Bodies By Design: The 2nd Jasmine Frame Novel (Jasmine Frame Detective)

by P R Ellis

  Jasmine looked up at her. ‘Come on, let’s get you into the car.’ She put an arm around Honey’s waist and guided her along the alley. Honey puffed and groaned while Jasmine endured shafts of pain from her groin. Neither said a word until they were both in the car. Jasmine breathed out, relieved that now she was sitting again she felt comfortable down below.

  Honey looked at her with a pathetically grateful expression. ‘Thank you, Jasmine. I panicked.’

  ‘It looks like it. You’re a mess. Did you really choose that outfit to meet the police in?’

  Honey looked down at herself uncomprehendingly. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you could hardly look more like a whore if you tried.’

  Jasmine put the car in gear, turned and headed back into town. She had intended to take Honey straight to the police station, but her bedraggled appearance suggested that some repairs were necessary first.

  ‘I’m just being myself,’ Honey declared, then groaned. ‘Ow, my feet hurt.’

  ‘Well, those shoes weren’t exactly designed for a canalside walk.’

  ‘I hadn’t planned on going for a walk.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you had. I think I’d better take you home, get you cleaned up a bit and calmed down before you present yourself to the police.’

  ‘Thanks. Do you still think it’s a good idea for me to go to the police? If they are after me perhaps I could just wait until they pick me up?’

  Jasmine sighed with exasperation. ‘Look, I’m not having police cars turning up at my flat, sirens blaring, to arrest you, and it’s always better if you hand yourself over. It gives a better impression, less guilty.’

  ‘Hmm. If you say so.’

  The mid-morning traffic was light, so it wasn’t long before Jasmine pulled back into her parking place. She led Honey into her flat, sent her to the bathroom and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

  She had made the coffee, taken it to the living room and sunk onto her sofa feeling tired, before Honey emerged. She had removed the wig and carried it over one hand. She had smoothed down her skirt and managed to fasten a few of her blouse buttons. Her pale, bald head was a stark contrast to her repaired foundation, eyeshadow and lipstick. She shook the wig. ‘It’ll dry soon,’ she said confidently, ‘and I found some plasters in your bathroom cabinet.’ She looked down and Jasmine, following her gaze, saw her cleaned up legs and feet with plasters covering the scratches and blisters.

  ‘There’s a coffee for you,’ Jasmine indicated the mug on the dining table. ‘Now, tell me truthfully, why did you decide to go and see Tilly?’

  ‘I told you. I was away a lot before I moved to London. Xristal and I became, how shall I say - distant? But I knew Tilly was there all that time, so I thought perhaps they had got to know each other. Perhaps Tilly knew which of her clients she was seeing.’

  ‘I don’t think you were on the right track there. When we interviewed Tilly she didn’t seem to know much about Xristal at all and had nothing useful to tell us.’

  ‘But she was on the ground floor. Her flat looks out on the parking area. She could see who was coming and going.’

  ‘Her kitchen looks out on the back yard. I think Tilly spent a good deal of her time in her bedroom entertaining her clients.’

  ‘Hmm. So Xristal was basically alone after I left?’

  ‘Seems like it – except for her punters of course. We don’t know how many she was seeing in those last few days. Her computer is missing.’

  ‘Her laptop? She kept everything on that thing. All her client details, appointments, future plans, and loads of stuff on cosmetic and gender reassignment surgery. She showed it to me before we had that final, uh, parting.’

  ‘Her murderer obviously knew that, which is why they removed it.’

  ‘And the fact that I knew about it makes me the prime suspect?’

  ‘Not necessarily. The police know all about you and Xristal; they don’t need the computer to point them to you. No, it suggests a client. Someone who Xristal kept notes on, appointments, that sort of thing.’

  ‘So, I’m in the clear?’

  ‘Only if you can answer their questions fully and truthfully. You’ve got to be completely open about your relationship with Xristal.’

  ‘I will be.’

  ‘And there’s Tilly, of course.’

  ‘Oh yes. Tilly.’

  ‘Running away was not a good idea.’

  ‘I panicked! I told you.’

  ‘That doesn’t exactly remove you from the list of suspects.’

  ‘I just saw her body. She was obviously dead. I had to get away.’

  ‘OK, but it still leaves the question. Who would want to kill Tilly?’

  There was silence until Honey muttered. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Neither do I. Surely none of Xristal’s clients had anything to do with Tilly?’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because Tilly and Xristal were catering for a very different clientele.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘So what is the connection?’

  ‘They just lived in the same block of flats?’

  Jasmine shook her head. The answer eluded her. ‘Come on. I’d better get you down the police station.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. The sooner you hand yourself in, the simpler things will be.’

  Honey put down her empty mug and dragged the wig onto her head. There were still damp patches but the dome of hair had recovered its resilient shape. Honey pushed her feet into the red stilettoes, her winces evidence of the pain from her blisters and cuts.

  Jasmine grabbed her bag and led the way, slowly, from the flat.

  There was silence on the short drive to the Police HQ. Jasmine glanced once or twice at Honey and noticed the worry lines creasing her make-up. As they pulled to a stop, Honey turned to her. ‘I know I let Xristal down by not supporting her sex-change but I did love her. You know that, Jasmine.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I didn’t kill her, or that other girl.’

  ‘Just tell them that and answer all their questions.’

  ‘You will tell them, won’t you?’

  ‘I’ll give them a full report,’ Jasmine said, getting out of the Fiesta.

  Jasmine guided Honey up the steps to the main entrance to the police station. As they entered the main lobby, Jasmine saw DC Patel coming towards her. ‘Hello, Jasmine,’ Patel said and then her eyes widened as she turned to look at Honey. ‘Is this…?’

  ‘Honey Potts. She’s come to answer your questions.’

  ‘We’d just had a report that Potts had been seen down by the canal.’

  ‘Well, she’s here now.’

  Patel turned to the desk officer.

  ‘Can you get Miss Potts to an interview room, please? Now.’ The middle-aged police officer looked surly and then moved into action. He emerged from the office and took hold of Honey’s arm. ‘You will tell them, Jasmine?’ Honey appealed.

  ‘Yes, Honey. Go on. Do as they say.’ Honey allowed herself to be dragged away.

  ‘How did she come to be with you?’ Patel asked.

  ‘It’s a long story and I’ll explain later, but she didn’t do it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She didn’t kill Xristal or Tilly.’

  ‘The neighbour says he saw her running away, then he found the body.’

  ‘Tom told me Tilly had fallen from the stairs.’

  ‘That’s what it looked like and Doctor Winslade says her head was smashed in by a fall.’

  ‘Did the neighbour see Honey push her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So there’s no evidence that Honey did it.’

  ‘Did Potts have blood on her when you met her?’

  ‘Yes, but only on her feet. It was her own. She’d tried running in high heels. She wasn’t dressed for murder or a quick escape.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Did the neighbour see anything else?’

&n
bsp; ‘No… well, yes, he said he saw a car leaving a good half hour earlier.’

  ‘What type of car?’

  ‘One of those new Jags.’

  ‘A Jaguar?’ That rang a bell with Jasmine, but she couldn’t put her finger on why.

  ‘Look, I’d better go and get Potts signed in and see what she has to say.’

  ‘Yes, you go on. I’m supposed to be home, resting.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Tom said you would be off for a few days. Are you sick?’

  ‘No, just sore.’

  Patel looked puzzled, but turned to hurry after Honey. She called over her shoulder. ‘I’ll give you a call to get your report about Potts.’

  ‘Do that.’

  Jasmine exited the building and walked slowly to her car. She got in but didn’t start the engine straightaway. Two questions troubled her. What connections were there between Tilly and Xristal other than them both being prostitutes and living in the Taylors’ rented property? Why did the mention of a Jag mean something?

  Posing the two questions together did the trick. A broad smile spread across Jasmine’s face and she dug into her bag for her phone. She dialled Tom’s number. It went straight to voicemail.

  ‘Tom, it’s me, Jasmine. I’ve got it. It’s Taylor, the landlord. I’m off there now.’

  She terminated the call and started the engine. Soon she was following the familiar route to the Taylors’ lavish residence.

  The driveway in front of the bungalow was empty. No sign of the Jaguar. It had been parked here the first time she and Tom had called round. Perhaps it was in the double garage? Jasmine pulled up outside the front door and got out gingerly. She pressed the doorbell and waited. Nothing happened. There was no sound of anyone approaching the door, no shouted instructions. She pressed the bell again and waited, growing in impatience. She wanted answers and she wanted them now. Having to start a hunt for Kelvin Taylor would be an irritating delay to wrapping up the case. It had to be him. Middle-aged, flabby, rich, used to giving orders - he was the image of a typical client of someone like Xristal, and possibly Tilly too.

  Had he seen her drive up and was hiding inside? She couldn’t leave without taking a look. There was a wrought iron gate at the side of the house. Jasmine raised the latch. It opened. She pushed the gate wide and walked tentatively down a narrow path alongside the bungalow towards an expanse of lawn and flower beds.

  ‘Mr Taylor! Are you in?’ she called. Technically, she was trespassing. She didn’t want to surprise him and perhaps provoke an instinctive violent reaction. She reached the back garden and turned to face a patio area and swimming pool. At the rear of the house was a huge expanse of glass covered with vertical blinds – presumably patio doors leading to the lounge. She put her face to the glass and peered between the slats of the blinds. What was that she could see? Something lying on the floor. A dog? No, it didn’t have fur. It was naked skin. A body! The legs twitched. A live body!

  Jasmine tugged at the handles of the patio doors. The body inside wriggled but didn’t move. Was whoever it was injured? The doors were locked. She contemplated breaking the glass, but how? The double-glazed French windows were probably toughened glass. There had to be another way in. She returned to the side of the house. There was a side door, half-glazed. She looked around for a tool or some other implement, but nothing suitable had been left carelessly lying around for the opportunistic burglar. Then she noticed a small ornamental heron in one of the flower beds. She leaned over to pick it up – good, it was satisfyingly heavy, made of concrete not resin. She gripped it firmly with both hands and rammed it against the glazed door pane. There was a loud thud but the glass only cracked. She tried again. This time the outer pane shattered and shards of glass fell to the ground. She tried a third time. The inner glass disintegrated. She knocked out the jagged remnants of the window then reached in. Relief. She wouldn’t have to do any athletic clambering – the key was in the lock. She twisted the key, pressed on the door handle and pushed the door open. She was inside.

  She hurried through the kitchen and hallway and into the lounge. Sprawled face down on the luxurious cream carpet, looking like a beached whale, was a totally naked Kelvin Taylor. His pasty skin was almost the same colour as the carpet and rolls of fat from his paunch spread out either side of his hips. His arms were behind his back, legs bent at the knee, both wrists and ankles bound by stiff leather cuffs joined by short chains to an X-shaped stainless steel bar. There was a leather strap around his face holding a red ball in his mouth. He wriggled and his flabby buttocks wobbled but he was unable to change his position. Strange gurgling noises came from his throat.

  Jasmine knelt beside him and examined the gag. It was fastened by a buckle at the back of his head. She undid it and tugged. The ball popped out of his mouth. He sucked in air with a noisy gasp. Jasmine wondered if he was choking, but then he breathed out and took another deep breath.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked. He nodded still breathing in deep, open-mouthed gulps. Jasmine looked more closely at the cuffs around his wrists and ankles. There were locks with keyholes. He wriggled and tried to turn himself over, but only succeeded in rocking from side to side. He gave up trying to shift his position and rested his forehead back on the floor with his arms and ankles firmly hog-tied. She tried pulling on the thick, heavy leather bands, but they were securely locked. ‘Where are the keys?’

  ‘She’s got them,’ Taylor grunted, ‘She’s gone. Taken them with her.’

  ‘Why? Is it because you killed Xristal and Tilly?’

  His head shook violently from side to side against the carpet. ‘You’ve got to stop her! I don’t know what she’s going to do!’

  ‘She discovered you are a murderer so she trussed you up? Gave you a taste of your own medicine?’

  ‘No!’ Taylor groaned, ‘It wasn’t me! It was her!’

  ‘You’re denying killing those two women?’

  ‘Yes! Look you’ve got to catch her,’ he gasped. ‘She’s the dom. I’m her sub. Have been since we met.’

  Marilyn Taylor the murderer? Jasmine called her image to mind. Tall, slim, leather trousers…haughty, imperious, domineering. What else? Narrow hips, wider shoulders, firm breasts…she suddenly understood… ‘Marilyn is trans!’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Taylor groaned, straining against his bonds, ‘She’s my wife!’

  ‘When did you get married?’

  ‘2007.’ He twisted his head from side to side.

  ‘How long have you two been into BDSM?’

  ‘From the start. It’s how we met. I like being a sub. She’s a sought-after dominatrix.’

  ‘Really? You didn’t know she was a trans-woman?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She couldn’t have children?’

  ‘Neither of us were interested in children. We were passed all that. I had two kids with my first wife.’

  ‘Does your ex-wife know Marilyn? Surely she would have guessed, even if you didn’t.’

  ‘We divorced ten years ago. Audrey took the kids to Australia. She’s never met Marilyn. Look, I don’t understand. We got married. Marilyn had a birth certificate, well a new copy of it.’

  ‘Of course she did,’ Jasmine nodded. It was after the Gender Recognition Act had been passed. Marilyn would have got a new birth certificate showing her changed gender.

  ‘Look, you’ve got to stop her! I think she’s going to kill herself!’ There was pain in Taylor’s voice.

  Jasmine was shaken out of her thoughts. ‘Why?’

  ‘She told me she’d killed those girls. She knew she would be caught soon. She said she couldn’t bear to be put away for the rest of her life. She preferred to end it now.’

  ‘Why didn’t you stop her?’

  Taylor grunted pathetically. ‘Stop Marilyn? You don’t know her. I tried to persuade her. She wouldn’t listen. I’ve always obeyed her, but I did try to stop her leaving.’

  ‘You didn’t do much.’

  ‘
How could I?’

  ‘I don’t know. Hold her, tie her up, something.’

  ‘I couldn’t, could I?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because she’d already left me like this when she went out earlier.’

  Jasmine gasped. ‘She locked you into this, uh, thing, before she went out to kill Tilly?’

  ‘If that’s what happened, yes. Look, it wasn’t unusual. We do this sort of thing all the time. Sometimes I spend all day bound while she, uh, does things. But she didn’t gag me.’

  ‘So she came back?’

  ‘Yes, she was in a right state. Raving about two girls being dead, that she’d be banged up for the rest of her life, that she couldn’t take it, wouldn’t let it happen.’

  ‘And you spoke to her?’

  ‘Yes. I wanted her to explain. She wouldn’t. She just went on about ending it all. I tried to talk her out of it, but she just told me to shut up. Marilyn often did that. When I went on she got the gag and made sure I kept quiet.’

  Jasmine realised she’d been mistaken about Kelvin Taylor. She’d thought he was a domineering inadequate using young women to get his satisfaction. Instead, he was a middle-aged masochist who enjoyed being the butt of his wife’s domination.

  ‘Look. Can I get you out of that thing?’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ he groaned again, ‘this is a top quality hog-tie. The locks are foolproof and Marilyn put all the keys in her bag when she left. You’ll need a hacksaw which will take ages or a bolt cutter.’

  ‘OK. What about making you more comfortable? Turning you over?’