by P R Ellis
Jasmine Frame is back ...
Three months after the events of Painted Ladies, Jasmine responds to a call for help and finds herself involved in a murder case by the special request of DCI Sloane. But who or what was the victim? What was the motive? Jasmine’s investigation leads into the murkier regions of the transgender scene. Meanwhile her own transition is progressing and she is about to take an irreversible step to lose her masculinity. What are the parallels between her situation and that of the murder victim? Did both hope to achieve bodies by design?
Praise for P R Ellis
“Jasmine Frame is a complex and sympathetic character.”
NetGalley.com
“P.R.Ellis has done a good job of creating a story with a good mystery element that also allows the reader to be educated.”
Lizlovesbooks.com
“(Painted Ladies) is a really well written thriller.”
Goodreads
“I found it (Painted Ladies) a page-turner and really enjoyed reading it... I am looking forward to reading the next.”
Sue White, Eurocrime
ALSO BY P R ELLIS
JASMINE FRAME
PAINTED LADIES
Bodies by Design
The 2nd Jasmine Frame novel
P R Ellis
Bodies by Design
First published in Great Britain by Ellifont, 2015
Copyright © P R Ellis, 2015. All rights reserved
The right of P R Ellis to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
Ellifont, Woodside House, Bridge Street, Leominster HR6 8DZ
www.ellifont.wordpress.com
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978-0-9933647-0-9 Print edition
ISBN 978-0-9933647-1-6 eBook edition
Condition of Sale
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
Converted to eBook format by Alnpete PrePress
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and events are either a product of the author’s fertile imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places or people (living or dead) is purely coincidental.
CONTENTS
Prologue
1 – Wednesday
2 – Thursday
3 – Thursday afternoon
4 – Friday
5 – Friday evening
6 – Saturday
7 – Later Saturday
8 – Sunday
9 – Monday
10 – Tuesday
11 – Tuesday evening
to Lou – for everything
PROLOGUE
Be ready@3. The slim, dark-haired girl read the message on the screen of her smartphone. She had been expecting it and, brief as it was, it told her all she needed to know. It was two-thirty now, so she had half an hour to get ready – plenty of time.
She slid off the king-size bed. It dominated the small studio flat and left no room for chairs, so it doubled as a place for relaxation as well as sleeping - and more. Now it had to be made ready for her guest. She pulled the duvet off, folded and rolled it as tight as possible, then stuffed it on top of the wardrobe, squashed against the sloping ceiling. The four pillows were stacked between her chest of drawers and the wardrobe. Then she stripped off the sheet, rolled it up tightly and pushed it between the pillows. The mattress was revealed with its smooth rubber cover sheet; the steel bars of the head and footboard looked menacingly like a cage.
She pulled open the bottom drawer of the chest and selected the items required. A pair of ankle restraints, two wrist cuffs and a ball gag. She clipped the ankle restraints around the vertical bars at the ends of the footboard and the handcuffs to the matching bars on the headboard. The gag was placed on the mattress ready for use.
The girl walked around the bed and looked out through the venetian blinds at the backyard of the building. As she expected, the gravelled car park area was empty at this time of day. She pulled on the cord to close the blinds. She didn’t want anyone climbing the stairs to be able to see in. Only the dormer window at the front of the room let in light. She lit a candle and placed it on the small drop-side dining table beside three bottles of spirits - she or her guests occasionally enjoyed a drink. The candle added a bit of atmosphere and gave off a sweet flowery smell that she hoped her guest would like. She stepped into the small inner hallway, turned the front door knob and pressed the button to keep the latch open. Now her guest would be able to enter unhindered.
The girl returned to the main room, leaving the internal door open, and stood by the bed. She glanced at the time on her phone. 14.45. Still time to wait. She sat on the edge of the mattress, knees together, back straight. Her heart was beating faster than usual and she felt nervous. It was always the same before one of her guests arrived, but today there was an extra degree of anticipation. There was something important she had to say and she wasn’t sure how her news would be received. Still, it had to be said.
14.50. Time to get ready. She didn’t want the anxiety of not being prepared. She stood up and pulled her t-shirt over her head and dropped her skirt to the floor. Reaching behind her back she unclipped her bra. The cups loosened and fell from her breasts. She tugged on her knickers, pulled them down her smooth legs and stepped out of them. Naked, she gathered up her clothes and stuffed them in the wardrobe.
The rubber sheet was cool against her skin. She shuffled across so her bottom was right in the middle of the mattress, stretched her left leg out and leaned forward to fasten the leather cuff around her ankle. It snapped shut, grasping her ankle tightly. She stretched her right leg to the other corner of the bed and fastened that ankle in the same way. Her legs made a wide V. In the long mirror on the wall at the end of the bed she could see the image of herself through the bars of the footboard. Her nakedness and the restraints gave her a familiar thrill. She lay back, stretching out her left hand to the headboard and grasped the wrist cuff. Twisting, she reached with her right hand to complete the fastening around her left wrist. It locked with a sharp click.
She lay back and slipped her right hand into its cuff but did not press it against the mattress to lock it. Three limbs were immobile, spread wide, exposed and vulnerable. Her guest would want her fully restrained, but she was reluctant to make the final commitment and lock her one spare hand, just in case they failed to arrive. With one hand free she could release herself. With both wrists locked she was trapped. Her guest would expect her to be gagged too, but the ball gag remained by her side unused. Today, she needed to be able to speak.
Closing her eyes, she waited, her heart still thumping. Perhaps this would be the last time she did this - offering herself as if as a sacrifice for another’s pleasure. She hoped she wouldn’t have to do it again despite the thrill and arousal it gave her. She wanted to get on with her life, to actually be someone.
The resound
ing clank of leather-soled shoes on steel announced the arrival of a visitor, presumably the one she expected, on the stairs. The footsteps approached, then stopped. The visitor was on the landing outside the front door. The door creaked softly as it was opened…
1
WEDNESDAY
Stakeouts weren’t her favourite job. When she had been a police officer, Jasmine had always preferred the excitement of interviewing witnesses and suspects or poring over forensic reports. It was, therefore, ironic that her new job as a private eye involved sitting in her car for hours and hours on surveillance. She arched her back and shuffled her bottom on the driver’s seat, but nothing could ease the stiffness and soreness of sitting still for such a long time. That, and the nausea that had been coming and going for weeks now.
She had known what to expect when she took this job, of course, and dressed appropriately. It was summer, after all, so a pale blue vest top and short indigo cotton skirt with her little blue pumps should have been the most comfortable outfit. Actually, it had turned out wet. She had to keep turning the ignition of her old Fiesta on to let the wipers sweep the raindrops from the windscreen. Was she draining the battery? Getting stuck here would be embarrassing as well as inconvenient, but she needed a clear view for shots with her camera with its long lens.
Her head itched and she scratched underneath the edge of the dark brown wig. It was stupid wearing a wig in this warm, humid weather, but she needed the disguise. Her short blonde bob was too much of a giveaway, her face too familiar from appearances in the newspapers, on TV and on internet news sites. It was all DCI Sloane’s fault, bloody man. If he hadn’t hailed Jasmine a heroine for getting the “tranny killer” caught, she wouldn’t have been outed as “The Transsexual Private Eye”. For two or three weeks there had been reporters and cameras every time she went out of her flat, until other stories pushed her off the front pages. At least the fame and the praise of the Kintbridge police had helped her get some jobs, like this one, for the Fraud Investigation Service working for the Department of Work and Pensions but she still had to wear the long wig to prevent herself being identified by passers-by.
She glanced at her watch. It was gone five; she wished she could give up, but she couldn’t, not yet. A movement at the edge of her vision jolted her back to her task. Damn, her concentration had gone again. It was a wonder the subject hadn’t come out, got in his car and driven off while she was letting her thoughts wander. Thankfully that hadn’t happened. There he was in the road beside his car, a big four-by-four, one of the cheaper ones, but she’d missed him coming out of the terraced house. He had his crutch. Was he limping? He was just standing there, his hand fiddling in a pocket, pulling out a key, opening the car door.
Jasmine sank down while raising the camera to her eye. She peered through the viewfinder, choosing her shot. Would the picture show whether he was relying on the crutch for support? Did he need it? Was he the benefits cheat the FIS suspected? Was he going to get in and drive off? Jasmine clicked off a few shots.
The subject, a middle-aged man with greying brown hair wearing old jeans and a battered sweatshirt, reached inside the car and withdrew a package. He closed the door. He began to move with difficulty around the bonnet back towards the pavement. Good, he wasn’t going to drive off, not yet anyway. Jasmine took a few more pictures. He paused, looked up the road. Jasmine wondered whether he had noticed her but he was staring, not at her but at something on the pavement opposite. He began to walk quickly, almost breaking into a run, his crutch not performing any role at all
High pitched cries finally penetrated Jasmine’s consciousness.
‘Fire! Help!’
Jasmine looked out of her side window. Standing on the kerb opposite was a young woman with wavy brown hair wearing denim micro shorts and a cut-off vest. She was shouting.
Jasmine dropped the camera onto the passenger seat, grabbed her shoulder bag and opened the car door.
‘What’s the matter?’ she called, getting out.
‘There’s a fire! Upstairs!’ The girl ran towards her just as Jasmine’s subject arrived puffing and leaning on his crutch. The girl pointed to the top floor of one of the Edwardian terraced houses. ‘I heard the alarm going off,’ she added.
Jasmine looked up. Thin wisps of dark smoke rose into the sky from a small dormer window.
‘Is there anyone up there?’
‘Xristal. Oh my God, I think she might be trapped!’ The girl shivered.
‘Show me the way!’ Jasmine’s training took over and she spoke firmly. She urged the girl back towards the house, hurrying her along. The subject followed more slowly.
There were two doors in the front porch. The right one was open. The girl led Jasmine into a dark hallway, through a small kitchen and out into a gravelled backyard. A steel staircase rose to the upper floors. The smoke alarm’s whine was clearly audible.
‘Do you have a phone?’ Jasmine asked the girl.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, dial 999 and get the fire service here as quick as you can!’ Jasmine ran up the staircase. Two short flights brought her to a narrow landing and a door to the first floor flat. Two more flights and she stood at the door to the top flat. The alarm was deafening.
Before her was an old wooden front door, half glazed with patterned translucent glass. Jasmine turned the handle. Locked. The door felt quite solid. It wasn’t going to give with a slight shove. How could she get in? There was a window on her left, but it was shut. No smoke escaped. The blinds were closed so she couldn’t see anything inside. It would have to be the door. She worried that the fire would flare up if she smashed the glass and let in fresh air but Xristal was in there still. She would be unconscious. Just two lungfuls of smoke was enough to knock you out. A third killed you.
How could she break the glass in the door? Use an elbow? She had no sleeve to protect her. There was half a brick lying on the landing, probably used to prop the door open. She picked it up, took a firm grip and smashed it against the bottom left corner of the window.. The glass shattered. Most of the glass fell inwards but some fell at her feet and small shards flew passed her face. She’d forgotten to protect her eyes. At least it wasn’t armoured or wired glass. She had access. The alarm sounded even louder. She used the brick to knock off a couple of jagged edges then, with care, reached through the hole. She felt for the handle of the lock, turned it, withdrew her hand and pushed the door open.
She found herself in a small hallway with closed doors to the right and the left. A few tendrils of smoke curled out of the top of the door on her left. Enough to set off the smoke alarm fixed to the middle of the ceiling. Jasmine grasped the handle of the door into the flat, and paused. This was it. What would happen when she opened it? A handful of tissues from her shoulder bag covering her mouth would have to do as a mask. She pulled the door open.
The smell hit her like a hammer in the face. Acrid, sharp, but also reminiscent of cooking - of overcooked, burnt fat. The air was warm and had a sticky feel, but it was not hot. The fire must have died. Nevertheless, the old adage held – where there was smoke there was or had been fire. Jasmine stepped into the room, cast her eyes quickly around it with practised skill, wary of flames. She took in the kitchen area with a sink and neatly-piled, clean crockery, a cooker alongside, on her right a small dining table with bottles on it, and two dining chairs. On the far side of the room there was a wardrobe and chest of drawers, but filling the entire centre of the room was a huge metal-framed bed. Its incongruity in such a small flat distracted her briefly, but the smoke wasn’t thick enough to prevent her seeing what was on the bed.
It was meaningless for a moment, until her brain interpreted the image. It looked like there had been a bonfire in the middle of the mattress; a blackened heap of - something. Then, with mounting horror, she saw pale arms and legs, like the disconnected limbs of a mannequin, and recognised them for what they were – the unburnt limbs sticking out of the charred torso,. She moved closer to the bed and saw a
head. Dark, scorched hair and a white face, eyes open - staring, unseeing.
The smell and the realisation of what she was looking at made Jasmine’s stomach churn. She swallowed, tasted the acidic, fatty smoke in her mouth, gagged, swallowed again, recovered – for now. She dared not move any closer in case she lost the delicate control she had over her guts and vomited over the scene, but she forced herself to look to try to interpret what was before her eyes.
Jasmine presumed the body was that of the woman the girl in the ground floor flat had referred to. She’d called her Xristal. What had happened to her? Jasmine recalled pictures claiming to be of cases of spontaneous combustion. The scene before her seemed similar – bodies with the torso consumed by fire but the limbs and head almost unaffected. She had read something about the wick effect, the fat in the body melting to fuel the flames but the fire dying as the supply of fat ran out.
She heard a chorus of sirens adding a discordant harmony to the continued wail of the smoke alarm. Moments later came the rumble of a heavy vehicle manoeuvring below. Then, heavy boots clanged on the stairs. Jasmine turned to face the entrance. Two firefighters in full gear, helmets and masks over their faces, entered. One of them pulled the breathing apparatus from over his mouth.
‘Who are you?’ he shouted over the noise of the smoke alarm.
‘Jasmine Frame, detective. I broke in to see if there was anyone inside.’
