The Doll's House

by Tania Carver

  ‘You fucked up.’

  ‘I… I… didn’t…’ His voice sounded weak, even to his own ears. He hated to hear weakness, especially his own. It made him angry but there was nothing he could do about it.

  ‘You did.’ Strong, no arguing. ‘You took the woman as well. You weren’t supposed to do that.’

  ‘No, no…’ He was shaking his head as he spoke, knowing he would attract attention, starting not to care. This was important. More important than Christmas shoppers. ‘I… She came in. When I was there. She wasn’t supposed to.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  He almost smiled as he said the word. ‘Improvised.’

  A sharp intake of breath. He didn’t like the sound of that.

  ‘But… but… I made it good. Made it look like a robbery. Threw some, some stuff around. Broke things. You know.’ He recounted it as quietly – as professionally – as possible, making no mention of the rage he had experienced. That wasn’t important. Not now.

  ‘And left your DNA all over the place, too.’

  The Arcadian froze. He had gone over this in his mind, time and time again since the previous night. He was sure he had left nothing incriminating behind. Sure of it. ‘No,’ he said, trying to pump strength into his voice. ‘No. I didn’t.’

  ‘You sure?’ It was clear he wasn’t believed. ‘Doesn’t sound like it.’

  ‘No,’ he said shaking his head rapidly. ‘No. I didn’t. I swear I didn’t.’ He took a couple of deep breaths, tried to calm himself. Compose himself. Speak like a professional. One professional to another. ‘I was controlled.’ He swallowed hard at the lie. ‘I made sure nothing of mine was left at the scene. Nothing.’

  There was a pause. ‘You sure?’

  A sudden image came into his mind. The cheap blonde slut lying on the floor the way he had left her. The mess she had been in. And how he had wallowed in that mess. He swallowed again. Felt his fingers shaking as he held the phone. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m sure. Definitely. Definitely… definitely sure. Yes.’ He nodded to emphasise the point. To convince himself of it, if not the voice on the phone.

  Silence. He wondered if the voice had hung up.

  The Arcadian felt he had to say something. His reputation was being eroded. He had to do something, say something to bring it back. To convince the voice that he was a professional, that he could be entrusted with jobs like the one the previous night. If he didn’t, then his plan was in jeopardy. He was just another loser. Another sad wannabe.

  No. That wasn’t him. He was better than that. And he would prove it.

  He took another deep breath. Then another. When he spoke, he modulated his voice so it was lower, slower. Calm and controlled. He had read in one of his self-help books that people responded better to slow, deep voices. Found them more trustworthy. That was what he would do now.

  ‘There’s no problem,’ he said slowly, ‘none at all. The woman complicated things, yes, no doubt, but, as I said, I did what anyone would do in the circumstances. Any professional. I improvised. There’s no way it can be traced back to me. And there’s no way they’ll connect it with the doll.’

  ‘The doll?’

  ‘The last one.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘As I said…’ He paused, building up to the last part of his speech, ‘no… trouble… at… all…’

  The voice made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snort. ‘What you talking like that for? You on Mogadon or something?’

  The Arcadian felt himself blush. No one made him blush. No one. ‘Everything’s fine,’ he said, quick as he could.

  ‘It had better be.’

  ‘And the next one will be perfect too.’

  But the voice had gone.

  He stared at his hands. They were shaking. But not just from fear. From anger. From… He didn’t know. So many conflicting emotions.

  He pocketed the phone and stood there staring straight ahead, seeing everything. Seeing nothing. The mall was playing the same irritating Christmas songs on a continuous loop that were always played at this time of year. He hated them. Each and every one. Didn’t know how the masses listened to them. Well, he did. Because they were thick. Stupid. Because they knew no better. Not like him.

  He thought back to what the voice had said. How it hadn’t replied at the end. And his hands started to shake again. He had to have another one, he had to. If he didn’t, he would just be back in the crowd. No better than the hordes in front of him. And that could never happen.

  He blinked. Once. Twice. Felt tears well up. Kept them down.

  ‘No,’ he said, not realising he had spoken aloud. ‘I can’t. I can’t. I’ve got… There’s things. Things I’ve got to do.’

  He looked back at the toy shop. Yes, he thought. Buy the doll. Go home. Everything will be all right when you get home. You’re safe there.

  He walked towards the shop, knocking shoppers out of the way, not caring, not apologising. He had work to do. He was on a mission, a calling. He went back to where the doll had been. It was still there, right where he had left it. He wasn’t surprised. What child would want that cheap piece of shit?

  He picked it up, walked to the till, ready to pay.

  And stopped dead.

  There, on a shelf right in front of him, was a red fire engine.

  He stood there staring. The years fell away. And there he was, sitting in front of the TV in a flat in Rotherham, his mother pocketing the money, disappearing out of the door.

  ‘No… no…’

  He tried not to think of what had happened next, but his mind was set on a track it couldn’t get off. He felt their hands on him again. Their breath. Making him… making him…

  He tried to think of later, when he was out of the YOI, working for them. When he was in charge, when he wasn’t being hurt. But he couldn’t. All he could think of was that poor, sad, hurt little boy. The red fire engine.

  The doll dropped to the floor. People were scared. He wondered why. Then he realised he had been shouting.

  And crying.

  He turned and ran from the shop.

  Ran all the way home.

  39

  T

  he briefing was continuing.

  ‘Ben,’ said Phil. ‘Possibly a real name. Might be worth getting out into the gay community, the transsexual community, asking around the bars on Hurst Street for anyone with that name and a double helix tattoo.’

  He saw a glance pass between Khan and Oliver. One looked decidedly happier than the other.

  Elli was almost jumping up and down to be noticed. She wanted to go next. Phil gestured for her to stand up. With a clank of jewellery she did so. Phil noticed today’s T-shirt: Winter is Coming. She’d got that right, he thought.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, and scanned the team, clearing her throat. Her eyes widened and Phil spotted immediately the look of someone more used to spending time on their own or with digital friends and colleagues rather than with real flesh-and-blood people. Even the ones she worked with.

  ‘Don’t get too excited about the tattoo,’ she said. ‘That could have been a disguise. Like the wig and facial hair. If he was being captured on camera he might have wanted to throw us off the scent.’

  The sense of deflation in the room was palpable.

  ‘But maybe not,’ said Elli, sensing the mood and trying to bring the room back to her. ‘I’ve got some new cross-referencing software that might help us. I’ll give it a go.’

  There was a silence as the team waited for her to explain what she would be doing, but Elli obviously thought she had said enough and was preparing to sit down.

  ‘Can you run us through it?’ asked Phil.

  She cleared her throat once more. ‘Yes. Of course. It’s like… it’s a Venn diagram. It’ll triangulate whatever set of facts we want to input. Such as… well, in this case, for instance, that would mean…’ She looked over at the screen. ‘White male. Age twenties, thirties. History of violence. History of sexual d
eviance. Perhaps on the sex offenders register. Geographical location, somewhere round here. Not currently in prison. Start from there.’

  ‘But not tattoos?’ asked Sperring.

  ‘Well that could be secondary data to input. Although I imagine most of them would have at least one anyway. Start with the first lot. It should give us a list. From that list we extrapolate further. Height, even. That’s something he can’t fake. Time out of prison.’

  ‘All that’s assuming he’s known to us,’ said Sperring.

  ‘I think from looking at that,’ said DCI Cotter, pointing at the frozen screen, ‘it’s probably a given. He’ll have been on our radar in some shape or form.’

  ‘Well, we can try all the variables we want,’ said Elli. ‘But I recommend we start with the holy triumvirate: sex offenders in one group, violent offenders in the other, work out who’s not in prison and off we go.’

  ‘How soon can we get a list?’ asked Phil.

  ‘With variables like that? Minutes,’ she said. ‘The more variables, the more specialised. The longer it takes.’

  ‘Like a Google search for violent sexual deviants,’ said Phil.

  ‘Exactly,’ she said, nodding.

  ‘Great,’ he said. ‘Get on it.’

  ‘May I?’ She looked at Cotter for permission to leave the briefing. The DCI nodded. Elli went back to her desk, began tapping keys straight away.

  Phil’s attention was back on the team. ‘Hugo Gwilym,’ he said. ‘What do we know about him?’

  ‘The bloke off the TV?’ said Khan, surprised.

  ‘That’s him,’ said Phil.

  ‘What’s he got to do with this?’ asked Imani Oliver.

  ‘His name’s come up,’ said Phil. ‘Not as a suspect, I don’t think. Although of course we have to keep an open mind. Julie McGowan said that her husband was contributing to a book Gwilym was writing. Providing research, apparently.’

  ‘On transvestites?’ asked Khan.

  ‘On deviant psychopathologies. That was the phrase his wife used. I just wondered if his name had come up for anything before.’

  Negative head shakes all round.

  ‘Wasn’t there something about him a while ago?’ said Oliver.

  ‘In what way?’ asked Phil.

  ‘I don’t think it came to much,’ she said, ‘and it certainly didn’t get as far as us. But there was something, some allegation in the paper about him and a student? They’d had an affair? Something like that.’

  Phil noticed Khan rolling his eyes at her words.

  ‘Not illegal, though,’ said Sperring, with what sounded like a note of regret in his voice. ‘As long as she was over eighteen. You know what those university types are like.’

  Phil was aware that Sperring was looking directly at him. He said nothing.

  ‘You know what some of those students are like as well,’ said Khan.

  Some of the team laughed. But not many. And certainly not Imani Oliver, Phil noticed.

  ‘I think we’d better pay him a visit anyway,’ said Phil. ‘OK. One last thing before we divide up the work for the day. Ron Parsons. He’s behind the letting company that rented the house to Glenn McGowan. He sounds like he’s got previous. And that makes him, to me at least, a person of interest. But he’s before my time. Anyone care to enlighten me?’

  There was silence round the room. Eyes found the floor suddenly interesting, shoes scuffed against table legs.

  ‘No one?’

  Phil noticed even Alison Cotter was reluctant to speak.

  ‘He was a villain,’ said Sperring, eventually. The rest of the team looked up, relieved that someone else had spoken. Even more relieved that it was Sperring. Their reaction gave the DS’s words more weight, Phil thought.

  ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘Back in the day, as the youngsters say now. A villain. But old-school. Had his fingers in everything going. Everything.’

  Phil noticed DCI Cotter lean forward, open her mouth slightly as if ready to interject should Sperring keep going. He also noticed that Khan’s face was reddening.

  ‘Slum landlord. His letting agency is about all that’s left of that. But all sorts. Drugs. Prostitution. Clubs. Extortion. Protection. Anything where he could turn a profit. Anyone he could turn a profit from. Proper villain.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Sperring shrugged. Gave a glance to Khan that Phil wasn’t supposed to spot but did. ‘He got caught. Did time. When he came out, the parade had moved on. He was old news. And no one wanted to know him any more.’

  The room seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief. Phil was sure he hadn’t imagined it.

  ‘And that’s all that’s left of his empire?’ said Phil. ‘A letting agency.’

  ‘It seems like it’s legit, too,’ said Sperring. ‘Insult to injury.’

  ‘Right,’ said Phil. ‘Thank you.’

  Sperring nodded. Didn’t make eye contact with anyone else in the room.

  ‘OK,’ said Phil, addressing the team once more. ‘Let’s divide up those jobs. Let’s catch this guy. Ian, you’re coming with me,’ he added as Sperring was walking away, seemingly about to pick his own assignment. ‘Back to school.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Or at least university. I thought we wouldn’t get on to this until this afternoon, but there’s no time like the present. Let’s see what Hugo Gwilym’s got to say for himself.’

  40

  T

  he front door opened. Hugo Gwilym stood there, smile in place for whoever it was, persona ready, not wanting to disappoint his public.

  The smile wavered and fell away. Surprise replaced it. And apprehension.

  ‘Hello, Hugo.’ Marina stared at him, barely managing to suppress the hatred and hurt she was feeling. He smiled back, recovering quickly. His features smug once more.

  ‘Can’t keep away, eh?’ He began to laugh, but stopped when he saw what was at the side of his front door.

  A pushchair. With a child in it.

  ‘This is my daughter, Josephina,’ Marina said. ‘I thought you might be less inclined to try something if she was with me. Move.’

  Still looking at the small child, he stood aside numbly, allowing her to lift the buggy over the threshold and into the house. She pushed it down the hallway into the living room, stopped, looked around, taking in the room.

  ‘Thought it would be like this. Your decor. Did a magazine do it for you a couple of years ago? “Handsome Psychologist Invites Us Into His Gorgeous Edgbaston Home”? Am I right, yes?’

  He had reached the doorway and stood watching her.

  ‘Yes, yes you’re right.’

  ‘And you just left it as it was, yes?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  She smiled. There was no warmth in it. ‘I’m a psychologist. I read people. It’s my job.’

  Marina looked at Josephina ,who seemed to be happy playing with Lady, her soft toy, in the buggy. She smiled at her daughter then returned her attention to Gwilym, crossing the floor to stand next to him, lowering her voice as she spoke.

  ‘I know what you did,’ she said, eyes locked on to his, waiting to gauge his reaction. She would know in the next few seconds whether she had been right. ‘To me.’

  He swallowed hard, tried to keep eye contact with her. Small beads of sweat had broken out along his hairline. Either he’s nervous, she thought, or he’s been on the charlie. Or both.

  ‘What… what I did. What did I do?’ He tried to laugh, pitching for bravado, nonchalance. Missed.

  ‘You know what you did,’ Marina said, struggling to keep her voice low, steady. ‘You drugged me. You raped me.’ The word hissed at him. She didn’t know if he had or not. This was the best way to find out. Saying it emboldened her.

  He glanced nervously around at Josephina, back to Marina.

  ‘What? You worried about me saying the word rape in front of my daughter? Is that right? Are those your limits? Is that how far your decency stretches? Not saying
rape in front of children?’

  She could feel her voice getting louder, her control slipping. She took a breath. Calmed herself. Focused again on why she was there. What she wanted.

  ‘I… I didn’t…’ his voice dropped, ‘rape you. That’s… that’s a lie.’

  ‘Then why are you so nervous? If you didn’t do anything wrong, why are you sweating?’

  As if noticing for the first time, he wiped his brow with the back of his hand. ‘I… I’m not.’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘It’s… hot. In here.’

  ‘No it’s not. And it’s December out there.’

  He was about to reply, but Marina cut him off.

  ‘Look, Hugo, cut the bullshit.’ She took a deep breath. Steadied herself for what she was about to say. ‘I told Phil. My husband. You know, the detective?’

  Hugo looked terror-stricken. ‘You… told him…?’ He clutched his face in his hands.

  Bullseye. Marina tried not to smile. ‘Yes. I told him everything. As soon as I got home. And you know what? He believed me. That you drugged me, then raped me.’

  Hugo looked suddenly like his own ghost. ‘But I —’

  Marina trampled over his words, trying hard to keep the sense of triumph from her voice. ‘Yeah. I told him. And you know what he did? Guess.’

  ‘I… don’t know. Could you, could you please leave, now…’

  ‘He took samples. Blood. Urine. Sent them off for testing. See what’s still in my system. What d’you think of that?’

  Gwilym looked like he was about to either disappear into nothing or just expire before her eyes. ‘I… I…’ He glanced around as if expecting the house, his world to come crashing down around him.

  Marina moved in close to him, face up against his. Her voice low, threatening. Like heat lightning rumbling nearer. ‘So what was it, eh? What did you give me?’

  His mouth worked but no sound came out.

  ‘Did you slip it in my drink during the meal? All those glasses of red wine you were keen to pour for me? Did you?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Did you?’