by Tania Carver
He checked over some others, found the same kind of greeting to the same sole person. Glenn. No woman’s name.
He found a large one, picked that up. To Glenn, it said in blue felt tip followed by a printed greeting and a jumble of mismatching signatures. A works card. He checked the company name: Allard Tec Ltd, Coventry. Made a mental note, replaced it.
At the far end of the room, by the window, something caught his eye. He crossed to it, knelt down. A doll’s house. He turned back to Sperring, back to the doll’s house. No FSIs around. He touched it carefully, opening the front.
It was fully decorated. He glanced round once more. The toy living room was a miniature facsimile of the real one.
‘Is that a doll’s house?’ asked Sperring, coming to join him.
‘It is,’ said Phil, eyes still searching it. ‘But it’s empty.’
‘No doll,’ said Sperring.
Phil looked at the body sitting at the table.
‘Apart from the one over there,’ he said.
5
T
he doll was in his pocket. He kept putting his hand in, touching it as he walked, unable to help himself. Stroking her hair, smoothing down her tiny pink gingham dress. Running his thumb gently along her smiling face, over her nose and eyes, the plastic indentations caressing his skin, making it tingle.
She had looked so lonely sitting on the shelf, in her pink dress and little pink shoes, her smile red, wide and blank, that he couldn’t leave here there. And he couldn’t stay in either, he had to go out. So she had to go with him.
Now he walked down Hurst Street in the city centre, the muted techno thud pounding from the bars and clubs matching his footfall, matching his heartbeat. Plugged into the city, alive with it.
His hand in his pocket all the time, stroking.
He had always done that. Even when he was a boy. If there had been something he found exciting, that obsessed him, he would take it with him wherever he went. Carry it round no matter what he was doing. Especially books. He could remember going clubbing with a copy of Thomas Harris’s Silence of the Lambs in his pocket, taking it out and reading a chapter in the strobe-lit darkness if there was no action happening before him, being transported to a world of serial killers and then looking up, disappointed to find that, no matter who was looking at him, giving him the glad eye, reality was mundane alongside it. Before that it had been Robert Bloch’s Psycho. Sometimes he didn’t read it; just took it out to stare at the lurid cover painting depicting a blood-dripping blade reflecting a pair of mad killer’s eyes. He could stare into those eyes for hours. And had done. Many times.
And now he had the doll. And he couldn’t stop touching her.
He stopped and looked round. Breathing in the smells of stale beer and cheap fried food on the cold night air, feeling the thump and hum of the music penetrate him down to his bones. He was humming with electricity, like an overhead cable. If someone touched him, sparks would fly from his fingertips. If he held someone, pressed his fingers against them, he could burn them. He could incinerate. That was how powerful he felt. He carried life and death within him.
There had been questions afterwards: What was it like? What did it feel like? Was it as good as you thought it would be? And he had answered honestly: No. Shock and surprise had greeted the word. He had continued. It was better.
He stood still. People moved all round him, flowed like a human river. He ignored them. His hand on the doll in his pocket, reliving the experience.
Everything about it had been exquisite. From the time he turned up on her doorstep to leaving with her doll, the whole thing had been perfect. Gentle and loving. Just like they had both agreed. Her smile as she greeted him. Then the foreplay. Then deep, intense loving. Exploring her body. Playing. There was a moment when he thought she would back out, crumble. Not have the courage to go through with what she had agreed to. What she had said she wanted to do. That had angered him. He was ready just to take the blade and slash. See what she made of that. Or rather, what it made of her. But he hadn’t. He had been controlled. He had explained, put her at her ease. And it had all been fine after that.
He had gone to work with the drugs, just as they had agreed. Then the blades. Cutting slowly, expertly. Clinical and precise, like the internet tutorials had shown him, but also tenderly, lovingly. Then the meal. He could still taste it, still summon up the aromas, the flavours. He felt he always would. It was the best thing he had ever eaten.
She had been too weak to eat hers. Despite his best efforts, she had started to slip away. He had placed her where she wanted to be and waited. And watched. Eventually, with a final kiss and a smile for him, she had gone.
But not before she thanked him. For making her dreams become reality.
Something had happened then. At first he had thought it was an illusion, a fantasy. His mind playing tricks on him. But the more he thought about it, the more he decided it was real. When she had finally slipped away, her soul leaving her body, her mouth had opened and out had flown a beautiful, brightly coloured butterfly. He had seen it. And eventually he worked out what it meant. Her body was just the chrysalis, the husk. The butterfly was her beautiful soul, finally freed. And he had done that for her. He had made that happen.
The exquisiteness of the moment had moved him to tears as he cradled the doll in his arms and cried and cried.
Once he had regained control of himself, it had been a simple matter of honouring her wishes, arranging her how she wanted to be left. He should have left then. That was what they had agreed on. But he couldn’t. When he saw her sitting there, the doll in her doll’s house, just like they had both wanted, her perfect apotheosis, he couldn’t bring himself to leave. He just wanted to stay there with her, not let go, cling on to the special time they had spent together, relive every moment.
So he had done. Revisiting the places they had been, reliving the experiences they had shared, eating once more from her plate. And then, when the memories were used up and there was nothing left but the doll before him, he had settled down and slept.
When he woke, it was light and he was still lying on the living room floor. At first he didn’t know where he was or even who he was, but his memory soon returned. Though he didn’t know how long he had been there or what day it was. His first impulse had been to run, but he had stopped himself. That would have been a stupid thing to do. He would wait until dark, then leave as quietly as possible. He looked at the doll. Until then…
When he had left, he had taken the plastic doll with him. He wished he could take the whole doll’s house, put her in her proper place, where she belonged, but it would have attracted too much attention. The neighbours might have thought he was a burglar and called the police. And that was the last thing he wanted.
Once he had left, there hadn’t been a single second he didn’t wish he was back there, reliving the whole experience. He had wanted to climb on to the roof of the tallest building in the city and scream about what he had done, over and over and over. But he hadn’t. Just contented himself with his memories.
For now.
‘Arcadian.’ He blinked and found himself back on Hurst Street once more. The voice that had spoken had been his.
That had been happening more often: zoning out, getting lost in his thoughts and memories, not knowing where he was when he returned. It didn’t worry him. He had just lived through the most extreme, most beautiful experience of his life. Only natural he would want to relive it.
He recognised where he was now. Outside the Arcadian. An apologetically eighties collection of bars, restaurants and clubs, though he knew the real meaning of the word. Of course he did, he wasn’t thick. Arcadian. A resident of Arcadia, the most perfect paradise ever. He smiled. Thought of his doll. She was his Arcadia. He was the Arcadian.
He became aware of men all around him. All shapes, all sizes. All looking for the same thing. Some stopped, their eyes roving up and down his body, smiling, nodding, gesturing. He didn’t return
any of their looks. He had thought coming here would be a good idea. Meet someone, go off with them, feel the friction and burn of their body against his. But the doll in his pocket just reminded him of what he had done. Who he had become. He had the power of life and death. Electricity, not blood, coursed through his body. Compared to those around him, he was a god.
But he had to go somewhere. He didn’t want to go home alone, so he walked, stopped at a pub. The Village Inn was festooned with rainbow banners, a poster on the side advertising it as the city’s number one cabaret venue. There was a long line of airbrushed images beneath, the faces wigged and made-up but none managing to hide the essential masculinity beneath.
None were nearly as beautiful as his doll had been.
Not Arcadian, but they would have to do. It would be like going back to eating kebabs after dining on filet mignon, but he knew that their friction and burn, their pounding, their need to stave off loneliness would be better than nothing. For now.
Caressing the doll once more, he opened the door and went inside.
Singing the body electric.
6
‘D
earie dearie me.’
The pathologist had arrived. She stood at the doorway, suiting up. Tall, slim, long hair pulled back into a ponytail. How apt, thought Phil. By her accent and bearing she seemed more at home on a horse than with a corpse.
She smiled at him. ‘Esme Russell. You must be the new boy.’ She sounded like she had never mispronounced a word in her life.
Phil introduced himself.
‘Welcome aboard.’ She crossed to the body. ‘Now, what have we here…’
‘No one’s touched her,’ said Sperring. ‘Been waiting for you, Esme.’
‘And so you should, Ian, so you should. Right.’ She stood over the body. ‘Dearie me. Something she ate disagreed with her?’
‘You tell us,’ said Sperring.
Crime scenes were always horrific. And those that attended them often hid their revulsion with sardonic gallows humour. The alternative being to break down in tears or throw up. It was something Phil had never subscribed to. Laughing, for whatever reason, disturbed the scene, blocked the signals, the instructions that the ghosts were sending, made them angry. And he didn’t want that. He carried enough angry ghosts around with him already.
‘You boys can run off and busy yourself with whatever it is you boys do.’
Phil shared a look with Sperring, who moved towards the hall. ‘Let’s have a look upstairs,’ he said. ‘We’ll leave you alone, Esme.’
‘Hardly that.’ She turned to the body, already engrossed.
They left the room and started up the stairs. They reached the landing, both treading warily in case they disturbed any potential evidence, hands not touching walls or banister, feet making as little tread as possible. Phil looked out the window. Uniforms were going door to door, talking to neighbours, trying to build up a picture of the mysterious Glenn McGowan. TV vans and journalists were waiting ready to pounce behind the barrier. Phil had to shield his eyes from the glare of the arc lights.
‘Day fourteen in the Big Brother house,’ he said with a terrible Geordie accent.
Sperring didn’t reply.
The redecoration downstairs hadn’t extended upstairs. It was slightly shabby. Clean but not cared for. A typical rental property.
Something on the landing caught Phil’s eye. He knelt down. Studied the carpet. Took his iPhone out, switched on the flashlight.
‘Ian, what d’you think that is?’
Sperring knelt down alongside him. Looked where Phil indicated. The carpet was a nondescript brown, tough and hard-wearing, but dotted about were areas of darker discoloration. The DS unfastened his paper suit, reached into his pocket, took out a pair of reading glasses. Peered at the marks once more.
‘Blood, I reckon,’ he said.
‘Me too,’ said Phil. ‘Let’s get Jo and her team to take a look. Do a luminol test.’
He straightened up, looked round the landing, deciding which room to try first. It was hived off into three bedrooms, each one smaller than the last, and a bathroom.
‘I’ll start here,’ he said, entering the smallest bedroom.
Sperring moved off to one of the others.
The room held a laptop, desk and chair. Some empty shelves on the wall. A racing car calendar had been pinned up. Phil checked the dates. The last entry was 10 December, the previous Friday night. It had a big star scribbled on it. There was nothing planned beyond that.
He left the room, moving into the main bedroom. It had a bed, two side tables and a wardrobe. All in variations of brown and beige. He opened the wardrobe. A couple of suits, some jeans. A few plaid shirts. T-shirts, socks, underwear. An empty canvas holdall on top of the wardrobe. Nothing remarkable. He left the room for the bathroom.
It was small, feeling crowded even with just Phil in there. He looked round. The showerhead was lying in the bath, curled like a long metal snake. There was something around the rim of the tub.
He knelt down, examining it closely. Dried blood. Watered down but not totally washed away. He checked the shower curtain. The same. It had been streaked a pinkish-brown colour in parts. The wall behind the bath too.
Phil felt that familiar tingle. This was the crime scene. He was sure of it.
He stood up again, scrutinised. The bathroom looked clean apart from that. Trying to leave as little trace as possible, he carefully opened the mirrored cabinet on the wall. It was divided in half. On one side was shaving equipment, aftershave. Men’s moisturiser. Toothbrush and mouthwash. On the other side were more feminine things. Make-up. Removing pads. False eyelashes. Depilatory cream. Phil noticed the halves weren’t equal. The female side was fuller, overpowering the male side.
Glenn McGowan hadn’t lived here alone, he thought.
He closed the cabinet door but didn’t move. He’d missed something. He turned, open the door again. Saw it.
Two people, but only one toothbrush.
Maybe she just visits, he thought. Leaves her stuff here. He looked again. Awful lot of stuff…
He closed the cabinet door, left the bathroom.
‘Think I’ve found the crime scene,’ he said to Sperring. ‘Bathroom.’
Sperring nodded. ‘Come and look at this, sir.’
Must be important, thought Phil. The older man had forgotten to be sarcastic.
Sperring was in the middle-sized bedroom. Phil entered. It couldn’t have been more different from the main one. It was a miniature version of the living room. All pinks and frills. Curtains and matching duvet and pillowcases. Pink walls, pink carpet. Sperring was standing by the wardrobe. Phil joined him, eyes widening. It was full of women’s clothes. Dresses, skirts, blouses. Mostly pink and frilly like the dead woman downstairs. But in amongst them were others. Fetish wear. PVC. Rubber. Uniforms. He pulled out the drawers. Lingerie ranging from filmy and wispy to industrial and constraining. Another drawer yielded restraints, bondage material. The bottom drawer held sex toys. Phil took one out, held it. It was a huge black plastic phallus, about the thickness of his forearm.
‘Sex toy,’ said Sperring, clearing his throat.
‘Doesn’t look like there’s much fun involved,’ said Phil. He replaced it, closed the drawer. Turned to Sperring. ‘Well.’
‘Well indeed, sir.’
Esme called them. They made their way downstairs.
‘Looks like we’ve got a deviant sex killer on our hands,’ Phil said to her. ‘We’d better find Glenn McGowan as soon as possible.’
‘That’s why I called you,’ said Esme. ‘I think I have.’
‘Where?’ asked Sperring.
Esme pointed to the body, held up a blonde wig.
‘There,’ she said.
7
‘
D
ear Christ…’ Phil discovered his voice.
‘Indeed,’ said Esme Russell.
Phil looked from the pathologist to the dining table ta
bleau to the blonde wig and back again. ‘But what is…’ Questions formed and fizzed in his brain quicker than he could articulate them.
‘If it’s answers you’re looking for,’ said Esme, ‘then I’ll have to disappoint you. Lot of work to do on this one.’
‘Glenn McGowan…’ Phil took in the scene once more. ‘Transvestite. Murdered while… eating? Or before?’
‘Hard to tell. Of course, it may not be him. He may have done the murdering and run.’
‘Possible,’ said Phil. He thought of the bathroom upstairs. Two identities, one toothbrush. ‘My gut instinct says this is Glenn McGowan. But I’ll keep an open mind.’ He looked again at the artfully arranged body.
‘We’ve got our work cut out for this one,’ said Esme.
‘Yeah… Time of death? Any idea?’
‘He’s been here a few days. The house is cold. Whoever did this turned the heating off before they left. Knew the body would keep longer.’
Phil breathed deeply. ‘How long before you can do the post-mortem?’
Esme shrugged. ‘Week before Christmas? Don’t know what it’s like in your neck of the woods, but it’s our busy time. The lonely and the skint top themselves, hypothermic pensioners freeze to death, binge-drinking teenagers think they’re superheroes… they all come out of the woodwork.’
‘Cameron’s Britain,’ said Phil.
No one answered him. Everyone looked away.
‘Right…’ He felt uncomfortable, reminded once again that he didn’t belong here. ‘So… time scale?’
‘As quick as I can. But…’ Esme gestured to the body, ‘there’s a veritable smorgasbord to be going on with, so don’t expect anything soon.’
‘Smorgasbord. Right.’
‘Including what’s on those plates. But get your boss to bump this up in importance and you’ll have your answers quicker.’
Esme’s eyes twinkled as she turned back to the body. Phil, thinking how all pathologists were the same, made his way out of the house.