by P R Ellis
‘DS Shepherd told me when I was on my way that the body was a woman called Xristal Newman.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, she’s a woman with a penis and testicles.’
‘What?’
‘They’re somewhat charred but still largely intact. Oh, and she has breast enhancements. They’re made of silicone – it doesn’t burn.’
‘You mean she’s pre-op trans?’
‘Like you?’
‘Um, yes.’ Jasmine tried her best to forget that she still had her male organs, but they were always there to remind her she wasn’t yet who she wanted to be.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you, but it appears that although Xristal seems to have been living as a woman she was still technically male.’
‘But with enlarged breasts?’
‘Yes. You haven’t had that done?’
‘No.’ The thought of having her chest slit open to squeeze in bags of silicone chilled Jasmine. ‘I’m hoping the hormones I’m taking will make mine grow.’
‘Good luck. It appears Xristal wasn’t as patient.’
Jasmine thought about Xristal’s bigger-busted friend, Honey. Were her boobs fake too?
Four more overalled figures arrived, filling up the room. Jasmine backed out to join Tom in the hallway.
‘Xristal’s TS,’ she said in a quiet voice.
‘What?’
Jasmine took a deep breath and explained, ‘Xristal Newman was a transsexual woman, like me.’
‘Oh. Well, that’s an interesting titbit for Sloane when he arrives.’
‘He’s coming here?’
‘Yes, just to check we’re doing everything right. So you had better get out of the way.’
‘But I’ve got to find out what happened to her! What if it was because she was trans? It could be a transphobic murderer.’
‘What, like the last ones? I don’t think so, Jas. This seems different.’
‘Yes, but it could be important. And I discovered her. Sloane is bound to want my statement,’
‘Yes, I’m sure he will, but he won’t want to find you in the middle of the crime scene.’
Tom was right. A confrontation with DCI Sloane here in Xristal’s flat was possibly not the best way for Jasmine to ensure that she was kept connected to the investigation. She was reluctant to leave, but her presence would not be welcomed.
‘OK. I’ll go, but you will keep in touch, won’t you Tom?’
‘I suppose so. You’ll pester me if I don’t. Now get out of here before he sees you.’
Jasmine hurried down the steps. The uniformed police officer stood on guard at the bottom as the scene of crime officers in their blue hooded coveralls moved back and forth carrying pieces of equipment. Jasmine debated whether to knock on Tilly’s door again and leave by the front of the building. She decided instead to explore the rear access, as that was probably the direction that Xristal’s killer took. The lane was clogged with the one fire appliance that remained, Tom’s car and other police cars and vans. Jasmine walked past them until she came to the road. She turned right and a few metres further on came to the road on which she was parked. A large Volvo turned into the side road and she caught a glimpse of the grey-haired, grey-suited DCI Sloane in the passenger seat.
Jasmine crossed the road to her car and saw with relief that her camera was still lying on the passenger seat. At least no opportunist thief had decided to nick it, because she couldn’t afford to replace it. The engine spluttered into life and she lurched off in first gear.
The evening rush hour was easing, so it took just five minutes for Jasmine to drive back to her flat. She pulled into the car park and sat still for a moment. A day that had promised little but bum-numbing boredom had turned out far more dramatic than she could possibly want. The smell and taste of the smoke from burnt flesh was still in her nose and her mouth. Her skin felt sticky, as if it was coated in Xristal’s fat. The image of the burned body filled her mind. The body of a girl like her. Well, someone who had the appearance of being a girl, but actually still had the physical form of a man. Did Tilly know that Xristal was TS? Damn, she should have knocked on her door and asked. What about Honey? The photo suggested that she was too. The two of them looked so happy in that photo, although Jasmine was sure she herself wouldn’t appear so relaxed in such skimpy beachwear.
She pushed the car door open and hauled herself out, feeling weary after the long day. It was just a short walk to the steps leading to her flat. A man was leaning into the back of an Audi estate car. Jasmine thought it was a somewhat smarter car than those that usually graced the car park of the flats. The man straightened up with a cardboard box in his arms, turned and almost bumped into her.
‘Oh, sorry, bab,’ he said with a Birmingham accent. He had olive skin and short wiry hair. Jasmine reckoned he looked just a little older than her – early thirties perhaps?
‘No, my fault. Your car caught my eye. It’s not familiar. Are you moving in?’
‘Yeah, temporarily until I get a house sorted. Managed to find an affordable place to rent here for the time being.’
Jasmine found the Midlands lilt with a hint of Caribbean friendly and likeable.
‘Well, they’re certainly cheap for this area.’ Jasmine noticed he was looking at her closely.
‘Hey, bab. Aren’t you the detective who caught the knife killer a couple of months back? The transsexual?’
Jasmine felt a weight drop into her stomach. When was she going to get her anonymity back? Why did people still recall the pictures of her? OK, they’d been on the front pages of all the dailies and on TV and the internet, but that was weeks ago now. And why did people always remember that she was trans?
‘Yes, that’s me,’ she muttered, turning away and hurrying to the door of her ground floor flat.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you!’ the man called out.
She closed the door behind her, gratefully closing out the rest of the world. There was some post on the mat: some junk mail and a white envelope. She picked them up and dumped the junk mail with her bag and camera on the sofa. The envelope she tore open. The A4 sheet inside carried the NHS logo. Her eyes scanned the page and picked out the news she was anticipating, news that she was both hoping and dreading. There was a date - next Monday; a place - a London hospital; and confirmation that she was booked as a day case for a biorchidectomy.
Jasmine stood rooted to the spot, the letter grasped in her hand, a cold sweat making her shiver. The medical term could not disguise the treatment she was booked to receive; - she knew what it meant. Her testicles would be removed and the source of the testosterone that was fighting the oestrogen that she was taking to feminise her body would finally be gone. It was what she wanted - but the thought of the scalpel slicing into her flesh made her shudder.
Jasmine dropped the letter and reached into her bag for her phone. She had to speak to someone, but who? Angela was the obvious person. Despite being divorced for what was it now - three months - Angela was the person who had supported and guided her towards her transition. They were still close, although they hadn’t been in touch for a few weeks. She pressed the contact, but after just a couple of rings the call went to voicemail. Jasmine hung up. She wanted to talk to Angela, not recite her news. It didn’t feel right just broadcasting it. Tapping out a text didn’t seem right either. Who else could she speak to? There was one other person, her GP, Dr Jilly Gould. The young doctor had shown genuine concern and had given Jasmine her direct work number. It was in her contacts list. Jasmine found it. It was gone seven now. Would Jilly still be at work? The phone was answered.
‘Hello, Dr Gould, Jilly?’
‘Who’s speaking?’
‘Jasmine Frame.’
‘Jasmine! Are you alright?’
‘Oh, Jilly, I’m so glad you answered. I’m sorry to bother you.’ Jasmine felt herself fluttering.
‘No bother. I was just doing some paperwork. What’s the problem?’
‘There’s no problem, not really, it’s just that I’ve had the letter and I needed to tell someone – you.’
‘Letter? Oh, you mean about your biorchidectomy?’
‘Yes. I have an appointment for next Monday in London.’
‘Oh good. Is it OK for you?’
‘It’s very soon.’
‘They must have had a cancellation or something and you were next on the list. You are happy about it, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, well, except for the operation itself. You know what I’m like with knives.’
‘You won’t feel or see a thing.’
‘I know but... It’s all happened quicker than I expected.’
‘Well, unlike the full gender reassignment, this is just a minor op. A quick snip, whoops, sorry. What I mean is, it will be over and done with in no time. You’ll be able to finish taking those anti-androgen tablets and the oestrogen can get on with doing its job. That should put a stop to most of the unpleasant side effects.’
‘That’s what I wanted to hear.’
‘Don’t forget you’ll need someone to pick you up afterwards. You’ll be pretty sore and groggy, but the hospital will discharge you after a couple of hours.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Jasmine hadn’t arranged who would collect her after the operation. Since Dr Gould and the consultants at the gender clinic had suggested she could have this “minor” procedure she hadn’t given it much thought. Now she had just five days to sort something out – but who could she ask?
‘I don’t suppose you are available?’
‘Sorry, Jasmine. A few of the partners are away next week and I’m left minding the shop. But drop in some time and we’ll have a chat about everything. How’s business?’
Jasmine was about to blurt out about finding Xristal, but stopped herself. No point burdening Jilly Gould with it; she did enough already keeping her balanced and sane.
‘Oh fine. I’ve just got involved in a new case. I’ll tell you about it sometime. I’d better go now. Thanks for the chat.’
‘Oh, right. Well as I said, come and see me before you go up to London.’
‘Yes, I will. Thanks.’ Jasmine ended the call and sighed. She wasn’t sure how she would have managed without Dr Gould keeping an eye on her. She had taken up her case with enthusiasm and found out all there was to know about gender reassignment. She encouraged and reassured Jasmine whenever she felt the process was taking too long. Excitement filled Jasmine which her long-standing fear of cutting couldn’t dampen. It was a relief to think that the nausea, flushes, loss of concentration and lethargy would be a thing of the past, to say nothing of the possible damage the anti-androgens were doing to her liver. Taking the gender-altering drugs had been an important step - but this was a bigger one. Losing her testicles was irreversible and she would never again have the sexual response of a man. The longing to be fully female obsessed her, but that day was a long way off thanks to the bottleneck that was the National Health Service.
She headed for the shower with renewed vitality, dropping her smoky clothes into the laundry basket. Soon she felt clean again, and once she was dressed in bra, knickers and a loose cotton dress thought about something to eat. As usual there was little in her fridge; it would have to be toast again. She took two slices, dropped them into the toaster and went into the living room. Picking up her camera, she scrolled through the pictures she had taken of her benefit fraud suspect – were there any that provided evidence for the FIS? Photo after photo showed the man standing leaning on his crutches. No evidence there. She hadn’t taken any when he had started to run in response to the call of “Fire!” That was a missed opportunity and meant she would be back on surveillance duty tomorrow.
The strident whine of the smoke alarm informed her the toast was overdone. She rushed into the kitchen to see smoke curling up from the toaster and the smell of burning in the air. She stabbed at the stop button on the toaster cursing the old machine and the drugs that contributed to her loss of concentration. Jasmine opened the window as the smell got to her. The scene in Xristal’s flat flashed through her mind. Why was she lying on that unmade bed? Who had set fire to her? Tears filled Jasmine’s eyes, partly caused by the acidic smoke and partly from the memory of Xristal’s burned body.
The doorbell rang. Jasmine hurried to open it, wiping the tears from her cheeks. The man she had met in the car park stood there holding a bottle of wine. The smoke alarm fell silent.
‘Hi.’ He paused, ‘Look, I wanted to apologise. I’m sure you’re fed up of people recognising you like that. It was rude of me.’
Jasmine held the door, wondering how to respond. He looked at her closely.
‘Hey, are you OK? You’ve been crying.’
‘Well, I’m tired and hungry, I found a body this afternoon and I’ve just burned my supper.’
His eyes widened, but he quickly recovered.
‘Well, I brought this bottle as an apology. You and I could share it and I’ll try to cheer you up. I haven’t eaten yet either, so perhaps we can order a takeaway?’
Jasmine’s first instinct was to thank him and close the door. She was wary of strangers and slow to form new friendships. She had to be sure that people accepted her and weren’t going to react badly to her transsexualism. But this guy seemed different. He knew who and what she was, but had taken the trouble to apologise for blurting it out when they had met. The wine was an attraction too - she needed something to get rid of the smoky taste in her mouth. The promise of a takeaway was the clincher. She opened the door wider and summoned up a cheerful voice.
‘That sounds like a good offer. Come in.’
She stepped back into the room and he followed. Jasmine stooped to remove papers and her bag from the small sofa.
‘I’ll see if I can find a corkscrew, uh, I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’
‘It’s Viv,’ he said, smiling broadly, ‘I brought a corkscrew, just in case, but perhaps you have a couple of glasses?’
‘Oh, yes, um, Viv. I’ll get some.’ Jasmine hurried to the kitchen, grabbed a pair of wine glasses from the wall cupboard, her only two as it happened, and returned to the living room. Viv was still standing. There was a cheerful pop as the cork was pulled from the bottle. Jasmine held out the two glasses and Viv poured the dark red wine into each. He put the bottle down on the table and took the glass that she offered. Jasmine noted that he was about four inches taller than her.
‘I’m sorry, another apology. While I recalled the reason why you were in the papers, I don’t remember your name.’
‘It’s Jasmine, Jasmine Frame. Welcome to Kintbridge. At least, when you said you were just moving in I presumed you meant that you were new to the area?’
‘That’s right. I’m down from Brum as you can probably tell,’ he clinked his glass against hers, ‘Thanks.’
They each took a sip and Viv folded himself into Jasmine’s battered old sofa. Jasmine sat on a dining chair and, ensuring her knees were together, leaned towards him.
‘So, Viv ...?’
‘Short for Vivian. Vivian Jackson. My parents, or rather my father, named me after his great hero.’
‘Hero?’
‘Viv Richards, the cricketer.’
‘Um, yes. I’m not sure....’ Cricket wasn’t top of Jasmine’s favourite pastimes.
‘My father was born in Jamaica and came here with his parents in the Fifties. He’s always supported the West Indies cricket team, even though now he’s become more British than the British. Viv Richards is his all-time favourite player.’
‘I can understand that.’ Jasmine knew enough about cricket to be vaguely aware of the name.
‘But that’s why I was so annoyed that I had embarrassed you. I know what it’s like to be different. My mum’s white and even in the Eighties life for a mixed race family wasn’t easy. So, I shouldn’t have blurted out about you being transsexual.’
Hearing Viv say the word again made her wince. It was the truth and she’d known it fo
r years, but she hated the label. She just wished to be seen and recognised as a woman. But she appreciated what Viv was saying.
‘That’s OK. It’s just that it’s happened so often since the story got into the media, I’m sick of it.’
‘I’m sure you are. Look what about that takeaway? What do you suggest?’
Jasmine rarely ate out because of her need to save money, but she and Angela used to have meals delivered occasionally before they parted. The name of the restaurant was somewhere in her memory.
‘Do you like Chinese? The, um, Peking Palace used to deliver and was pretty good. I don’t have their number though.’
Viv had already pulled his phone from his pocket and was tapping the screen. ‘Got it. What do you fancy?’
2
THURSDAY
Jasmine awoke to the beeping of the alarm on her phone. She lay still, thinking about the previous evening and wondering why her head wasn’t aching after having shared the bottle of wine with Viv. Perhaps it was because they’d drunk the wine with food over a few hours. It hadn’t seemed that much time had passed when Viv had got up to leave, but it had been nearly midnight. Viv’s witty and humorous tales of his childhood in the Midlands had kept her interested. He hadn’t pressed Jasmine to tell her story and she hadn’t, but she felt that she might if they met again. He had made her happy by simply accepting her for who she was. The other people she occasionally socialised with had all known her before, in her past life as James. It was a new experience to chat casually with someone who only knew her as Jasmine, even if they did know she was trans.
She was about to put the pleasant thoughts to the back of her mind and make a start on the day, when the doorbell rang followed by a rap of knuckles on the door. Jasmine jumped out of bed and threw on her dressing gown, wondering who it could be. She stopped a few steps from the door and put a hand to her chin. She felt bristles. They would be blonde, but she hated being seen with a night’s growth. Damn, who could possibly want to see her before she had had a chance to shave?
There was another rap on the door. Jasmine pulled the collar of her dressing gown up to her face and tugged her bobbed hair over her cheeks. It didn’t really work, but she felt a little protected.
