The Doll's House

by Tania Carver

  Also by Tania Carver

  The Surrogate

  The Creeper

  Cage of Bones

  Choked

  COPYRIGHT

  Published by Hachette Digital

  978-1-4055-2016-4

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © Tania Carver 2013

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  HACHETTE DIGITAL

  Little, Brown Book Group

  100 Victoria Embankment

  London, EC4Y 0DY

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  The Doll’s House

  Table of Contents

  Also by Tania Carver

  COPYRIGHT

  PART ONE: Electric Funeral

  1

  PART TWO: Paranoid

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  PART THREE: Heaven and Hell

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  PART FOUR: Black Sabbath

  66

  67

  68

  69

  70

  71

  72

  73

  74

  75

  76

  77

  78

  79

  80

  81

  82

  83

  84

  85

  86

  87

  88

  89

  90

  91

  92

  93

  94

  95

  96

  97

  98

  99

  100

  101

  102

  103

  104

  105

  PART FIVE: Tomorrow’s Dream

  106

  PART ONE

  ELECTRIC FUNERAL

  1

  E

  verything was perfect. Just like she had imagined it. Yearned for it.

  And she knew that he wanted it too.

  The butterflies in her stomach made her tingle and shake. She tried to ignore them, or at least enjoy their nervy, shivering anticipation, and gave the living room one final inspection. She saw a speck of dust or a curl of fluff on the carpet that may or may not have been imaginary and bent down to pick it up. Holding it between thumb and forefinger she walked into the kitchen, put it in the pedal bin, knocked any dirt residue off her fingers and smoothed her skirt down, the material crackling beneath her fingers, electric, removing any creases. Everything had to be perfect. Including herself. Especially herself.

  A quick check of the pans on the stove in the kitchen – everything simmering away nicely, the extractor fan humming, the windows lightly misted with the homely fog of cooking – then back into the living room for yet another look round. She crossed to the sofa, moved a cushion, repositioning it slightly. Then moved it back again. She didn’t need to, knew it was just nerves. She stood back, admiring. Everything was as she had pictured it, the best it could be. But then it should be. It had to be. She would only be doing this once.

  And she would have no second chance.

  The room was open plan; the living room at one end, the dining area at the back of the house. The cushions had been plumped up, placed in exactly the right spots on the sofa and armchairs. The room had been stripped, decorated, painted. Then cleaned, dusted and accessorised. Everything was in its place. She turned to the dining area. The table was laid out as she had wanted it, as they had both agreed. The crockery and cutlery, the tableware and place settings, even the covers and tie-backs on the chairs all matching and co-ordinated. It looked beautiful.

  Beautiful.

  She smiled. Felt something stir within. A ripple ran through her. Pride, she thought. Pride that her feminine skills and womanly ways were to be appreciated by someone at last. Someone special. Very special. She could have cried but it would have spoiled her make-up.

  She hadn’t just waited a long time for this evening; it was the culmination of a lifetime. She held out her hands, ignored the shaking and admired her nails. They had been professionally rendered the day before. Glossy acrylics, French-manicured, shaped and buffed. Costly, but worth every penny. Shiny and strong, they felt like they were more a part of her than her real ones underneath. Just like everything else, in fact. She smiled at her own joke, giggled. Then stopped. Remembered what all this was for. And hoped he would appreciate it.

  He would. She knew he would. She wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble if it were otherwise. Wouldn’t have made the effort for him. When they had first spoken to each other she had thought he sounded promising. Better than all the others. Not a fantasist, a time-waster. Something more real about him. Honest about his intentions. And when they met for the first time her hopes had been confirmed. He’d touched her, nothing serious, just stroking her arm, and there had been a definite spark, an exchange of energy as a frisson of electricity passed between the pair of them, jumping both ways. They looked at each other when it happened. And they knew. She had found him. The man she had been waiting for. Mr Right. And she was just perfect for him. He had found his Miss Right.

  She had been looking for him for a long time. She had thought she had found him on a few occasions. It had gone from nervous curiosity to a huge yearning to find not just anyone to fill the emptiness but the right person to make her complete. But the times before had just been false dawns. So many that she had started to despair of ever finding anyone. The patterns had become depressingly familiar. She met quite a few men but most didn’t interest her. Or there wasn’t a great enough spark. The few that she did find something in common with she would see again. And that would usually lead to a relationship.

  The sex was always important, and she enjoyed it, but that wasn’t the most important aspect, she told herself. She enjoyed the closeness that came from being with someone. The intimacy. And of course being accepted for who she was. Once that happened she would work hard to make sure it developed into a relationship. She would encourage her partners to share things with her. Their hopes, their dreams. Their fantasies. And
in turn she would do the same with them. For the most part it would be fun. She would try to kindle the spark between them and they would find themselves moving on from just sharing to acting out those fantasises. She thoroughly enjoyed that. Then, when they had come to know each other really well, their inhibitions cast aside and her fear of rejection diminished, when she felt secure enough to say anything and be sure they weren’t going to run, she would tell them her ultimate fantasy. The one that would make her life complete.

  And then her would-be perfect partner would turn out to be just like all the others. Not always straight away. Some would hang around, try to accommodate what she wanted, force themselves to want it too. But it would never work. So they would start to find excuses for not seeing her. Work appointments. Family commitments. They would still come round for sex when they were in the mood, and she would always give them what they wanted in the hope they would stay, but it was never enough. They wanted some of her but they couldn’t take all of her. And gradually they would leave her, bit by bit. Excuse by excuse. Every single one. Every time.

  It would leave her devastated, heartbroken. Back to square one and bereft. The unfulfilled fire would still burn within her, giving her the strength to try again. He must be out there somewhere, she would think. He must be.

  And she would start looking once again.

  Now her quest had brought her to this one. Things had started the same way, progressed from a spark to a flame to a fire. It was going well. Very well. And very quickly. So well she had felt able to tell him of her ultimate desire. And he didn’t run away. Didn’t call her names or feel repelled by what she told him. He just nodded. Smiled. And told her his ultimate fantasy.

  And that was when she knew she had found him. Her perfect man.

  She checked her watch. The butterflies fluttered once more. Bashing their beautiful wings against her raw nerve endings. He was due any minute.

  She gave one last look round the living room, one last look round the dining room. A quick check of the kitchen. She didn’t want anything to spoil it. That would be awful.

  She looked down at her hands once more. Still trembling. Only to be expected. She had every right to be nervous. She was about to embark on the proudest, most beautiful, most perfect moment of her life. She was going to become who she had always dreamed she could be. The doll’s house was still in the corner of the living room. The one she had played with when she was little, had taken with her everywhere she had gone. She thought of the hours she had spent with it, losing herself in the lives of the dolls, wishing she could live there permanently, become one of them. She looked up, caught her reflection in the mirror over the fireplace. Smiled.

  She had a very pretty smile, even if she said so herself. Mostly when she looked in the mirror, especially when she didn’t have any make-up on, all she could see were her sad eyes. Sad and depressing. Because she knew what was behind them and hated it, always avoided looking at them. But with her make-up on she was a different person. One who could smile at herself, properly smile, because she saw the person she had always imagined herself being. The person she now was.

  ‘You’re beautiful,’ she said. ‘Beautiful.’

  The doorbell rang.

  Her breath caught in her throat. She looked round again. Smoothed down imaginary wrinkles in her dress, gave the room one last check. She took a deep breath. Another.

  And, her heart hammering in her chest, the butterflies trying to escape, went down the hall to open the door.

  Smiling as brightly and as widely as she could.

  PART TWO

  PARANOID

  2

  ‘

  J

  esus Christ, is she… smiling? Just what we want before Christmas.’

  The lead forensic scene investigator’s voice carried from the middle of the living room to the hallway. Detective Inspector Phil Brennan made to move inside. An arm thrust across his body, restraining him.

  ‘Not yet,’ said the voice attached to the arm. ‘Maybe you do things differently out in the sticks, but we follow the rules here.’ Then a cough. ‘Sir.’

  Phil looked at the speaker, aware that other eyes, down the hall, were on him too. Detective Sergeant Ian Sperring carried an extra ten years and an extra twenty-odd pounds compared to Phil. Plus an open dislike of authority, especially when it came in the shape of a younger superior officer from outside the area.

  Well this is working out, thought Phil, the note of sarcasm directed towards himself. He wondered whether to say anything, to give DS Sperring a reminder, gentle or otherwise, about who was in charge of the case and respecting the chain of command. Decided against it. They were working. They needed their energies for the job in hand.

  But it wouldn’t be forgotten. Just dealt with later.

  The two men wore regulation hooded blue paper suits and booties, second-skin latex gloves. Despite the December cold, Sperring was red-faced and sweating in his. They were both impatient to be allowed in. Phil craned his neck round the door frame again. Just the glimpse of what he saw both stunned and sickened him.

  ‘Call me when you’re ready,’ he said, turning and heading outside.

  A white tent had been erected around the doorway, lit from inside. Blue plastic sheets had been staked and placed to stop onlookers and news crews peering in. Beyond that, yellow and black tape marked the perimeter of the ordinary world

  The location wasn’t important. No matter where he went, it was always the same. When a murder was committed, it opened a doorway from the ordinary world to the nightmare world. And those doorways could appear, he had discovered throughout his career, anywhere and everywhere.

  The house was cold enough, but outside was freezing, the Birmingham winter being particularly harsh.

  Birmingham. Of all places. Phil had never imagined he would end up working here.

  It was eight months since a deliberate explosion had killed Phil’s father and almost killed his mother and himself. Eight months since he had come out of a coma. Eight months since his daughter’s abduction and his wife’s fight to get her back. Eight months. A long time to think about where he wanted to go, what he wanted to do with his life.

  But still. Birmingham.

  ‘You know, maybe we should get away for a bit,’ Marina, his criminal psychologist wife, had said one night in July as they sat on a bench outside the Rose and Crown pub in Wivenhoe. They were squeezing what they could out of the brief summer. Phil was, uncharacteristically, wearing a baseball cap, as his scars were still a little vivid, his hair not yet grown enough to cover them. Their young daughter, Josephina, was with her grandmother for the evening. They had both decided they needed to talk.

  Three months had passed by then. Their wounds, physical, mental, emotional and spiritual, had been patched up but were still fragile. Sudden, unexpected movements could and did split them open again.

  At first they hadn’t talked about what had happened, not in depth. They hadn’t been able to articulate it; like soldiers sharing a horror of surviving war, the experience had shell-shocked them into silence. But gradually, over time, that had changed. They needed to do it and had found a way. To Phil and Marina it was like learning a new language; different and unfamiliar, yet evolving into forms expressing and communicating hurt, loss, rage and guilt.

  Once they had reached that stage, they had both received counselling, separately and together. Just as they had learned how to talk and communicate once more, now they relearned how to walk, readying themselves to move on. But recently Marina had been distracted, like something else was on her mind, something she couldn’t discuss with him. And now, first asking Eileen to look after Josephina, she had decided they should go to the pub to talk. Phil, with some trepidation but no choice, had gone along with her.

  ‘A holiday,’ he had replied, somewhat relieved. ‘Good idea.’ That was what she had been up to, he reasoned. Booking a holiday. Keeping it from him as a surprise. Yes. That must be it.

  ‘Yeah�
�’ Marina put down her gin and tonic, leaned across the trestle towards him. The lowering sun made a golden halo around her mass of dark curls. Phil never tired of seeing that. Hoped he never would. ‘That would be good. Help with your convalescence and all that. But I was thinking something a bit more… long term.’

  Phil shuddered inside. She’s leaving me. Next she’ll tell me that she can’t look at my face without being reminded of what happened. He said nothing. Waited for her to continue.