The Doll's House

by Tania Carver

  He nodded quickly. Beads of sweat flew from him.

  Marina nodded, her suspicion confirmed. ‘Thought so. And then back here. To rape me. Isn’t that right?’

  He was about to agree but stopped himself. Shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, his voice as bleak as his features. ‘No. That’s… No. I’m not, not a rapist.’

  ‘Oh yes you are, Hugo. That’s exactly what you are.’

  He tried to shake his head again but didn’t seem to have the energy.

  ‘How many others? Eh? How many? I mean, I’m sure I’m not the first. What about…’ She tried to think of the girl’s name, failed. ‘That girl in the café? The one who’d been crying, what about her? Had you raped her as well? Is that what she was so upset about?’

  Her words seemed to shock Hugo out of his trance. ‘No, I… That was… different.’

  ‘I’m sure. Or at least I’m sure you think so. What if I find this girl? Track her down? See if she’s got a similar story to me? What then, Hugo?’

  He couldn’t answer, seemingly in a trance.

  ‘You’re finished,’ she said. The words were soft, almost whispered. Like a lover’s caress. ‘Finished, Hugo.’

  She stood back. Smiled. She had got what she came for.

  ‘Rapist,’ she said. ‘What are you?’

  He looked broken, defeated. His mouth was open to answer.

  The doorbell went.

  Neither of them moved.

  It rang again.

  Gwilym seemed to snap out of his trance. He moved to the window, looked surreptitiously out.

  ‘Oh God…’

  ‘What?’ Marina joined him.

  ‘It’s them? Isn’t it? Them…’

  Marina looked. Standing on the doorstep were two police officers. She recognised one of them.

  Her husband.

  41

  ‘

  M

  r Gwilym?’ Phil smiled, but not too much. Just in case. He introduced himself and Sperring; they showed their warrant cards. ‘Could we come in, please? We’d like to have a chat.’

  ‘Why? What d’you want?’

  There was a tremor in Gwilym’s voice and the fingers of the hand gripping the door seemed to be trembling. Phil also noticed a line of sweat along his brow. Coke? he thought. Bit early in the day. And then: But he does work in media.

  ‘Your name’s come up in the course of an investigation and we’d like to talk to you about it.’

  ‘Why? What investigation? What… what d’you mean…’

  Phil and Sperring exchanged surreptitious glances. This wasn’t the greeting they had been expecting.

  ‘Will I… will I need my lawyer?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Phil. ‘Have you done anything wrong?’

  Gwilym didn’t speak, but Phil was aware of the man staring at him intently. His lips were moving, eyes darting, like there was some kind of inner dialogue going on that Phil couldn’t fathom but that nonetheless seemed to be directed towards him.

  ‘It’s to do with Glenn McGowan,’ said Sperring.

  Gwilym jumped, his face twitching as if he had just received an electric charge. ‘Glenn McGowan?’

  ‘You do know Glenn McGowan, don’t you?’

  ‘Glenn McGowan…’ Gwilym rubbed his chin, thinking, lips still moving, like he was trying to work out the probability for each possible way the conversation could go, anticipate them, have an answer prepared.

  ‘Could we come in, please?’ said Phil. He voiced it as a question but weighted it so there could be no argument.

  Gwilym held on to the door as if he would be blown off into the path of a hurricane if he let go, but eventually relented and stood aside. They entered the house.

  ‘In… in here,’ said Gwilym, slamming the front door and pushing his way down the hallway so that he was in front of them. He opened the door to what Phil assumed was the living room, looking round it first as if expecting to be attacked. When it didn’t happen he opened it fully, let them enter.

  Phil and Sperring sat next to each other on the sofa, Gwilym opposite on an armchair. He didn’t look comfortable.

  ‘So,’ said Phil. ‘Glenn McGowan.’

  Gwilym’s face was almost blank. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Glenn McGowan.’

  ‘I presume you’ve heard the news,’ said Phil.

  Gwilym looked between the two police officers. ‘News?’

  ‘Glenn McGowan,’ said Sperring, ‘has met a sudden and untimely demise.’

  ‘Wh-what?’ Again his eyes darted between the two of them. His lips moved as if he was reciting an incantation at speed. ‘What? Dead? He’s… dead?’

  Phil nodded.

  Gwilym closed his eyes. ‘He’s the… Yes. The transvestite. Yes. Dead?’

  Phil confirmed the fact once more.

  ‘How… how did he die?’

  ‘He was murdered, Mr Gwilym,’ said Sperring, his voice no-nonsense and businesslike.

  So I’m playing good cop, then, thought Phil.

  ‘Murdered? Jesus Christ…’ Gwilym let the news sink in. The two officers studied his reaction. ‘When?’

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t divulge those details yet, Mr Gwilym.’ Sperring again. Not bothering to disguise the fact that he had taken a dislike to the man. ‘I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course…’ It was clear Gwilym was just saying the words they wanted to hear. He leaned forward. ‘But… could I ask what happened? How he died?’

  Phil and Sperring exchanged another glance.

  ‘Any particular reason, Mr Gwilym?’ said Phil.

  Gwilym’s eyes held a curious light. Phil knew what it was: self-interest. ‘I just wondered…’

  ‘He died while dressed as his alter ego Amanda,’ said Phil. ‘We believe he invited someone into his home who then killed him.’

  Gwilym’s eyes widened. He smiled, almost laughed. ‘And… and this is what you want to talk to me about? This… this murder?’

  ‘It is,’ said Sperring.

  Gwilym did laugh then. A short, sharp burst. ‘Ask away,’ he said. ‘Anything you like.’ He sat back in his armchair, slapped his hands on his thighs and smiled, looking a lot more composed than he had done when he had answered the door.

  Phil was beginning to take a strong dislike to the man. He had to make sure it didn’t show. He was glad that Marina had had nothing to do with him. ‘We’d like to know what your relationship was to him,’ he said.

  ‘My relationship? To Glenn McGowan?’ Gwilym smiled as if about to make a joke, then, correctly judging the reception he would get, decided not to. ‘Well, he was… Let me think. Glenn McGowan. I interviewed him. Well, initially one of my assistants, my researchers did, but I followed it up.’

  ‘Is that how you work?’ asked Phil. ‘Assistant first, then you?’

  ‘Pretty much,’ he said. ‘I’d say it’s standard practice. In my trade.’ He smiled as he said that, trying to be self-deprecating but just making himself seem self-aggrandising instead.

  ‘How does that work, then?’ asked Phil. He was aware of Sperring looking at him, clearly unhappy with the way Phil was leading the questioning.

  ‘Well, I decide on a theme for my new book. Start putting together ideas, threads, you know. Then when these have percolated somewhat, I draw up a list of the kind of subjects I want to interview. The kind that I think will prove or disprove – I like to have something to argue against – my theme, my hypothesis. These people will be representative of what I’m looking for but not clichéd examples.’

  ‘And do any of them ever disprove your hypothesis?’ asked Phil.

  Gwilym smiled once more. He was on home territory now. In control. ‘They may do. At first. But then it’s my job to find other examples to refute their claims.’

  ‘Or it’s your assistant’s job.’

  Gwilym shrugged. Whatever.

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Then they all go through an interview process with my assistants.’ />
  ‘How does that work?’ said Phil. Beside him, Sperring sighed.

  Gwilym leaned forward, eager to talk about his favourite subject: himself. ‘They’re given a standardised list of questions to ask. The questions have been prepared by me and depend on what the subject of the book is, though some are fairly standard. You know, childhood, relationship with parents, formative experiences, how a subject’s self-defining memories were formed, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Right,’ said Phil, nodding. ‘And then?’

  ‘Pretty straightforward, really. The interviews are taped, I watch the tapes. Or DVDs or whatever. Hard drives, I don’t know. The footage. And from that I decide which ones I want to talk to further.’

  ‘And you decided on Glenn McGowan.’

  ‘I did indeed.’

  Phil nodded, wrote something down, looked up. ‘Where d’you get your assistants from?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your assistants. Where do you get them from?’

  Gwilym looked momentarily taken aback by the question. It obviously wasn’t the one he had been expecting. ‘I… Students, mainly.’

  ‘Mainly?’

  ‘Yes. Well, virtually all students, I would think. Yes.’

  ‘Students that you teach? Or have taught?’

  ‘Yes. Pretty much. Or ones who come to me and say they want to work with me, can I help them, that kind of thing.’

  ‘So who would have been the assistant who interviewed Glenn McGowan? Can you give us a name?’

  Gwilym was about to reply, but at the sound of a small child’s voice coming from the kitchen he froze.

  42

  M

  arina’s heart was pounding, her arms and legs shaking. She pushed her body up against the kitchen door, felt like she was about to have a heart attack or pass out.

  The knock at the door, the ring of the bell.

  Phil. This afternoon, he had said. Later. He was the last person she had expected to see. Or wanted to see. Especially after what she had said to Gwilym.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ she had said.

  ‘Why?’ said Gwilym. ‘Worried about what your husband will say?’

  ‘No,’ said Marina, thinking quickly, ‘worried about what he’ll do to you if he finds me here.’

  ‘Oh. Well. You can’t,’ Gwilym had replied fearfully. ‘I mean, yes. I want you to go. But you can’t. The front door is the only way out.’ He rubbed his chin. Usually so artfully stubbled, this morning it just looked unkempt.

  ‘There must be a back way.’

  ‘There is. But it leads round to the front.’

  ‘They’d see me.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Gwilym, eyes alive with hatred, voice spitting bile, ‘they’d see you. And we wouldn’t want that, would we? Hubby coming round and spoiling wifey’s big moment.’

  Marina ignored him. ‘Then I need to hide. Where can I hide?’

  There was another knock at the door, another ring of the bell.

  Gwilym looked round. ‘There,’ he said, pointing towards the kitchen. ‘Go in there. Close the door.’

  ‘What if they want to come in? What if you need to get something?’

  ‘They can’t. I won’t.’

  They looked at one another once more. Co-conspirators in a play neither of them wanted to take part in.

  ‘Quick. In there. Now.’

  Marina had pushed Josephina, falling asleep in her buggy, into the kitchen and closed the door behind her. Stood with her back against it, heart pounding.

  Everything had gone wrong. Quickly, in the snapping of fingers. Gone from good to bad. She’d had him. Exactly where she wanted him. Admitting he was a rapist. Then this. She’d known Phil was coming to see him but thought she would have had time to get there first. Clearly not.

  She looked down at Josephina. The little girl’s eyes had been getting heavy while she talked to Gwilym. The house was warm compared to outside and she was well wrapped up. She had been growing drowsy and now she was off. Good. That was one less thing on her mind.

  Marina tried to get her breathing, her pulse under control. She pressed her ear against the door, straining to listen. No good. All she could hear were the voices, not the actual words. The door was old, heavy. Designed not to let sound pass through.

  She sighed. She didn’t have a clue what would happen next. Would Gwilym confess before Phil had even asked him anything? Break down and tell all? She doubted it. A thought occurred to her. She should have told him to do that. Thought more quickly and explained that that was why the police were there. To arrest him. And that if he confessed before they said anything, before they even accused him, he would be looked on more favourably. It might have worked. But the best ideas, as she knew, always appeared after the event.

  She tried to listen again. No good. She thought of cracking open the door slightly, just a little bit, letting the sound through. Too risky; they might see the handle move, want to know who else was there.

  So what? part of her brain said. Would that be so bad? Yes, said the other part. Because everything she had told Gwilym was a lie. And there was no way of knowing if Phil would go for it.

  She sighed once more, checked Josephina. Still asleep.

  She looked round the kitchen. It continued the theme of the living room – designer, a couple of years old – but didn’t seem to have been used much. The pans hanging over the central island were dusty and untouched, the chopping boards relatively unmarked, the knives hanging on a magnetic strip above the hob had dull blades. A cursory look in the nearest two cupboards showed that Gwilym lived mainly on ready-made sauces and pasta. He might have been able to impress the ladies, but it certainly wasn’t with his cooking.

  Something caught her eye. On the draining board at the side of the sink were two glasses, both heavy-bottomed tumblers. One was empty; the other had a small amount of amber liquid left in it. And lipstick marks on the rim.

  She crossed to the glasses, picked up the one with the remaining liquid, smelled it. Grimaced immediately. Marina was no whisky drinker, but that was terrible. Even peaty Scottish malts didn’t smell as bad as that. She sniffed at it again. It wasn’t whisky. Or brandy. In fact, she didn’t know what it was. It had elements of both but something more, like a local tipple picked up on a foreign holiday that never got drunk at home and was left at the back of the drinks cupboard. There was something else in there too. A strong chemical aroma. Medicinal.

  As soon as she thought that, she knew what it was. Not its actual chemical composition. But what it was meant to do. What Gwilym used it for. It was probably what he had given her at the dinner. Slipped it into her wine, let her drink it. His date-rape drug.

  And he had used it on someone else recently.

  She picked the other glass up, smelled that one. Whisky. Straight. No date-rape drug chaser.

  Her heart was beating fast once more, but no longer in desperation. This time she was energised. Focused. She looked round the kitchen. What she wanted wasn’t there. She started opening drawers, cupboards. As quietly as possible.

  In her buggy, Josephina stirred. Marina stopped moving until her daughter went back to sleep.

  She kept on opening drawers and cupboards until she found what she needed. Cling film. She carried the roll over to the lipsticked glass, pulled off enough film to give it an airtight seal, wrapped the whole thing up and slipped it into her handbag. She smiled.

  ‘Gotcha,’ she said.

  ‘Is that Daddy’s voice? Where’s Daddy?’

  She looked round. Josephina had woken up.

  43

  ‘

  I

  s there someone else here, Mr Gwilym?’

  At the sound of the voice, Phil’s eyes darted to the heavy wooden door at the back of the room.

  Gwilym’s eyes were wide, staring once more. ‘No… no… there’s… No.’

  ‘No one listening in to our conversation?’

  Gwilym shook his head. ‘No. Definitely not.’

&n
bsp; ‘I heard a voice. A child’s voice.’

  ‘So did I,’ said Gwilym, then smiled, trying to regain control. ‘Must have been…’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. A radio next door? Perhaps I left it on upstairs.’

  Phil stood up. There had been something familiar about that voice. ‘D’you mind if I take a look?’

  Gwilym stood also. ‘I do mind, yes. This is my house, Mr Brennan, and I don’t like people to just go walking round it without my permission. And you need my permission.’

  Phil, sensing he would get no further, sat down again, resumed questioning straight away. ‘The assistant’s name. What was it?’

  Gwilym’s eyes widened. He too sat back down. ‘Erm… I can’t remember.’ He was taken aback by the sudden resumption of the interview.

  ‘Try.’

  ‘I can’t, not off the top of my head. Is it important?’

  ‘It might be. We would like a list of all the assistants who conducted interviews. Would that be a problem?’

  Gwilym looked between the pair of them. There was something going on behind his eyes that Phil couldn’t read. ‘I… don’t know. You’d have to speak to the university, not me. They hold those kinds of records. Yes. Talk to them.’

  ‘We will,’ said Phil. ‘And we’d like to look at the tapes of the interviews too, please. Especially Glenn McGowan’s. Do you have that?’

  ‘Erm… at the university, I should think.’

  ‘If you could arrange that, please, we’d be very grateful. So what was the book about?’ asked Phil. Sperring, he noticed, was now looking round the room. ‘Transvestites?’

  ‘No, no. Not at all. No. Free will.’

  ‘Free will?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gwilym, leaning forward, gesticulating. ‘Free will. Its concept and actuality in our society today.’

  ‘And where did Glenn McGowan come into all this?’ asked Sperring, with the tone of a man clearly wanting the interview to be over. ‘Because he liked to dress up in women’s clothes?’

  Gwilym gave him a patronising smile. ‘Not quite. Although the dressing up plays a large part in it. In Glenn McGowan’s case, anyway.’

  ‘You wanted to look at what would make someone want to live that way, pretending to be a woman, is that it?’ asked Phil.