The Doll's House Page 2

  ‘You gave me the idea,’ she said.

  Phil frowned. ‘Me?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘You said you were dreading going back. Walking into the office, the whole team staring at you, wondering how damaged you were, whether you were still up to it.’

  The halo around Marina’s head disappeared, the sun hidden by a cloud. ‘Let’s not —’

  ‘You said so yourself. Even told that police counsellor you were sent to.’ There was an undercurrent to that statement – clearly Marina thought the job should have been hers. She continued. ‘How everything around here reminded you of what had happened, and that you couldn’t shake it off.’

  Phil said nothing. There was nothing there he could disagree with.

  Marina sat back, drank. The alcohol gave her the courage to speak her mind. ‘It was the same for me. You know that. Worse in a way – I haven’t got a job to go back to. I can’t rejoin the police as a psychologist, DCI Franks made that perfectly clear.’

  ‘What about Essex? I thought the university would have you back. Jump at the chance, your old mate there said.’

  She shrugged, her face in shadow. ‘Yeah, well, my old mate doesn’t hire and fire. And the ones that do, well… maybe they thought that after everything that’s happened, the notoriety, having me there, my name, might attract the wrong kind of student.’

  ‘They tell you that?’

  ‘Not in so many words. Just in the spaces between the words.’ She looked around at the harbour, the pub, the people as if she wouldn’t see any of it again. Or not for a long time. ‘Still, they’re not the only university in the country… I’ve been headhunted.’

  Things fell into place for Phil then. He felt relief at understanding, apprehension at what she was about to say next. ‘Where?’

  Marina paused before speaking. ‘First, I should say it’s a good job. Very good. Good money, level seven. Lecturing in psychology. Senior position.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Birmingham.’

  Phil stared at her. ‘Birmingham? But —’

  ‘Yeah, I know. I said I’d never go back after the childhood I had there. But everything’s changed. I’ve changed. And none of my family are left there now. Thank God.’

  ‘But Birmingham…’

  ‘It’s like a new city now. Hardly anything left of the old one. A good place to make a fresh start.’

  Phil paused before speaking. ‘With me?’

  She reached across the table, took his hand in hers. ‘Of course. I wouldn’t want to go without you. Or Josephina. We’re a family. A team.’ She smiled. ‘So what d’you say?’

  ‘This would be permanent?’

  ‘A year. At least. Probationary period. Just so they can be sure that, you know, my name doesn’t attract the wrong kind of student.’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Get a transfer. A secondment.’

  Phil stared at her. ‘And end up in Ops or Traffic or plain clothes or something? Or stuck in the office, desk-jockeying. I’d want to go into Major Crimes. Front-line work. It’s what I’m good at. What I know. What I am.’

  ‘Well, with your arrest rate and commendations it shouldn’t be too difficult. Think about it.’

  He did.

  And surprisingly, it wasn’t.

  3

  ‘

  B

  irmingham.’ Standing on the doorstep in the cold night air, saying it aloud, still didn’t make it any more real. ‘Birmingham.’

  ‘Ready when you are, DI Brennan. Boss.’

  Phil turned at Sperring’s voice. The DS had caught him talking to himself and was staring at him, thoughts of a less than complimentary nature behind his eyes.

  Phil felt himself reddening. ‘Just reminding myself where I am, DS Sperring.’ Once he’d spoken, he felt angry with himself. Despite his age, Sperring was a junior officer. Phil didn’t need to explain his actions to him.

  ‘Whatever works for you, sir.’ Sperring, face passive but clearly unimpressed, turned and went back into the house.

  Phil turned to follow and stopped. He became aware of his breathing, listened to his body for pain, tightness. He had always suffered from panic attacks, even before the explosion. A lot of police at his level did – more than would let on, he had discovered. It went with the job. When they hit they were excruciating and debilitating. And back on front-line duties, in charge of what looked to be a major homicide, heading up a team that didn’t know him and, if Sperring was anything to go by, didn’t trust him, this would be the perfect time to get one.

  He hesitated, breathed deeply, told himself everything was OK. His occupational therapy had been good and his psychological tests had been solid and consistent. He had been given a clean bill of health. He was fine, fit. Ready to go. His physical scars would heal. His stomach lurched.

  It was the mental ones he worried about. How much had the explosion, the coma really taken out of him? What was still buried inside? What had he forcibly contained within himself in order to return to work?

  There was only one way to find out.

  Checking his chest for those familiar tightening bands and finding none, he looked at his hands. They weren’t trembling too much.

  I’m ready, he told himself.

  Ready to push everything else to the side: the pain, the uncertainty of the previous few months, the horror of the months before that. Operations. Convalescence. Doubt. Cruel doubt, building from nagging to consuming to outright fear: that he would ever be whole again, fully functioning as a man, a husband, a father. That he could ever come back to work, ever regain the respect of a team, ever be as good as he had previously been.

  Yes, he said. I’m ready.

  Ready to step into that nightmare world once more. To take control. Listen to the ghosts, honour the dead.

  Ready.

  He hoped.

  He stepped inside.

  The hallway seemed even brighter after the dark outside. Squinting, he reached the living room. ‘What’s the state of play?’

  Detective Constable Nadish Khan, standing beside Sperring in the doorway, turned to him. Short and sharp, with enough cockiness and self-composure to power a small town. He flicked a thumb inside. ‘You seen that film Seven?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Phil, slightly confused.

  ‘Proper old-school stuff. But good, you know? Brad Pitt. That old black guy who always plays the clever one.’

  ‘Morgan Freeman,’ said Phil. He gestured to the corpse. ‘What’s that got to do with…’

  ‘Well, you know how they did it, so you got these proper horrific crime scenes, but you only get glimpses of them, you know; someone’s standing in the way, that kind of thing? And it leaves you to put the rest together in your head?’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘And you know how your imagination works, how what’s in your head is worse than what’s actually there?’

  ‘Yeah…’

  ‘I’ve just seen glimpses. And I hope it’s my imagination.’

  ‘That bad.’

  Khan nodded. ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘Joy,’ said Phil.

  ‘Anyway,’ continued Khan, ‘Jo Howe’s just finishing up.’

  Phil peeked in. Jo Howe was the leading forensic scene investigator. A short, round, middle-aged woman. She was just straightening up from the body. Phil glimpsed the corpse behind her. Cold, rigid. He saw blonde hair, a pink party dress, like a child’s idea of what an adult would wear. Howe moved in his way again and his glimpse was gone.

  She shook her head. ‘God…’

  ‘You ready for us yet?’ Phil called.

  ‘Thought I was. Just one second…’

  Phil looked down the corridor, out into the night, back to the living room. He shivered. The house seemed about as cold as it was outside.

  It was an ordinary house in an ordinary boxy housing estate just off the Pershore Road on the fringes of Edgbaston. Built fairly recently, gated, and at odds with the larger, older
Edwardian houses it was nestling between, the estate seemed to have won a competition for how many tiny houses could be squeezed into as small a space as possible.

  ‘Who called it in?’ Phil asked Khan.

  ‘Community support officer,’ the DC replied. ‘Neighbour reported that the house had its lights on day and night, and no one ever went in or out.’

  ‘Very civic-minded.’

  ‘Gated community, innit? Thought something must be up.’ Khan smiled. ‘Neighbour said they’d seen a thing about cannabis farms on the telly. Thought it was one of them. Thank God for public vigilance, yeah?’

  Phil nodded. Khan’s accent – young, street yet Brummie-inflected – took some getting used to. ‘Yeah. In this case, anyway. Who owns the house?’

  ‘Rented,’ said Sperring, hearing the conversation and crossing to them. ‘A letting agency operating just off Hurst Street. City Lets.’

  ‘We know who the tenant is?’

  ‘Glenn McGowan. Moved in a couple of weeks ago. Short-term let. They had no one over Christmas so they let him take it. Said he wouldn’t want it for long.’

  Phil gave a puzzled frown. ‘How d’you know all this?’

  Sperring’s face was impassive. ‘Phoned the agency before I came here and remembered the conversation.’ His voice matched his face. ‘I’m police. It’s what we do.’

  Khan, Phil noticed, looked slightly uncomfortable at Sperring’s words. Phil weighed up whether to challenge him or not. He decided this wasn’t the right time. Concentrate on the investigation.

  ‘Glenn McGowan. What do we know about him? Anybody contacted him yet?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Sperring. ‘We’re looking into it. He seems to have done a runner.’

  Phil looked into the living room. ‘Don’t blame him.’

  Jo Howe gave the all-clear. Phil stepped into the room. ‘Come on,’ he said. Sperring and Khan followed him.

  ‘I’m Phil Brennan, by the way,’ he said to Jo Howe. ‘New DI with the Major Investigation Unit. SIO on this case.’

  He was sure he heard a disparaging remark from Sperring’s direction.

  Jo Howe introduced herself. ‘What a lovely way to meet.’ She was small, cherubic, with a face more suited to smiling than frowning. She wasn’t doing much smiling at the moment.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘what have we got here?’

  She stepped back.

  ‘Look for yourself.’

  4

  T

  he first thing Phil noticed was the smile. Wide and taut, fixed and immobile. Like the Joker from Batman, he thought. Or one of his victims.

  The woman’s face was overly made-up, with not a square centimetre of natural skin showing through, creating a barrier between decomposition and the outside world. Her eyes were highly coloured and elaborately lined, with huge false eyelashes. Her lips were shining bright red, her face powdered and pale, her cheeks almost as rosy as her lips.

  ‘Well overdone,’ said Jo Howe. ‘Make-up like that can be seen from space.’

  Phil kept gazing at the face, transfixed. ‘She looks like a doll…’

  Once he had thought that, he couldn’t get the idea out of his mind. He looked at her body. The make-up was consistent with her clothes. She was dressed like a doll too. Her dress was pink gingham with puffed meringue shoulders, in at the waist then out in a pleated skirt with ruffled white netted underskirts beneath. Her legs were covered in pink nylon, her shoes heeled and pink. Long pink satin gloves covered her forearms.

  ‘Is the pathologist here yet?’ asked Phil.

  ‘On her way,’ said Khan. ‘Shouldn’t be long.’

  ‘She’ll have her work cut out with this one,’ said Sperring.

  Phil stood back, still studying the body. She was sitting at a table laid for dinner. One arm was frozen in mid air, finger and thumb pressed together. A teacup lay on its side on the table nearby as if it had been dropped or fallen. He clocked the table.

  Two place settings. And properly done: matching crockery, correct cutlery. Knives and forks for the first course on the outside, working inwards; plates and bowls in the right order, wine and water glasses at the side of the settings.

  ‘Check…’ Phil heard his own voice. It sounded like it was coming from the wrong end of a telescope. ‘Check those glasses for DNA.’

  He looked again at the body. The pink gingham and the white underskirt were splattered and stained a dark blackish red around the hem. He reached out a latexed hand, lifted the skirts. The pink stockings underneath were similarly coloured. He lifted them further.

  ‘Jesus Christ…’

  She wore no underwear. And where there should have been genitals there was just a gaping hole.

  Sperring and Khan knelt down beside him, looked also.

  ‘Aw, fuck…’ Khan turned away, stood up.

  Sperring kept looking. Phil watched his new DS. He was focused on what was in front of him, eyes hooded, expression once again impassive. Trying to be detached, Phil thought. Reacting and responding like a professional. Phil couldn’t fault him on that, at least.

  ‘What d’you see?’ he asked, kneeling next to the DS.

  ‘No blood,’ Sperring said. ‘Or very little. Cleaned away. Or drained.’ He peered in closer. ‘Minced flesh. God. But neatly cut. Well, considering what’s been done to her.’

  Phil let the skirts drop, straightened up. Sperring did likewise.

  ‘Hold on,’ said Khan.

  The other two turned. Behind them, the junior officer was swaying, eyes flickering. His face had turned bone white, as if he was suffering from a sudden deficiency of melanin.

  ‘Not in here,’ said Phil. ‘Locard’s exchange principle.’

  Khan nodded, straightened himself up. Phil knew he wouldn’t want to faint at a crime scene, where he could contaminate or destroy evidence.

  ‘I’m just…’ Khan turned, left the room.

  A look of amusement crossed Sperring’s face, then it returned to its usual unreadable expression.

  Phil waited until Khan had gone, then looked round the room and back at the body, trying to take it in as well as its surroundings. He glanced at his hands. They were shaking. Not wanting to go the way Khan had, especially not in front of Sperring, he turned away, gulping in air quickly, forcing his body to steady itself. This was his first test since coming back. He had told his superiors he was ready, that he could cope. Now he had to prove it.

  He sucked down more air, focused his mind once more. Turned back to study the body, the layout. He looked down again.

  ‘Legs have been tied to the chair.’ He glanced at Sperring. ‘What does that tell us?’

  ‘Staged? Left like this for a reason? From the lack of blood, the cutting wasn’t done here.’

  ‘Right,’ said Phil. ‘And that hand? The thumb and finger together? Must have been holding that teacup.’

  ‘Rigor?’ said Sperring. ‘Never seen it like that before.’

  ‘Me neither. Jo, get your team to check through the rest of the house. Look for blood, a murder scene. I don’t think he carried her too far; it should be in here.’

  She nodded, did so.

  Phil went back to looking at the body, trying to put himself in the victim’s place. Unconsciously, his hands began to move. He found himself miming her actions, imagining what he would do if he had been in that situation. He put his hands up to his neck.

  If someone was cutting me, I’d have fought. Tried to pull away. But I didn’t, so…

  ‘She was placed here, yes.’ Phil spoke aloud. ‘One arm is down, the other…’ He looked at the fallen cup, the rigid arm. ‘Here. Staged. And she’s smiling…’ He moved round to the other side of the table, bent down to get into her eyeline. ‘Smiling towards here…’

  ‘Whoever did it must have sat there,’ said Sperring. ‘The other side of the table.’

  ‘Romantic little dinner party. Lovely.’

  ‘Didn’t go quite according to plan.’

  Phil stood up,
looked round the room once more, back to the dining table. Chair covers with tie-backs, table runner, matching crockery. All the same colour, all pink. He moved in close, examined the crockery. It looked new. There was something on both sets of plates. Red and brown lumps; congealed blood as sauce.

  ‘We’d better get that analysed,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t want to even speculate on what it is.’

  He turned once more, looked round the rest of the room. The living room was open-plan, all one big space, the kitchen off to the side. The walls were a light shade of pink, the carpet darker. The furniture was covered in throws of differing shades of pink with both matching and complementing cushions. There were even a few pink stuffed animals dotted around the place. It all looked new, fresh. Clean.

  He crossed to the wall the sofa backed on to. Leaned in close, smelled the wall. Turned back to Sperring.

  ‘How long did you say this house had been rented out for?’

  ‘Couple of weeks, something like that. Short-term let, they said.’

  Phil nodded. ‘This wall’s just been painted. Very recently.’ He knelt down. ‘The carpet’s new too. Still shedding the pile.’

  He moved slowly through the living area, careful to walk lightly, not to disturb any potential evidence. The sofa had been sat on; the throw and cushions reflected that. He looked closer. More than just sat on: lain on.

  He straightened up. Looked back at the dining area. Tried to piece together what had happened. Back at the living room. A TV sat in one corner, DVD player underneath. A few DVDs were piled neatly at the side. He checked the spines.

  A couple of Hollywood blockbusters, a bit of Formula One and some unmarked ones that looked home-made.

  ‘Let’s get those checked out,’ he said.

  Something else in the room jarred. He realised what it was. No Christmas decorations. No tree, not even a small plastic one. But there were cards on the mantelpiece. He opened them, began reading.

  Happy Christmas, Glenn, love Ted, Elizabeth and kids.

  Merry Xmas, Glenn, love Aunty Vi. Followed by a selection of kisses.