's Sunday. Nobody works on a Sunday.'

‘Nobody's supposed to be working on this at all.'

‘I know. Look, I spoke to my guy. Told him it was urgent, on the hush-hush, all of that. He said he understood and that he'd get back to me as quickly as possible.'

‘When will that be? Today?'

‘Marina…'

‘Sorry. But I'm, you know. Anxious. Everything's on hold. Phil. Work. My life. Until I hear back from you.' She sighed. ‘Look, I know I'm being demanding and unreasonable, but…' she felt tears well up, ‘I'm falling apart here…'

There were no words from the other end of the phone, just the sound of movement. Marina heard a door close, the atmosphere change. When Anni spoke again, her voice was echoing.

‘OK. That's better.'

‘Where… What happened?'

‘I'm in the bathroom. Thought it best that Mickey didn't hear any more.'

‘He's there?'

Anni laughed. ‘He's always here. Can't get rid of the bastard. Bless him.'

Marina gave a small laugh too. It quickly died.

‘Listen,' said Anni, ‘I'll get in touch with my contact at the lab again. Ask him if he can go in today, see what he can do.'

‘Thank you.' Marina felt relief wash over her. Or a certain amount. It was a start.

‘But this is a really big favour. I want you to know that. Not that you're not worth it, but…' Anni sighed. ‘He's an old boyfriend. I think I may have to make it up in some way.'

‘Oh.' Her words sank in. ‘Oh. I'm sorry, Anni.'

‘Don't worry. I'll buy dinner, peck on the cheek. That should do him. I just thought it best that Mickey didn't hear me say that.'

‘Quite.'

‘I'll see if I can get him to do it today.'

‘Thank you. I really… I can't tell you how much…' Marina felt herself welling up once more.

‘Hey. Don't worry. We'll get the bastard. I won't let him get away with what he did to you. You can be sure of that.'

The tears came. ‘Thank you, thank you, Anni…'

‘Right. Now stop that. You've got a little girl to look after. Think of her.'

‘Thank you.'

‘Stop thanking me. I'm your mate. Just try and forget about it until I call.'

They made their goodbyes; Anni hung up.

Marina put the phone back on the bedside table. Stared at the ceiling.

P
hil entered the interview room. The young man at the other side of the table looked up. He was affecting boredom, ennui, but Phil knew that something hissed and fizzed behind his eyes. The machine seemed to be running smoothly. But somewhere the circuits were shorting out. He was wearing a short sleeved T-shirt and jeans.

‘No jacket?' said Phil. ‘Cold outside.'

‘Didn't have time to get it when I was pulled in here.' His voice laced with sarcasm.

Phil sat down opposite him. Put the manila folder he had been carrying on the table. Introduced himself. ‘And you are?'

‘Martin Trotter.' The man spoke his name slowly and clearly, a hint of sarcasm remaining.

Phil checked a piece of paper in front of him. ‘You live in Ladywood, by the reservoir…' He read down. ‘You work in marketing. Oh. You're unemployed.'

Trotter bristled. ‘Between jobs at the moment.'

‘Know why you're here?'

‘'Cos your lot pulled me in. I've done nothing. I was attacked.' He rubbed the back of his neck where the Taser had hit him. ‘Defended myself.'

‘D'you want a solicitor?'

‘Not now,' Trotter said. ‘Later. When I sue your fucking arses off.' He laughed, sat back, arms folded.

Phil, relieved, ignored the comment. ‘Arm,' he said.

Trotter frowned. ‘What?'

‘I want to see your arm.'

Trotter stretched out his right arm. Phil took a photo from the manila folder, checked the image of the tattoo against the one on Trotter's forearm. A good match. He put the photo away, sat back.

Trotter retracted his arm, looked puzzled. ‘Happy now?' he said.

‘Ecstatic. Right.' He looked up, straight at Trotter. Face professionally blank. ‘What were you doing in the cinema?'

Trotter gave a snort, tightened his arms round his chest. ‘What d'you think?'

Phil didn't reply.

Trotter leaned forward. ‘Fucking.' He said it with relish, like a little boy challenging his parents with a naughty word. He sat back, pleased with himself, clearly thinking he had the upper hand. Phil kept eye contact with him as he asked the next question.

‘Where'd you get the tattoo, Martin?' His voice light yet authoritative.

Trotter's attitude changed. His cockiness slipped as a shade passed over his features. ‘Why d'you want to know?' His voice suddenly cagey, hollow. ‘D'you want one or something?' Aiming for bravado. Missing.

Phil resisted the urge to smile. Contented himself with doing it inwardly. He had made a hit. ‘Don't see many like that,' he said.

‘You should move in more exciting circles, then.' Something passed across Trotter's face. He immediately regretted his words but didn't want his regret to show.

Phil knew he was on to something now.
Coppers in interviews are like lions
bringing down wildebeest,
his ex-DCI Gary Franks had once said.
Any weakness, you just pounce on it. Go in for the kill
.

‘Really? What kind of circles are those, Martin?'

Trotter said nothing.

‘Come on, Martin. If your life's more exciting than mine, tell me about it.'

Trotter flinched, but he still said nothing. Phil decided to change his line of questioning. ‘What's so special about that design?' he asked. ‘Just looks like a twisted cage.'

Trotter gave another snort. ‘Shows what you know,' he said, trying to regain the upper hand once more.

‘Really?' said Phil, eyes wide in mock-ignorance. ‘What is it then?'

Trotter looked smug. He lifted up his arm, admired the design. ‘A DNA double helix. The symbol of life itself.' He shook his head, gave another snort of laughter. ‘Twisted cage…'

‘I want to see it again,' said Phil.

Trotter's skin was cold to the touch. Phil angled the desk lamp over the tattoo. Examined it closely. He looked up.

‘This isn't real.'

Trotter looked slightly embarrassed. ‘Never said it was.'

‘Just temporary. Printed, not inked.'

‘So?'

‘Can't afford a proper one?'

Trotter stared at him. ‘Fuck you.'

Phil leaned across the table. ‘How do you know Glenn McGowan?'

Trotter stared at him, his brows knitted, his features puzzled. ‘Who?'

Phil continued. ‘Glenn McGowan. You might know him better as Amanda.' He took some photos from the folder, displayed them in front of Trotter.

Trotter inclined his head forward, studied them. It didn't take long. His head snapped back, eyes on Phil once more. ‘Her. Yeah, I know her.'

‘He, or she, was murdered.'

‘Murdered?' A light came on in Trotter's eyes. ‘Is that the one they're talking about on the TV?' He smiled. ‘A TV on the TV.' He laughed.

‘Hilarious,' said Phil. ‘So where did you know her from?'

‘The —' He started to speak, stopped. His lips coming down fast, abruptly cutting off the words.

‘Where?' Phil's voice calm, inquisitorial.

Trotter put his head back. His eyes were hooded, unreadable. He shrugged. ‘Here and there. Around. Bars and that. Clubs.' His eyes slid away once more.

‘Which ones? Which clubs?'

His lips came together. His eyes stared at the tabletop.

‘Which clubs, Martin?'

Trotter looked up, a light coming on in his eyes. ‘You think I murdered her? Is that what this is about it? You want to pin it on me?'

‘So tell me why I shouldn't charge you.'

‘Because I barely knew her.' He sat back, arms folded. Smiled. ‘Changed my mind. Here's me waiting for my solicitor.'

Phil pretended he hadn't heard the last bit. ‘If you barely knew her, how do you explain the fact that you were seen at her house?'

‘What? I wasn't.'

‘You were. Not only that, you had sex with Amanda.'

‘What? This is… this is a stitch-up…' His eyes darted desperately round the room once more.

Phil remained calm. ‘We've got it on DVD, Martin.'

He began to shake his head wildly. ‘You can't have… You're lying, you're fucking lying… I swear, it wasn't me…'

‘Really? Here's a couple of tips, Martin. If you want to video yourself having sex, don't do it with someone who then ends up dead. And try to hide any distinguishing marks or features.'

Trotter looked puzzled. ‘What?'

‘The tattoo, the temporary one that looks like you've inked it in again when it started to fade. The symbol of life itself,' said Phil. ‘How appropriate. Life is what you're looking at now, Martin.'

Then Trotter did something that Phil hadn't been expecting. He laughed.

‘Something funny?'

‘Yeah,' said Trotter. ‘What you've just said.'

‘You've just been identified from your tattoo. There can't be many of them around.'

‘You think?'

Phil felt like a winter pond skater who had underestimated how thin the ice was. ‘You're saying there's more?'

‘Oh yeah,' said Trotter.

‘How many?'

Trotter looked at his arm, then back at Phil. Something dark and ugly danced in his eyes.

‘Loads,' he said.

D
awn had arrived. And with it more rain, grey skies and cold.

Nadish Khan sat on a soaking wet bench in Victoria Square, waiting. He looked round. The square – and the whole of New Street – had been given over to the wooden sheds of the German Christmas market. Although there wasn't much that was German about some of the stalls: a nail bar was in front of him, next to a stall selling winter Pimm's, the Mumbai Grill on its other side. The market was supposed to give a boost to the local economy, and it did. But, as he knew from being on the force, it also brought its own set of problems, street robbery, pickpocketing and drunkenness being the main ones. He had to admit, at night when it was lit it up it did have a lovely festive air to it. But not on a bleak, overcast Sunday morning in the pouring rain. It just looked like a whole shanty town of depressing wooden shacks.

He looked round again, checked his watch, pulled his coat around his shoulders, kept his head down. The rain still hit him. He wished he hadn't come. But he knew he had no choice. Or he had felt he had no choice. A debt of honour, the caller had said. Although Khan thought there was very little that was honourable about it.

He heard him before he saw him. Wheezing and groaning as he walked slowly, making a big production number of sitting down next to him. Bundled up against the cold and the rain, hat pulled down, scarf wrapped round the lower half of his face. He unwrapped the scarf, looked at Khan, smiled.

Ron Parsons.

‘You got here before me,' Parsons said. ‘Good. Punctual. I admire punctuality. Something sadly lacking in most people these days.'

‘Just say what you have to say,' said Khan, looking round once more, this time to see if there was anyone he knew watching him, ‘then go.' There was no one there. No one that he could recognise, anyway.

Parsons looked affronted. Offended, even. ‘Is that any way to speak to an old friend of the family? Really? Is it?' He stared at Khan as he spoke, willing the younger man to make eye contact.

Khan was aware of the look he was being given. It was hypnotic, drawing his head round, but he tried to resist it. He settled for a quick glance at Parsons, then away again. He was repulsed.

‘You're no friend of mine,' he said, talking to the wind and rain.

Parsons shook his head. Drops of water fell from the brim of his trilby. ‘If your dad could hear you now…'

Khan turned to him. ‘Yeah, well my dad's dead, isn't he? So he's not likely to hear me.'

‘Nadish…'

Khan ignored him. ‘And we all know how. We all know why, don't we? We know what he was when he was alive. What you made him.'

Parsons turned to him. His cheeks were red, his eyes too. His features suddenly ugly with anger. ‘Now listen to me, you little shit. Don't think you're any better than me or your dad. Because you're not. So don't go getting all high and mighty with me.' He sat back, breathing heavily. The anger seemed to have exhausted him.

‘What d'you want?' asked Khan. ‘Why did you want to see me? Just say it and go. I haven't got time to sit in the pissing rain with the likes of you. I've got work to do.'

Parsons's hand was clenched into a fist. He had drawn it back ready to strike. His eyes were dancing, raging. This time Khan looked at him full on.

‘You wanna hit me? Yeah? Go on then, old man. Take your best shot. I'm here.'

As he spoke, he was aware of a shadow detaching itself from the steps behind the bench. Huge and bearded, blank-faced. A body that moved like it was used to casual violence. Parsons's minder. Khan sat back.

Parsons managed to get himself under control. It took some effort.
Hasn't been spoken to like that in a long time
, thought Khan.
Good. Teach the old fucker a lesson.

He got his breath, restored his equilibrium. ‘I had a visit yesterday,' he said at length. ‘From your DI Brennan.'

Khan, despite what he thought of Parsons, rolled his eyes. ‘Oh. Him.'

Parsons spotted the gesture, pounced on it. ‘Don't you like him, then?'

Khan realised he had given too much away. What he thought of Brennan was none of Parsons's business. ‘What did he want?' he said.

‘He's investigating something – or someone – I'd rather not have investigated.' He looked at Khan again, those hypnotic eyes burning into him. ‘Do you understand?'

‘What's it got to do with me?'

‘What d'you mean, what's it got to do with you? He's your boss. You're working with him. You're probably working on the same thing.'

Khan shrugged. ‘So?'

‘So, I'm giving you a job to do.'

‘I've already got a job.'

‘And now you've got another. Don't worry, I'll make it worth your while. And your mother's as well.'

Khan felt his hands shake. He was baring his teeth in anger. ‘Don't… don't mention my mother…'

‘Every little helps. That's all I'm saying. Things can't have been easy after your dad topped himself. What am I saying? I know they weren't. Your lot turned their backs on your mum. Buried him in more ways than one. No pension, nothing. She had to fend for herself. Bringing up a family, must have been hard.'

Khan frowned. ‘What are you saying?'

‘Just that.' Parsons's eyes bored into him. ‘Good job she had someone on hand to help with the bills. The housekeeping. Someone who values loyalty. Rewards it.'

Khan understood. ‘You bastard…'

‘I've been a good friend of your family. Gave her the money that brought you up. So show some respect, you little shit.'

The bearded shadow hovered on the edge of Khan's vision. Khan sat on his hands.

‘That's better,' said Parsons. ‘Now, all you have to do is make sure this investigation is looking in the opposite direction. The way I want it to look. You give me updates, I'll tell you where not to look. Simples.'

‘Yeah? And how much are you going to pay me for this?'

Parsons shrugged. ‘A grand.'

‘A grand? That's an insult, you cheap old bastard.'

‘Five, then.'

Khan turned to him once more. ‘For a so-called friend of the family. Five grand. To become everything I hate, everything my father was. Five grand.'

Parsons sighed. ‘Ten, then. Can't say fairer than that. You can do a lot with ten grand. Your mother did.'

Khan didn't answer him. He felt like he had been stabbed in the heart.

Parsons said nothing. Waited.

Khan opened his mouth to reply. Couldn't. Instead he stood up. Walked away.

He heard Parsons's voice behind him. ‘I'll take that as a yes, then.'

He didn't answer.

‘I'll be in touch, Nadish. I'm sure you will be too. Soon…'

There might have been more words but Khan didn't hear them.

They were lost to the rain.