by Tania Carver
The street was cordoned off, the outer barrier keeping prying eyes away. Reporters had gathered beyond that point, telephoto lenses in position, waiting for one of the team to give something up. Beside them, members of the public craned their necks to see what was going on. Unable to believe how their own unremarkable street had become the focus of something so dramatic. Phil had been at the centre of enough crime scenes to know what they would be experiencing. And it would be conflicting: horror at discovering that the place they had regarded as a safe haven was just as terrifying as the places they imagined they were seeking refuge from; relief that it was happening to one of their neighbours and not themselves. And the illicit thrill of vicarious deviancy, as they wished for the crime to be the most depraved, salacious and titillating they could imagine because it made for better gossip. Phil had seen enough to know that the imagination of the general public was something to be very frightened of. Because that was who he cleaned up after every day.
As he was removing the blue paper suit, Sperring came alongside him.
‘What now? Sir?’
‘Now?’ echoed Phil. ‘We plan what we’re going to do next.’ He shivered, flapped his arms about him, but it was no good. He could feel the cold penetrating through his clothes, right down to his bones. ‘But not here,’ he said. ‘Too bloody cold.’
‘I know somewhere,’ said Sperring.
He walked towards the barrier. The crowd parted for him. Phil bobbed along in his wake.
8
J
ust over five minutes later, Phil was sitting in the lounge of the Edgbaston Tap, an old, low, sixties red-brick box of a pub on which a contemporary facelift had been attempted. Phil didn’t care about the decor. He was just pleased to be somewhere warm.
On entering, Sperring had taken charge. He had flashed his warrant card to the landlord, asking for privacy and for any journalists to be kept away. A couple of uniforms were standing by the door to do just that. Phil, again, hadn’t challenged him.
He sat down with Sperring and a very pale-looking Khan. His new team. He felt their eyes on him. Still sizing him up, still – in Sperring’s case, at least – finding him lacking. He had to win them over. He had to inspire. He had to lead.
‘OK,’ he said, huddling with them round the table, ‘let’s gather, let’s pool. I like my team to put together their first impressions while they’re still fresh in our minds. It’s the way I’ve always worked. I’ve found it helpful.’
Phil noticed that Sperring’s eyebrows had risen at the mention of the words my team. Khan looked between the pair of them, seemingly wanting to go along with Phil but glancing at Sperring as if waiting for the older man to give him the go-ahead.
Sperring gave an almost imperceptible nod. Phil noticed.
‘DC Khan,’ he said. ‘You first.’
Khan took out his notebook. ‘House-to-house hasn’t given us much yet. Most people didn’t even know there was someone living there. They saw someone moving stuff in, carpets and that, but thought it was being rented again.’
‘He must have decorated,’ said Phil. ‘Thought everything looked new.’
‘Apparently it was rented to students before that, but the neighbours complained about the noise. Gated community an’ all that, so the letting agency said they’d only rent to professional people in future.’
‘And Glenn McGowan was a professional man?’
‘City Lets had references for him from his employer,’ said Sperring.
Phil remembered the Christmas card. ‘Allard Tec?’
Sperring checked his notes, nodded.
‘We’ll talk to them. Coventry, according to the Christmas card. We’ll also need to look into his background, friends, colleagues. And we’d better do a check with prisons and hostels, see if any known deviants have recently moved into the area.’
‘Apart from McGowan, you mean?’ Khan laughed. Sperring’s mouth lifted, eyes twinkled.
‘Very funny. We still have to make sure it’s him. And there were other Christmas cards in the house,’ said Phil. ‘We need to find out who they were from. How well they knew him, what their relationship was. He must have given an address when he rented the house; the letting agents should have that. We’ve got to find out everything about him, get some lever into his background. Also those DVDs by the TV.’
Khan gave a snort. ‘Not the only TV in there, was it?’
‘Hilarious,’ said Phil, his face demonstrating that it wasn’t. ‘The DVDs. The home-made-looking ones. They had no labels, no names. Also the laptop in the box room. See what that can tell us. He’s a man of mystery.’
‘We’ll set up a mobile incident room in the street, keep the door-to-door going,’ said Sperring. ‘Someone might come forward. I’ll get the techies to check on local CCTV as well. Car number plates, see if anything’s been recognised.’
‘Elli’s got some new computer software thing she wants to try,’ said Khan. ‘Some Venn diagram thing.’
‘Elli’s the team’s resident geek,’ said Sperring, his tone of voice showing his opinion.
‘Every team’s got one,’ said Phil. ‘Let’s see if we can identify some kind of pattern to his life, where he went, what he did, who he knew.’
‘If he liked dressing up,’ said Khan, ‘he’ll be down Hurst Street.’
‘What’s there?’ asked Phil.
‘Gay quarter,’ said Sperring, voice neutral. ‘Bars and clubs. Every city has one.’ Stressing the word city, reminding Phil he only came from a town.
Khan giggled. ‘Bender Central. Shirtlifters’ paradise.’
Sperring’s lips curled in amusement. Phil’s didn’t.
‘If that’s the case, we might need someone to go round those bars, see if our victim was known there. I don’t condone homophobia on my team, DC Khan, so I wouldn’t laugh if I were you, because going down there might be your job.’
Khan stopped laughing. Sperring’s face was unreadable.
‘There’s something else,’ said Phil. ‘Something we haven’t mentioned.’
‘What?’ said Khan, his voice betraying a sulky edge.
‘The doll’s house,’ said Phil.
‘So what?’ said Khan, masking his anger at Phil’s earlier words. ‘It’s a doll’s house. The bloke liked to dress up as a girl. Probably liked playing with girls’ toys as well. Bet he’s got a bedroom full of Barbies.’
‘He’s got toys up there,’ said Sperring, smiling unpleasantly, ‘but they’re a bit more grown up than Barbies. Bit bigger, too.’
Khan laughed. ‘Saw that. Take it down Hurst Street with me. Might open a few mouths.’
‘Open more than a few mouths,’ said Sperring.
He and Khan laughed, heads back, cackling. The laughter died away. Sperring looked at Phil, who hadn’t joined in. His eyes were hard, challenging. Khan’s eyes jumped away, wouldn’t meet Phil’s.
Phil held Sperring’s gaze, unblinking. He knew he shouldn’t, knew he should rise above what his junior officer was doing, but he couldn’t help it. He had to put him in his place.
‘Do you have a problem with me being in charge, DS Sperring?’
Sperring kept his face impassive. ‘Me, sir? No, sir.’
‘Good. Because we have to work together here. This case is the very definition of what the Major Investigation Unit should be dealing with, so we’re going to be in the goldfish bowl. We have to get a result. And the only way we’re going to do that is if we pull together and respect the chain of command. Are we all agreed on that?’
‘Absolutely, sir.’
‘Good,’ said Phil. ‘As long as we’re all clear.’
The other two nodded. Phil looked round the room, breathing hard. While his head was angled away from them, he felt Khan smile. He was sure Sperring had winked at him.
‘The doll’s house,’ said Phil, turning back. ‘Did you look inside?’
Khan shook his head. Sperring nodded.
‘A perfect copy of the living room of t
he house. But no doll.’
Sperring shrugged. ‘So?’
‘So that’s a massive clue. That’s telling us something.’
‘What?’ asked Khan.
‘I don’t know,’ said Phil. ‘That’s what we have to find out. It’s not random, not accidental. It was there for a reason. We have to find that reason.’
‘There was no doll,’ Sperring repeated.
‘No,’ said Phil. ‘Either… I don’t know, maybe the victim thought one wasn’t needed, he was going to take the place of it himself.’
‘Maybe the killer took it with him,’ said Khan.
‘Very good,’ said Phil. ‘Maybe he did.’
Sperring leaned forward, eyes lit by amusement. ‘Maybe we should bring in a psychologist, sir. Know any good ones?’
He’s read my file, thought Phil. He knows about my wife, what she does. He felt angry at that.
‘I do, yes,’ he said. ‘I know an excellent one. And if we need her, we’ll call her. We could also do with a couple more officers, too.’
Sperring’s face was once again impassive. ‘Belt-tightening, sir. We all have to do more with less, as our masters tell us.’
‘And you know that’s bullshit,’ said Phil. ‘We’ll just end up doing less with less. But in the meantime, we’ve all got jobs to do. So let’s go and do them.’
They rose from the table, Sperring and Khan leaving first.
Phil breathed deeply. Wished he had his old team alongside him.
And his wife.
9
‘
O
K?’
Marina Esposito turned, barely able to make out the other person’s voice over the din in the restaurant. It seemed to be one large Christmas party, the diners mostly drunk or on the way, the waiting staff stretching their smiles. Joy Henry was sitting on Marina’s left, glass of wine halfway to her lips, a smile of concern on her slightly flushed face.
‘Yeah,’ said Marina, looking at her own glass of wine in front of her, wondering whether it was half full or half empty. ‘Fine.’
‘They’re a good bunch, aren’t they?’ said Joy, continuing before Marina could answer. ‘Friendly.’ She leaned in closer, the wine taking her balance away slightly. ‘Not stuck up like some of them lecturers can get. Especially psychologists.’ She took another mouthful of wine. ‘Not you, obviously.’
Marina didn’t take offence, just sipped her own wine. San Marco was an upscale Italian restaurant in Birmingham’s city centre. Mostly popular with – if the photos on the walls were any indication – footballers and their WAGs plus visiting actors, it was tonight playing host to the Birmingham University psychology department’s Christmas party.
Noise levels were rising as people graduated from cocktails to first, or even second, glasses of wine. School was out for everyone in the restaurant, and the coming of Christmas just heightened the feeling of escape as the alcohol reddened faces and dissolved inhibitions.
The end of Marina’s first term working in Birmingham. She had enjoyed it more than she thought she would. The city was still familiar enough for her to know her way around but different enough to give her the frisson of being somewhere new. Ghosts had been laid. Time had healed. For the most part.
Occasionally she would find herself walking along a street, admiring the new buildings, getting lost in the architecture, then turn a corner and be punched by a memory from her past that had been waiting to ambush her. The feeling would soon go but leave ripples, echoes within her. Reminders that she would never fully be rid of her past.
But the work had engrossed her. She hadn’t realised how much she had missed it. Teaching, meeting students, chatting with fellow academics. And all in a safe, controlled environment. Part of her missed the thrill of police work, but doing this her life wasn’t in danger, she didn’t work every day and she got home at night to see her husband and daughter. She found it a trade-off worth making.
And she enjoyed the company of her colleagues, had even made friends with one or two. Joy, the departmental administrator, had steered her well. Given her the lowdown on who to talk to and who to avoid. Marina had thought at first that she would feel, to borrow a phrase Phil often used, like Jimi Hendrix in the Beatles, but they all seemed fine.
As if on cue, her phone trilled. A text. She checked it:
Out on a murder case. Could be a late one. Josephina’s still with Eileen. Don’t wait up. Hope you have a good night. Love You. Pxxx
She texted back:
Love you too. XXX
A murder case. And there it was, that familiar thrill. Get in there, find out what had happened, who had done what and why. She took another sip of wine. Let it go, she thought. Not my concern any more.
‘That your husband?’ asked Joy, turning away from a young, handsome PhD student she had been chatting to.
Marina nodded. ‘On a case. Be home late.’
Joy’s eyes widened. ‘Exciting.’
Marina shrugged, trying to play it down. ‘Not really. Just work.’
Joy was still looking at her. Marina knew the look, had expected something like this. Everyone in the department knew her background but no one had asked about it. This must be it, she thought. The night the inhibitions come down and I’m expected to fill them all in on what they read in the papers and saw on the news.
Suddenly she wasn’t enjoying herself so much.
At that moment, the empty seat the other side of her was abruptly filled. Marina turned.
‘This seat taken? Thought not.’
The man’s voice was deep, resonant. Trace of an accent she couldn’t immediately place. She took him in. Tall, his hair longer than was fashionable, but he managed to pull it off, sweeping it back and letting it hang down. His chin and cheeks had matching stubble. He was one step short of medallion man, his shirt open at least one button too many, his jacket expensive and designer but creased. Like he was used to the best but didn’t have to make an effort with it. As she opened her mouth, he smiled at her. And that was when she noticed how beautiful his eyes were. Deep green, like sparkling wooded pools on a summer’s day. Even without Joy’s introduction, she knew who he was.
‘Don’t think we’ve met,’ he said, extending a hand. ‘Hugo Gwilym.’ His voice was commanding, authoritative. The hint of accent she hadn’t been able to identify she now spotted as Welsh. He was used to being listened to, like a politician or a mesmerist.
She found herself taking his hand. ‘Marina Esposito.’
‘Oh, I know who you are,’ he said, shaking her hand lightly. The gesture was a very sensual one. ‘I know all about you.’ Another smile. His eyes crinkled appealingly at the edges. She saw the shots of grey hair in amongst the black. It gave him a rakish, piratical air.
Marina felt herself reddening. She was aware of Joy’s eyes on her. ‘Oh,’ she said, then mentally chastised herself because she couldn’t come up with anything better than that.
Hugo Gwilym. Marina had heard of him but not met him until now. The star of the department, of the university even, a psychologist who had parlayed an academic career into a media one. He had started writing articles for specialist journals, then hopped up to the broadsheets. Courted by publishers, he had brought out a couple of pop cultural psychology books. They in turn opened the door to TV interviews, which he finessed into regular appearances as a talking head on news and cultural programmes. He had even been a guest panellist on Have I Got News For You. He was ambitious, controversial and famous. And if the campus rumours were true, enjoying everything that fame brought.
Marina had read his work. She hated it. Disagreed with every point he made. A controversialist, a populist, a cynic.
But, close up, with lovely eyes.
He smiled again, reached for the wine bottle, filled up her empty glass.
She put her hand out to cover it. ‘No, I’m —’
‘We’re here to enjoy ourselves. Don’t worry.’ He leaned forward. ‘Mind, out with this lot you need to d
rink as much as you can.’ He sat back. Looked at her. ‘The famous Marina Esposito. Been looking forward to meeting you.’
‘Famous?’ She felt herself reddening again. ‘I’m not the one with the media career.’
‘True.’ He took a mouthful of wine, closing his eyes as he swallowed, making even that gesture seem sensual. The wine gone, he opened his eyes once more, fixed them on Marina. ‘But you’ve got the experiences. First hand. You’ve lived what I just write.’
‘Believe me,’ she said, taking a drink without realising, ‘I would have been happier to have just written about it.’
He waved his hand, dismissively. ‘Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, and all those old clichés.’
‘I don’t believe that,’ she said.
‘No?’
‘No. Whatever doesn’t kill you might not make you stronger. It might harden you. But it’s more likely to weaken you. And probably kill you eventually. Slowly.’
He gave her another crinkly-eyed smile. ‘I’m glad I made the effort to turn up now. I like a woman with spirit.’
Oh fuck off, she thought, and turned away from him. She felt a restraining hand on her forearm. She turned back.
‘Everyone has the right to die. Everyone has the right to choose their own death, to determine it, don’t you agree?’
‘That’s the shittest chat-up line I’ve ever heard.’
He put back his head and laughed. Then looked at her, green eyes alive. ‘My new book. I’m researching it at the moment. Voluntary euthanasia. I believe it’s morally wrong to punish those who want to die. And those who assist them shouldn’t be found guilty of murder. I’m sure you agree.’
‘Are you?’
He leaned in closer. ‘My research has thrown up some fascinating stuff. Really fascinating. Stuff you wouldn’t believe. I didn’t.’ His eyes locked with hers. ‘I’d really like your opinion on it. Really.’
Marina was dark-haired and olive-skinned, her Italian roots showing in her features. She dressed well and, in her late thirties, had a good figure. She had seen off more than her fair share of unwelcome attention over the years, and was about to do the same to Hugo Gwilym. But something in the intensity of his words, his gaze, made her stop.