by P R Ellis
‘Why me?’ Jasmine felt excited and nervous. What would facing Xristal’s mother and father be like? As a police officer she’d been the bearer of news of deaths before, but this was a bit different.
‘Yes. Sloane thought you would know how to deal with the parents of a she-male.’
‘Hmph. Making assumptions again is he? It all depends if they know about Xristal.’
‘You think they might not?’
‘It’s a strong possibility. Christopher may have cut himself off from his past life when he became Xristal. Whatever he was, he’d probably come a long way from being the son his parents thought they knew.’
‘Hmm, that’s an interesting insight. You certainly understand a lot more about this sort of thing than we do.’
Jasmine was silent, thinking about how to play the meeting with Mr and Mrs Newman. Tom concentrated on driving.
After a few minutes Jasmine spoke again.
‘Did anything else interesting come out of talking to the bank?’
‘Yes. The account has been used a lot in the last couple of years. Xristal had been making fairly regular, sizeable deposits and also some large withdrawals. There was one to a private clinic in Hertford about two years ago.’
‘About when she and Honey moved into Bredon Road?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Could be when she had the boob job.’
‘Maybe. And there were several payments to a beauty consultant recently.’
‘Dr Winslade said she’d had electrolysis to remove her facial hair.’
‘That’s right. Actually the two biggest withdrawals were very recent. She’d almost cleaned out the account. One was to Etihad, the airline. We’ve checked it out. She had tickets in her female name to Suvarnabhumi.Bangkok airport for a couple of weeks’ time. She was going out for a month.’
‘Really? What was the other?
‘It was to a clinic in Chonburi. We haven’t been able to make contact with them to find out more yet.’
‘Wow, that really is interesting.’ Jasmine stroked her sore jaw.
‘What was she up to? We’ve checked her current passport and it’s in the name of Christopher Newman. She wouldn’t have been able to use the flight tickets with that passport.’
‘I think if you dig a little deeper you’ll find she applied for a passport under her female name. It’s probably in the system somewhere.’
‘But he’s still male.’
‘You don’t need a full gender reassignment to get a new passport. ‘
‘What was he travelling to Thailand for then?’
‘Xristal could have been going for some more cosmetic surgery. Hip and bum implants, for example.’
‘What? To make his bum larger?’ Tom snorted.
‘Don’t laugh. Real women have it done as well as trans-women.’
‘What on earth for? Don’t most women worry their arses are too big?’
‘Actually, quite a lot of women want a more curvaceous look. One thing you can’t change is bone structure, and men and trans-women have a narrow pelvis. Implants can give the appearance of wider, more feminine hips.’
Tom shook his head.
‘How much was Xristal’s payment to the Thai medics?’ Jasmine asked.
‘Um, about fifteen grand.’
‘Well, it wasn’t cosmetic surgery then.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t think even a full bum and hip job would be that expensive.’
‘What was she having done then?’
‘I reckon she was going to have the full gender reassignment.’
‘That’s what you’re having, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but not yet. I can’t afford that sort of money. The fifteen grand is probably only half of what the whole trip would have cost her.’
‘I didn’t realise it cost that much.’
‘That’s why I’m having to do it in stages on the NHS, Tom. It looks as though Xristal was going for the complete replacement of her male genitals with a vagina, the full works.’
‘Right.’
‘It’s interesting. We, or at least I, have been thinking of Xristal and Honey as being the same: two aggressively promiscuous she-males, both perfectly content with their male organs, while flaunting the secondary female characteristics they’d given themselves. This suggests that Xristal wasn’t like that. Perhaps in a few weeks she would have been physically and legally female.’
‘Yeah, but so what?’
‘Well, it would make a few changes to her business arrangements with her clients, wouldn’t it?’
‘What? Oh, I see, she wouldn’t have a cock anymore.’
‘That’s right. Her clients probably wanted her to have a cock. What would they think about her changing sex?’
Tom let out a long low whistle. ‘I wonder.’
‘And then there’s Honey. She and Xristal were obviously pretty close, at least until Honey left. Honey is a different character. Obviously male despite her enhancements, and happy to pick up guys at the kerbside.
‘How do you know?’ Tom glanced at Jasmine with a frown.
‘I spoke to some of Kintbridge’s working girls last night.’
‘You did? Where?’
‘Railway Terrace.’
‘They still there? I thought we’d moved them on. It used to be as busy as the station itself.’
‘There were just three of them last night. They recognised Honey but not Xristal. A bit pissed off actually, because Honey buggered up their own soliciting.’
‘I can imagine. Hold on, I’m going to have to turn the volume up on the sat nav. It’s a while since I’ve been to Reading.’
‘But I’m pretty sure both of them were freelancing.’
‘How do you know they didn’t have a pimp?’
‘I made enquiries at that brothel further up Bredon Road.’
‘The one we raided for drugs?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You went there? Sloane won’t like that. We’re keeping it under hands-off observation.’
‘I know, but I don’t care what Sloane thinks. I’m not a cop anymore.’
‘Hmm, not sure he’ll accept that argument. What did you find out?’
‘There were a few girls and a maid looking after them. They all seemed to be from Eastern Europe and didn’t look particularly happy. If I was Sloane I’d be exploring the trafficking angle.’
‘I’m sure he is.’
‘Well, then this guy with a London accent arrived. He wasn’t very happy to find me there.’
‘I’m not surprised. Was he a little guy with a moustache?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah, that’ll be the Colonel.’
‘Colonel?’
‘Rhyming slang. Colonel Blimp – pimp.’
‘I see… but he’s not…’
‘No, of course not. He appeared a few months ago and took over the brothel. Sent by the big guys in London. We’re keeping an eye on what he’s up to. So what happened?’
‘He went for me and I had to teach him a lesson.’ Jasmine was quietly proud that she was still able to bring her police training into play.
‘I bet that cheered him up.’
‘Made his day, the nasty little shit.’
‘Did you get anything out of him?’
‘Only that he didn’t recognise Xristal or Honey but saw immediately what they, or rather what Honey, was. He didn’t like the thought of them operating on his patch even though they weren’t taking any of his customers. I’m sure Xristal and Honey must have been getting their clients from a completely different source.’
‘So, we’re back to trawling the internet,’ Tom sighed. They’d been driving through the suburbs of Reading for some time, but Tom at last drew to a halt outside a smart, 1930s detached house.
Tom rang the doorbell then stepped back to stand alongside Jasmine. She felt small and insignificant beside him and self-conscious that while he was in his dark, formal suit she was just i
n a short skirt and T-shirt.
The door was opened by a woman. Jasmine estimated that she was in her late forties. She had dark hair with a few flecks of grey and was smartly dressed in a pale blue dress that showed off a slim, well-cared for figure.
‘Mrs Julia Newman?’ Tom asked, ‘I’m a police officer, DS Shepherd,’ he held out his ID card. ‘Miss Frame here is a special police advisor. May we come in please?’
Mrs Newman looked nervously at them.
‘Oh, yes, of course.’ She opened the door wide and stepped back into the hallway. Tom and Jasmine followed her into a light and airy sitting room where a pair of sofas were set at right angles around a fireplace.
‘Please take a seat. Can I get you a drink, tea, coffee?’ she said.
‘No, thank you,’ Tom said, sitting on one sofa. Jasmine sat beside him, tugging her skirt down her thighs and pressing her bare knees together. ‘Please sit down, Mrs Newman. Is Mr Newman at home?’
‘No, he’s at work, in London,’ Mrs Newman replied, as she sat down on the other sofa.
‘I see. Is there someone, a relative or a friend, that you can get hold of?’
Mrs Newman turned pale and covered her mouth. ‘Nothing’s happened to William has it?’
‘Your husband? No, not that we are aware of. We’re here to ask some questions about your son.’
‘Christopher?’ She was shaking now. ‘Is he all right?’
Jasmine looked at Tom. He was hesitating, wondering what to say. ‘Well, we think we may have some news, but...’
‘Have you seen Christopher recently?’ Jasmine interrupted.
‘No,’ a sob began to shake Julia Newman’s chest. ‘We haven’t seen him for six years, but we hear from him now and again. He sends postcards from all over the country.’ She stood up and picked up a pile of cards from the mantelpiece. She handed them to Jasmine.
They were indeed pictures of places all over the British Isles but most had postmarks from the Thames Valley and Berkshire. The messages were brief and cheery and signed “Chris”. She passed them to Tom.
‘You don’t know where he’s been living?’
‘No, although I don’t think he’s been far away as you can tell from the postmarks.’
‘And you haven’t been in contact with him?’
‘No, he’s never given us an address. All we’ve had are these cards to tell us he’s still alive.’
‘I can see that this upsets you, Mrs Newman, but do you know why he’s cut himself off from you?’
‘No. We really can’t understand it. He was such a bright, loving boy, but as he went through his teens he became more and more angry and unsettled. He should have been one of the top students in his year, but he only just scraped enough GCSEs to stay on for the sixth form. He left just before his A2s, not that he would have passed any. By then he was uncontrollable, spending nights out, hardly at home at all.’
‘Did you try to get him some kind of help or support?’
‘What kind of help? He wasn’t ill. He wasn’t on drugs or drinking; there was no sign of that. He wasn’t getting into trouble with the police. It just seemed that he couldn’t stand being here, at home - with us.’
‘Did anything particular happen when he left for the last time?’
‘No. His exams were coming up and it was obvious he hadn’t worked for them. He just went out one day and didn’t come back.’
‘Did you report his disappearance?’ Tom asked
‘After a week. Every other time he’d come back after a few days. We went to the police, but because he was eighteen they weren’t too concerned. Then we had the first postcard. The police lost interest once we confirmed that it was in Christopher’s writing.’
‘So legally he wasn’t missing?’ Tom said.
‘Yes, but we still didn’t know what to do. For a couple of months we waited, hoping he’d come home. There were a couple more cards, but they didn’t tell us anything. I was in a terrible state, wondering where he was, how he was living. William tried to take it calmly, but I knew he was as worried sick as I was.’
‘Did you do anything to try and find Christopher?’ Tom asked.
‘We hired a private detective to try and find him, no expense spared. But after three months he still hadn’t found Christopher.’
‘What information did you give the detective?’ Tom questioned again.
Mrs Newman frowned. ‘You are asking me a lot of questions. You must know something about Christopher or you wouldn’t be here. What’s happened to him? Where is he?’
Jasmine saw Tom redden beneath his tan. She knew he didn’t want to tell Mrs Newman that Christopher/Xristal was dead, not while she was on her own. He pulled his mobile from his pocket. ‘I need to make a call. Excuse me, please,’ he said, getting up and leaving the room.
‘Where’s he going? Why didn’t he answer my question?’ Jasmine watched a flash of anger pass over Mrs Newman’s face, quickly replaced by fear. ‘Christopher’s dead, isn’t he?’
Jasmine felt trapped and at a loss. What should she say? Without official status, how could she inform this mother of the death of her son?
‘I’m sure DS Shepherd will answer your questions when he returns, Julia. May I call you that?’ Jasmine said as soothingly as possible.
Mrs Newman hardly seemed to register what Jasmine was saying. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he? Christopher’s dead?’ she said in a barely audible whisper. ‘Please tell me.’
Jasmine hesitated, then crossed the room to sit beside Mrs Newman.
‘We have found a body,’ Jasmine said, ‘but we’re not sure it’s Christopher.’ She struggled to maintain a poker face. She mustn’t give the poor woman reason to be hopeful.
‘I see. And you need identification so you can tell that it’s not Christopher you’ve found.’ Mrs Newman got up and crossed the room to a display cabinet. She slid the glass doors open and reached in for a framed photo. She returned to Jasmine and thrust the frame into her hands. ‘That’s him.’
It was a school photo showing a young man, a teenager, with long, thick black hair.
‘When was this taken, Julia?’ Jasmine asked.
‘Eight years ago. Christopher was sixteen. It’s the last photograph I have. He hated having his picture taken.’
The boy looked younger than his years, his white school shirt revealing a slight build and flat chest. His face was pale with an expression that betrayed his discomfort at having his photo taken. Jasmine looked hard at his facial features, struggling to match them with those of Xristal. She thought that they were probably the same person, although eight years and cosmetic surgery had wrought significant changes. The photo alone was not enough to be one hundred per cent certain of the identification.
Tom entered and returned to his seat. ‘The Family Liaison Officer is on her way,’ he said. Jasmine sensed his discomfort and knew that he realised that he should have been prepared for the possibility of Julia Newman being alone.
‘Julia guessed that we had some bad news,’ Jasmine said, ‘She’s given me a photo of Christopher.’ She leaned forward to hand the picture to Tom. He examined it carefully.
‘The body you found, it’s not Christopher? The photo is proof, isn’t it?’ Mrs Newman looked at him hopefully.
Jasmine saw the look of pain on Tom’s face as he realised he had to tell her the truth.
‘I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs Newman, but we have good evidence that the body we have is that of your son, and while this photo is insufficient for a positive identification it does show considerable resemblance…’
‘What do you mean, considerable? It’s only been eight years! He can’t have changed that much. Surely you can tell if the body is Christopher or someone else?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Tom said, clearly having difficulty choosing his words, ‘but Christopher’s features have altered since this photo was taken.’
‘Why? Has he been in an accident? Has his face been injured?’ Mrs Newman sobbed an
d buried her face in her hands. Jasmine put her arm around her shoulders - the woman’s distress was palpable. The most difficult part of any investigation was being the bearer of bad news.
‘His face wasn’t damaged when he died,’ Jasmine said, being as honest as she could, ‘but his appearance has changed since he left home.’
Mrs Newman looked at her through her tears.
‘I know he’s older now, a grown man, but how could he change as much as you say?’
Jasmine saw Tom looking at her with desperate eyes. Jasmine knew she had to delve into the Newmans’ family life to discover how Mrs Newman would react to being told about Xristal – that she was a prostitute as well as being transgender.
‘You said that Christopher was difficult as a teenager. Do you have any ideas why? What was the matter with him?’
‘You say my son is dead, but you are asking why he was an awkward teenager!’ Mrs Newman’s sudden flash of anger took Jasmine by surprise.
‘We do think Christopher is dead, Julia. I am very sorry, but we do need to find out why he died and who killed him.’
Mrs Newman’s anger died instantly and she covered her mouth with her hands.
‘Christopher was murdered? How?’
‘He was smothered,’ Tom continued. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs Newman, and we will try to answer all the questions you have, but there are things we need to know for the purposes of our investigation.’
‘Smothered?’ Jasmine was amazed at how quickly Mrs Newman recovered her composure. ‘Then why had his appearance changed?’
‘It may be related to his behaviour when he was growing up,’ Jasmine said. ‘You said he was difficult and didn’t like being photographed. Did he dislike his appearance?’
‘Yes. He hated seeing himself in a mirror or a photo.’
‘He looks like an attractive boy. What didn’t he like about himself?’
‘He would never say, but how he looked was one of the problems, I suppose. My husband was always going on at him to get his hair cut.’
‘Was there anything else that your husband found difficult to accept about Christopher?’
‘Well, William always wanted a boy – someone who he could talk about things like sport and cars with. But Christopher didn’t like any of those things.’