by Tania Carver
‘The dead bloke? No, not at all. I’m not usually in the office, Inspector. I’m only here today because your officer told me I could expect a call. I like to do my bit to help our boys in blue. And girls, I suppose. Wouldn’t want to be sexist.’
‘Would anyone here have met him? Spoken to him?’
‘Might have done, but might not. Most of the business is done on the internet these days. See us on a website, click, done and dusted.’ He gave a near-mournful look at the closed laptop.
‘So you deal with mainly residential properties? Commercial?’
‘Mainly residential. Mostly students around the university, Snaresbrook, Balsall Heath, those sorts of places. And contract workers coming into the city on fixed-term leases. Also short-term lets, DSS, asylum-seekers, that kind of thing. Better than a B and B, eh?’
Phil nodded. Old-school slum landlord type, he thought. Straight from Central Casting.
‘The Falcon Close place used to be let to students. Neighbours didn’t like it. So we aimed it more at professional types. Coming here to work, short-term lets, that kind of thing.’
‘How short-term?’
Parsons blew out his cheeks. ‘Depends. Obviously if workers are on a contract we try to be flexible. Take it on a month-by-month basis.’
‘And how long was Glenn McGowan’s tenancy agreement?’
Parsons shrugged. ‘A month? I don’t know. You’d have to check. Ah. Here we are.’
Cheryl appeared with a file of papers. She handed them over to Phil. Again a look passed between her and her boss; again Phil couldn’t read it.
‘Thank you,’ said Phil, standing up. ‘Well if there’s anything more you can tell me about Mr McGowan…’
‘All in there, I should think,’ said Parsons, ‘But you might want to give his wife a ring.’
Phil frowned. ‘His wife? We haven’t tracked down a wife.’
‘She phoned here earlier. Managed to find our number. Needed him to sign something or other. Wanted to know where he was.’
‘And did you tell her?’
Parsons shrugged. ‘Not my job, mate.’
‘Her phone number’s in with the rest of the stuff,’ said Cheryl. She put her finger on top of the file. Phil noticed how well-manicured her nails were. Blood red. She saw him looking and smiled. There was something hungry in the smile. Suddenly she didn’t look so tired after all.
‘I’ll see myself out,’ said Phil.
The bearded man put down his newspaper and watched him go. Phil’s phone rang as he made his way down the concrete staircase. He answered it, stepped into the street. Hurried away in response to what he heard.
Unaware that Cheryl had joined the bearded man watching him at the window.
15
P
hil almost ran into the room. ‘I got here as quick as I could.’
Sperring, sitting on a chair, looked up from reading the Daily Mail. ‘It’s all right. Our pal’s not going anywhere.’ He went back to his paper, ignoring Phil.
Phil stood there trying not to bunch his hands into fists. ‘So what are the findings?’ No response. ‘Obviously if you think it’s more important to find out how gay Kosovan refugee benefit-scroungers are coming to take your job and undermine your way of life, you just keep on reading.’
Sperring gave a last glance at his paper, folded it and stood up. ‘You’re very funny. Sir.’
Phil didn’t rise to it. ‘The post-mortem?’
Sperring, disappointed not to be having a confrontation, said, ‘This way,’ then turned and walked off along the corridor. Phil followed.
The halls of the mortuary were like every other mortuary Phil had been in. Bare and cold. He heard occasional snatches of pop songs and radio jingles as he walked, incongruous bursts of life that just made their surroundings all the more deathly. At least that was how he felt. He had never been comfortable with this aspect of the job.
‘So where were you when I called?’ asked Sperring.
‘I’d just been to the letting agents,’ said Phil.
Sperring grunted.
‘Apparently Glenn McGowan had a wife. We can give her a call when we’ve finished here. I’ve got some files about the house too. Letting agreements, that kind of thing.’
‘Give them to the juniors. Got to earn their keep somehow.’
‘There’s something else,’ said Phil. Sperring didn’t reply. Phil went on. ‘The boss of the letting agency. Something about him. Red flag.’
‘Yeah?’ Sperring couldn’t have sounded more uninterested if he’d tried.
‘Yeah. Name of Ron Parsons.’
Sperring stopped walking. Turned to face Phil. ‘Ron Parsons? You sure? Older guy, suit and braces type. Trilby.’
‘There was a trilby hanging up in the office. He was wearing the braces.’
‘Jesus bloody Christ. There’s a name from Jurassic times. Ron bloody Parsons.’
‘Who is he?’
Sperring opened his mouth as if about to tell all. Before he could, something flitted across his eyes. ‘Long story. All you need to know is Ron Parsons is as bent as bloody fuck.’
Before Phil could say anything else, Sperring stopped in front of a heavy industrial rubber and plastic door. ‘Through here.’ He opened it, and let it fall back on to Phil as he walked through. Phil managed to catch it before it connected with his face. He followed Sperring into the room.
White-tiled walls, angled cement floor with drainage channels and gratings. Stainless-steel body-shaped beds. And on several of the beds were plastic-sheet-covered bodies. The cutting room.
Esme Russell, wearing her blood-smeared work clothes, entered from her office at the far end of the room. ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ she said, smiling.
‘Very cheerful,’ said Sperring.
‘That’s because you’re here, handsome,’ she said, laughing.
Sperring, Phil noticed, reddened.
She turned to Phil. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘have we got something interesting for you.’
‘Good interesting or bad interesting?’ asked Phil.
‘Depends what you make of it. Come on.’ She walked along the rows of bodies, coming to a stop before the final one in the row. ‘I bumped this up. I know I said I couldn’t, road accidents and all that, but once I’d got it back here and taken a good look, I thought I’d better.’
‘Why?’ asked Phil.
She pulled the sheet back. ‘See for yourself.’
16
T
he Arcadian had tried to make the doll feel at home. It wasn’t the same as where she had been, that beautiful doll’s house he had taken her from, but he had tried his best with what he could afford. He put love into it. And he had to admit, he was pleased with the result.
The house was plastic, cheap, the furniture likewise. He had spent the morning in Toys R Us and going round charity shops until he had enough. The furniture didn’t match but it was mostly pink, which was important. Hers had been pink. It wasn’t pristine like hers had been: some of it was old and worn, chewed-looking in parts, but he tried to ignore that. The walls were pink. And the doll looked happy in there, like she belonged. That was the main thing.
He stood staring at her. For how long, he didn’t know. He zoned out. He had heard that builders did that, stood and admired the work they had done. Not looking at any part of it in particular, just staring. Seeing it, seeing through it. That was what he was doing.
He imagined that she was talking to him, telling him about her life. Thanking him for putting her in the house, not letting her go. He remembered the butterfly he had seen when she had died, beautiful, iridescent, and then the smile on the doll’s face. He knew what had happened. It was so obvious. She was thanking him in that smile. And telling him something else: Take the doll. Give her a home. She’s me now. And she’s yours. I’m yours.
She sat at her chewed table, teacup in hand, smile etched permanently in plastic. Perfect.
He shook his head, blinked. I
t brought him back to reality.
The previous night came to mind. And the elation he had felt at placing the doll in her house escaped out of him. He had entered the bar wanting to make contact. The friction of flesh, the frisson of fucking, the release. He knew he wouldn’t recapture the high he had experienced with the doll, all smiles and butterflies and pure Arcadian pleasure, but he had to try. Or at least settle for the next best thing.
He had stood in the bar, hand in his pocket stroking the doll’s beautiful blonde hair, looking round. The men were all shapes and sizes, but he felt they had one thing in common: they were staring at him. At first he didn’t like that, felt naked, exposed. But he gradually became accustomed to it, drew strength from it, even. It gave him the power to choose.
Except there was no one there he wanted to choose.
The drag artist was up on stage, miming to some old pop song, and the audience were whooping it up. But the Arcadian didn’t like it. The drag queen was doing the actions to the lyrics in the song, but not very well. She overexaggerated any subtlety the song had, telegraphing her gestures as if she wanted them to be seen several miles away. Her make-up matched her actions. Like a Kabuki or Noh actor. Not like a genuine woman. Not like his doll.
He smiled to himself. Oh yes. He knew Kabuki, he knew Noh. He wasn’t thick. He was an educated man. Educated.
There was nothing the drag queen had that he wanted. He checked the others at the bar. Men made up as women. He stared at them. Imagined his doll in their place. Imagined doing to them what he had done to his doll. Getting them alone, loving them for what they were, then showing them how they could be so much more. Giving them their dream. Taking out his knives and sculpting them into real women. He imagined doing that to all of them. Each and every one. Just standing there, staring. His hand in his pocket caressing the doll, his other hand sculpting with a non-existent knife.
That was what they all wanted, he told himself. The Arcadian to work his magic on them. That was what they were all there for, why they had come out for the night. Secretly they wanted to meet him, have him take them home. Make them into the best they could be. And maybe they didn’t realise it. Maybe he had to show them. Give them what they wanted, what was best for them. Even if he had to subdue them, tie them up in order to do it. They would thank him for doing it. All of them.
He had stared at them so long, his imagination working all the while, that he zoned out again. When he blinked himself back to reality he was aware that the drags weren’t looking at him any more. In fact they were looking anywhere but at him. He became aware of his hand in his pocket pressed against the doll, the doll rubbing his erection through his trousers. That must have been the reason why. He didn’t care. But he couldn’t stay there. So he had left the bar, gone home.
And that was when he thought of the idea of his own doll’s house.
Now he sat, curtains closed against the harsh winter daylight, staring at his doll’s house. It was perfect. The doll, the house, everything. He was amazed he hadn’t thought of it earlier. Small and controllable, yet also noticeable. But something about that wasn’t right. Something didn’t fit. He stared again at the house, trying to work out what it was. And then he had it. So obvious he didn’t know how he hadn’t thought of it earlier.
There was only one doll.
She was lonely. She needed company. Someone to talk to. Someone for him to talk to. He had to plan ahead. Work out who she would like to live with her. The house could become a diary. Each doll a memento of his work. Yet more than that: a repository for the butterfly. A home for souls. With him all the time. He could talk to them, listen to them. Live with them.
He sighed, crossed his legs. Pondered.
What to do about it, what to do…
He could go back to the bars again, like he had done last night. Entice a drag home and set to work.
Maybe. But that didn’t appeal so much. Part of the fun in creating the doll had been the build-up, the anticipation. The preparation. He was ready to do another one, no doubt. But he would have to do it right. Picking up someone random held too many variables. All he could see was the ways it could go wrong.
No. He had to do it better than that.
He thought some more.
The answer came to him. So simple. So perfect.
He looked at the doll in her house and smiled. ‘Not long now,’ he said. ‘You’re going to have some company…’
17
T
he body on the stainless-steel table was almost unrecognisable from the one Phil had seen in the house the night before. It had been wiped clean of make-up, the nail varnish removed from the fingers and toes. The face held none of its previous doll-like features. It had bloated up purple, the eyes and tongue protruding. The bloating was spreading to the rest of the body.
‘I had to start quickly,’ Esme said. ‘The house was so cold – on purpose, I expect – that it had preserved the body to a degree. But as soon as we moved it and a change of air hit it, it began to putrefy. Stage two now. We’ve managed to stabilise it in here, but the damage has been done, I’m afraid.’
‘What have you got, then?’ asked Phil. ‘Time of death?’
‘Difficult to say because of the cold. The body’s decomposition has been deliberately slowed.’
‘Why?’ asked Sperring.
‘Either to stop us guessing when it was done,’ said Phil. ‘Or…’
‘Or what?’ said Sperring.
‘Or there’s another reason we haven’t discovered yet.’
‘Well,’ said Esme, ‘that’s your job. I’d put time of death – and remember, this is only a guess – at somewhere in the last two weeks.’
‘You can’t be more specific than that?’
‘I can run some more tests, see what shows up, but it’ll take time. The cold’s stopped the decomposition.’
‘If we trace the victim’s movements, come back with a timeline, could you fit it around that?’
‘I should think so.’
‘Good. What else have you got?’
‘Well.’ Esme shook her head, continued speaking with an enthusiasm Phil found slightly disturbing. ‘There is so much going on here that you could give this body to trainees and students. If they spotted everything they’d all get A stars.’ Another smile. ‘Lucky for you boys I did get an A star.’
They waited for her to go on.
‘Where to start? Lividity. Good a place as any. He died in the chair we found him in. But the injuries leading to his death were done elsewhere.’
‘And the body was moved,’ said Sperring.
‘Indeed. And judging by the fact that there is no evidence of shifting lividity –the blood hadn’t started to gather anywhere in his body before he sat down – I’d say he was still alive when he got to the chair. But his blood levels are well down.’
‘Cause of death?’ asked Sperring.
Esme pointed to the mutilated area in the corpse’s groin. Discoloration had given it the appearance of rancid mince. There was nothing left to identify it as human. It was almost desensitising to look at. Esme’s words provided the right context. ‘That. Mutilation. His genitals were removed. There’s no evidence of cauterisation, so we can assume that the resulting blood loss would have led to his death.’
‘Signs of sexual activity?’ asked Phil.
Esme gestured to the mutilation. ‘Be my guest. If you think you can find anything. Whoever this was has done a very thorough job.’
‘Professional?’
Esme frowned. ‘I don’t think so. But a very enthusiastic amateur.’
Phil glanced at Sperring. From the look on his face, he guessed the older copper was wishing he was still sitting down the corridor with his Daily Mail.
‘We had a look in the bathroom in the house,’ said Phil. ‘The CSIs are still checking it out but we think that’s where the mutilation was done.’
Esme nodded. ‘Very probably. But that still throws up some questions.’
&
nbsp; ‘Was the victim conscious when this was done to him?’
‘The first question. And a very good one, Ian.’
Phil glanced at Sperring once more and was surprised to find him blushing again.
‘The answer is yes. As far as I can make out, the victim was fully aware this was being done.’
‘What about painkillers, anything like that?’
‘We won’t get the tox reports back for a few days, so we won’t know. But judging from the look of some of those internal organs, the shape of the liver, I’d say there was something in his body. Just not sure what yet.’
‘Something to induce paralysis?’ said Phil. ‘If the killer wanted him alive when this was done, as seems likely, then maybe look for traces of, I don’t know, Rohypnol? Something like that. I’m not trying to tell you your job, Esme, I’m just attempting to get my head round this.’
‘As are we all. No offence taken. Obviously I’ve asked for that to be done.’
‘Thank you. We think that after the mutilation in the bathroom he was taken downstairs,’ said Phil. ‘We found cleaned-up blood on the floor.’
‘The perpetrator was strong, then. Must have had to carry him.’
‘So let’s get this straight,’ said Sperring. ‘He was chopped about upstairs in the bathroom, then brought downstairs and sat at the dining room table. All when he was alive and dressed like a…’
‘Doll,’ said Phil.
Sperring shook his head.
‘That’s about the size of it,’ said Esme.
‘Anything else?’ asked Sperring. Phil noticed he was turning as pale as the wall tiles.
Esme’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh yes.’
‘I don’t like the way you said that,’ said Phil.
She laughed, slightly embarrassed. ‘I don’t get out much. Please forgive me. When you mostly deal with drunks and car crash victims as I do, being given something like this is like Christmas.’