The Doll's House

by Tania Carver

  ‘OK. Good. Look, you took that glass illegally, so it might not be admissible in court. But we’ll find a way to get him. Don’t worry. Hang in there. I won’t be long.’

  She rang off.

  Marina put the phone down. Sat down.

  Maybe she would have that coffee after all.

  73

  D

  etective Constable Patsy Yardley had had enough. And it was still early morning.

  She pulled the hood of her anorak tight round her head, looked along the towpath that stretched from the back of the Mailbox all the way past the Gasworks Basin, right to the Sea Life Centre, and wished, not for the first time that morning, that she was still in bed.

  ‘Think of the overtime,’ said her partner, Detective Constable Pam Chapman.

  ‘Normally I would. But that’s not much compensation this time.’

  ‘Think of the glamour, then.’

  Patsy ignored her partner, kept walking along the towpath. The rain battering them. Patsy could barely see through her glasses. Both of them wore padded anoraks to keep out the cold and the wet, and they were glad of them. But there was another reason Patsy was glad she was dressed like that. It made her look as sexless as possible.

  They had been given the task of tracking down violent sex offenders from the list that Elli had generated. The two they had visited the night before could be struck off the list. One was morbidly obese – nowhere near a match for the photo – and also a ponytailed biker. He protested that he shouldn’t have been on the sex offenders register, that it was all a mistake. He’d been stitched up by someone from a rival gang. Been set up with an underage girl who lied about her age. That was all. And yeah, he’d been violent. But only to the person who’d set him up. Wouldn’t you be the same?

  But all the time he was talking to them, proclaiming his innocence, Patsy had been aware of him trying to mentally undress her. Aware of something dark and twisted lurking inside him. They questioned him about Glenn McGowan. From his answers, whatever else he might have been, they knew he wasn’t involved. Another one off the list.

  The next one had been getting ready to go on a date. Pam had asked him who with. He became cagey, reticent. When she persisted, he became angry. They knew he had done time for child abuse and spousal abuse. He was a predator, a planner. He played the long game, insinuated himself in the life of a single mother, got to know her, moved in on her kids. Got them where he wanted them, then started to have his fun. He had nothing to do with the murder of Glenn McGowan. They were sure of that. But they did make a note to check up on him, find out who he was seeing. They didn’t want him to repeat his patterns of offending. They didn’t want him to find a new victim.

  They kept walking along the towpath.

  ‘Is it much further?’ asked Pam from beneath her hood.

  ‘Are we there yet? Are we there yet?’ Patsy replied in a childlike, sing-song voice, mocking her.

  ‘Piss off.’ Pam walked faster. Eager to get it over with. ‘Where’s this next one?’ she added. ‘Wouldn’t want to miss it.’

  ‘King Edward’s Wharf,’ Patsy replied. ‘Just along here.’

  ‘Always fancied a houseboat,’ said Pam. ‘Something romantic about them. You know, pootling along, parking up here and there, some handsome lock keeper wearing an Aran sweater looking like Liam Neeson popping up to help you…’

  ‘You’d never be able to stand upright, Pam. You’re nearly six foot. Get real.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And your lock keeper might be wearing an Aran sweater, but he’ll look sod all like Liam Neeson. More like Brian Blessed.’

  ‘Yeah, all right. It was just a little fantasy, that’s all.’

  They reached King Edward’s Wharf. A block of new flats contrasting with the brightly painted houseboats moored below.

  ‘Which one is it?’

  Patsy checked her list. ‘Along here.’

  They walked along the side of the wharf, counting the berths. The houseboat chimneys were smoking, roofs steaming where the rain hit and met the warmth from inside them. Patsy had to admit they did look nice and cosy. But then anywhere would on a day like this.

  ‘Here it is.’ Pam stopped walking. The berth they wanted was on the opposite side of the flats. It was next to a set of crumbling Portakabins, fenced off from the path by a sad-looking mesh barrier. In contrast to the rest of the well-maintained wharf, the path here was covered in weeds and rubbish. The boat matched its surroundings. It wasn’t as old as the other houseboats but it was in much worse condition. Rotting and rusting, its roof and walls mildewed and leaking. Curling gaffer tape had been used to temporarily patch up holes that were now letting in water. Its windows were rattling and ill-fitting.

  The two women shared a glance.

  ‘Someone lives here?’ asked Pam. ‘Looks like it’s ready to sink.’

  ‘Let’s get it over with, then,’ said Patsy. ‘What’s the name?’

  ‘Scott Sheriff,’ said Pam, looking once again at the list. ‘Let’s get this done and go and find a café on Broad Street. I’m soaked through.’

  Patsy put her hand on the door to knock. It was open.

  They exchanged another glance.

  ‘Mr Sheriff?’ she called. ‘Hello?’

  No reply.

  ‘Mr Sheriff?’ she called again. ‘It’s Detective Constable Yardley and Detective Constable Chapman, West Midlands Police. Could we have a word, please?’

  Nothing.

  Another shared glance.

  ‘We’re coming in, Mr Sheriff, just want to see that everything is OK…’

  Patsy pushed open the door and immediately recoiled. The smell coming from inside complemented the exterior completely. ‘Jesus…’

  She stepped inside. And hurriedly came out again.

  ‘What… what’s the matter? What’s there?’

  ‘Call it in,’ said Patsy. ‘We’ve got a body.’

  74

  ‘

  L

  oads?’ That wasn’t the answer Phil had been expecting.

  Trotter allowed himself a small smile. Gotcha, it said.

  ‘Why are there so many?’

  Trotter was immediately cagey again. ‘Can’t say.’

  ‘Yes you can. Or I’ll think you’re making the whole thing up and charge you with the murder of Glenn McGowan.’

  Trotter sat back in his chair. Puffed out his cheeks, his lips. Leaned forward again. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Here’s the thing. If I tell you what you want to know, about the tattoos and that, I want something in return.’

  ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘Immunity.’

  Phil frowned. ‘From what?’

  ‘Everything. Immunity from everything you could do to me with what I tell you. And everything they could do.’

  Phil looked directly at him. There was no one else in the room. The interview wasn’t being recorded. Someone from the team might be listening in, but he didn’t think that was a problem. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Immunity. Talk to me.’

  Trotter nodded in acknowledgement. ‘It’s a club.’

  ‘I know that much,’ said Phil.

  Trotter looked upset. ‘How?’

  ‘The thing on your arm. It’s the kind of stamp you’d get in a club. It must mean something special; you haven’t washed it off. And you’ve inked over it.’

  Trotter looked aggrieved. ‘But you don’t know what kind of club, do you?’

  ‘A fetish club,’ said Phil. ‘Something like that. Loads of them around.’

  ‘Not like this one,’ said Trotter, the darkness dancing in his eyes.

  ‘What’s so special about this one, then?’

  Trotter leaned forward, arms on the table. ‘It’s extreme. Extreme passions. Extreme behaviour.’

  ‘Right,’ said Phil. ‘So it’s an extreme fetish club. Big deal.’

  Trotter slammed his hand down on the table, anger in his eyes. ‘You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Think you know it a
ll? You know nothing.’

  Phil leaned in to him, eyes unflinching. ‘Then make me understand.’

  Trotter nodded. ‘There’s loads of clubs around. Fetish, BDSM, whatever. Some of them call themselves extreme. But they’re not. None of them. It’s just dressing up. They’re safe places with safe words in safe environments. Mutual respect. What’s extreme about that?’

  ‘So how is this place different?’

  Trotter gave a sickly smile. ‘It’s the opposite. No safe words. And it’s definitely not a safe place. You go there, you take the consequences. If you’ve got passions that you can’t control, that need an outlet, crave an outlet, that’s where you go.’

  ‘Passions?’

  ‘Kinks. Desires. Dreams. Whatever. Not your run-of-the-mill shit. You like being beaten up, enjoy inflicting pain, dress up as a woman or a baby, there’s places for you. But this is if your thing’s further on than that.’

  ‘And what happens there? What d’you do?’

  ‘Anything to anyone. And fuck the consequences. Because there aren’t any. Might not even be consensual. Might not even be with adults.’

  ‘What, rape? Murder?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘Then you’d be arrested.’

  Trotter shook his head slowly. When he spoke, it was as if he was explaining something to a very simple child. ‘You’re not listening. There are no consequences. Nothing will happen to you. You’re perfectly safe. The law doesn’t apply.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe,’ said Phil.

  Trotter shrugged. ‘Believe what you like. I’m telling you the truth.’

  ‘So where is this club?’

  ‘Digbeth. In an old factory. The place looks derelict from the outside. But it’s not. Got a big red door. Can’t miss it.’

  ‘Street?’ asked Phil.

  Trotter shrugged. ‘Dunno. I’ll draw you a map.’

  Phil kept going. ‘How do people find out about it?’

  ‘All over the place. Fetish events, word of mouth, internet forums, wherever. Some are invited along, some enquire. They all know the score. But the club’s very choosy. They don’t take just anyone.’

  ‘When’s it open?’

  ‘Whenever. There’s always something going on there. Like I said, it’s not like a nightclub. It’s where people go when they want something. And somebody always wants something.’

  ‘Who runs it? Who owns it?’

  ‘He’s called Ben, bloke in charge,’ said Trotter. ‘All I know.’

  Phil felt a jolt of electricity jump through him at the name. He opened his manila folder once more. Took out a couple of photos, slid them across. Screen grabs of Glenn McGowan as Amanda having sex with the person who called himself Ben. ‘Is this Ben?’

  Trotter looked at the photos. Phil watched Trotter. ‘Might be.’

  ‘This tattoo,’ said Phil, pointing to a blown-up photo. ‘Like yours. But real.’

  The words made Trotter angry, as Phil had intended. ‘I’ll get one soon enough.’

  I doubt that, thought Phil. He continued. ‘What’s behind the tattoos, then? You get a stamp like yours if you’re… what? A newbie, or something?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Trotter. ‘Then you work your way up.’

  ‘Why a tattoo?’ asked Phil. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘Like I said. People go there to do things they can’t do anywhere else. You’ve got to have insurance. The tattoo’s a reminder. Of what you’ve done, what you owe the club. The deal you made. You keep quiet, the club keeps quiet. Loyalty. Then there’s the next level,’ said Trotter.

  ‘Next level?’

  Trotter nodded. ‘The brand. That’s for the hardcore, the real elite.’

  ‘So what d’you have to do to get one of them?’ asked Phil.

  ‘Show commitment.’

  Phil shook his head. ‘Right.’ He pushed across the photo of Glenn McGowan and Ben having sex. ‘What’s so extreme about this?’

  ‘Well, they’re both getting what they want.’

  ‘Then Glenn McGowan was murdered.’

  Trotter shrugged. ‘Yeah. So they both got what they wanted.’

  Phil sat back, thinking. An idea coming to him. ‘Hold on. You mean…’ He tried to order his thoughts coherently. ‘Whoever killed Glenn McGowan, they got what they wanted. They murdered someone. A transvestite.’

  Trotter nodded.

  ‘And…’ he frowned, ‘Glenn McGowan, as Amanda, he…’

  Trotter finished the sentence for him. ‘Wanted someone to kill him.’

  Phil said nothing, processing the information.

  ‘When I said desires,’ said Trotter, ‘you just thought I mean the murderer. You didn’t think I meant the victim.’

  ‘So people go to this club who want to be killed? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘People go to do things they can’t do anywhere else. And I think that’s about as much as I have to say on the subject. The person in the photos may or may not be Ben. I don’t know. So, if you have no further questions…’

  Phil leaned forward. ‘What do you go there for, Martin? I’m curious.’

  Trotter smiled. This was the moment he had been waiting for, the one question he wanted to answer. He was an actor taking the stage to deliver his grand soliloquy. ‘I’m HIV positive,’ he said, and sat back, arms folded, as if that explained everything.

  ‘So?’ said Phil.

  A wistful look came over his features. ‘I like to spread the love around.’

  Phil’s stomach turned over. ‘You mean you go there to have sex, knowing you’re going to infect people?’

  Trotter pointed his thumb and finger into the shape of a gun. ‘You got it.’

  ‘That’s a crime,’ said Phil.

  ‘Is it?’ said Trotter. ‘For one thing, you’ve given me immunity for what I’ve just said; for another, it’s entirely consensual.’ He smiled. It wasn’t pleasant. ‘The people I meet there want to be infected, I assure you.’

  Phil said nothing. He could find nothing to say.

  Trotter made to rise. ‘So if you don’t mind…’

  Phil looked up. ‘Where are you going?’

  Trotter pointed to the door. ‘Away. Off. Free.’

  ‘Sit down, please,’ said Phil.

  Trotter stared at him.

  ‘Sit down.’

  He sat.

  ‘You were promised immunity from anything that arose concerning your testimony about the club,’ Phil said. ‘But there’s a bit more to it than that.’

  Trotter was getting angry now. ‘Like?’

  ‘Resisting arrest. Assaulting two officers in the course of their duty. Causing affray. You were engaged in oral sex in the cinema, so we can add deliberately trying to infect another person with HIV.’

  ‘You can’t —’

  ‘And also, due to the fact that you were caught willy-waggling in public, I think we can add indecent exposure to the list.’ Phil stood up. ‘Have a good day.’

  He left the room. But didn’t get far. A uniform was running towards him.

  75

  M

  arina rang the doorbell, stood back and waited. It was exactly the kind of house she had been expecting. It couldn’t have said ‘students live here’ any more clearly if they’d painted those words on a bed sheet and hung it from the upstairs windows.

  It sat in a row of century-old terraced houses in Selly Oak. Most of the others in the street had replacement windows and doors, block-paved areas in front for cars instead of gardens, and some had even been pebble-dashed. But not this one. It had a shabby air of impermanence and transit. Just passing through.

  Marina hadn’t been able to wait for Anni. She had had to do something, get out of the house and do something positive towards bringing down Gwilym, feel like she was making progress. Recruit an ally. So she had left Josephina with Eileen and phoned Joy Henry. A quick trip into the university’s psychology department and a riffle through the student files and she had w
hat she needed.

  The girl from the café. The one who had come to talk to Gwilym when she was there. The troubled-looking one. Marina had worked out what was happening, knew she couldn’t have been the only one Gwilym had assaulted. The state the young girl was in made her think that they would have something in common. Or a common enemy at least.

  She made to ring the bell again, wondered if it was actually connected. As she stretched forward, the door was opened. It was the girl from the café. The first thing Marina noticed about her was how much happier she looked since the last time she had seen her. She was wearing a thick terrycloth dressing gown and slipper socks, and no make-up. She looked at Marina quizzically, then realisation came into her eyes.

  ‘Madeleine Mingella?’

  ‘Maddy. Yes…’

  ‘Maddy.’ Marina smiled. ‘I’m Marina Esposito. From the psychology department?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I know.’ Fear was creeping into her voice, her posture. She held on to the door, ready to close it on hearing the wrong word.

  Marina’s voice dropped, confidentially. ‘I wanted to have a word with you. About Hugo Gwilym.’

  The light went out in Maddy’s eyes. Marina knew she had to keep talking or she would lose her. ‘I think we’ve had… a similar experience. I think we should talk. I think it might help. Both of us.’

  Maddy looked torn. She glanced behind her, looking wary, as if expecting someone to appear. No one did.

  ‘Can I come in, please? It’s easier to talk inside. And warmer.’

  Maddy opened the door, let her in. Closed it quickly behind her. ‘Come into the kitchen,’ she said.

  Marina followed her down the hall. Posters for bands and clubs were Blu-Tacked over the plain wallpaper. A poster of Justin Bieber Marina presumed was there ironically. It was covered in graffiti that, while not complimentary, was to her mind not actually inaccurate.

  The kitchen was at the back of the house. An old wooden table that bore the scars of decades of student living stood in the centre of the room. Maddy indicated for Marina to sit down at it. She did so. Maddy put the kettle on.

  ‘Sorry about the mess,’ she said.