The Doll's House

by Tania Carver

  They had parked next to a Mini on the driveway. Pulled up to the garage doors was an MG. It looked as well looked after as the house.

  Phil and Imani exchanged a glance. Phil rang the bell, waited. The door was answered by a middle-aged blonde woman. It took Phil a few seconds to place her. Cheryl, the secretary from the letting agency.

  He held up his warrant card, announced himself. ‘Hello again, remember me? I just want to have a few words with Mr Parsons. Won’t take long.’

  Her eyes darted from side to side and she opened her mouth to give out a lie, but Phil saw a shadow move behind her.

  ‘Is that him? Mr Parsons?’ Phil stepped over the threshold. ‘Mr Parsons? Sorry to trouble you at home. Could we have a quick word, please?’

  Ron Parsons tried to move away, but seeing that Phil had already entered, he stopped. Phil went towards him. He noticed that the hallway was large, a curving wrought-iron staircase dominating. The glass in the door frames was bevelled and obscured. Panes that had been broken and replaced more recently didn’t match. An ancient Chinese rug covered the wooden block floor.

  ‘Come in,’ said Parsons, clearly not happy.

  He led Phil and Imani to a sitting room. The nondescript armchairs and sofa looked modern but didn’t fit in with the rest of the room, which was, in keeping with the rest of the house, like a museum to eighties design. Like Parsons had been forced to buy something more recent but was so stuck in the past that he didn’t know what would go. He crossed to a gold-plated drinks trolley, the kind that would sell for a small fortune in a Custard Factory vintage shop, poured himself a whisky. A large one. He didn’t offer them anything.

  While he was doing that, Phil’s eyes were drawn to a row of photos on the wall of the alcove behind the drinks trolley. They showed two young men, one large and ebullient, one slighter and more studious. The way they were arranged, the ebullient young man seemed to be the centre of the display.

  Ron Parsons sat down in an armchair. Phil studied him. He looked different to the person he had met the other day. Smaller. Older. Less intimidating. He was dressed in jogging bottoms and T-shirt with a mismatching hoodie over the top. Old trainers on his feet. Unshaven. Red-faced.

  ‘Been working out,’ he said. ‘Reach that age. Got to keep yourself in condition.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Phil, for something to say. Parsons could just be making conversation, but from the look in his eye Phil thought it was more to do with being ashamed to be discovered in anything other than a suit. He was old-school. His suit was his armour.

  Parsons took a sip of his drink. Cheryl bustled in, but Parsons waved her away. She left looking sour, dejected. ‘The wife. Checking up on me. Probably wanted to make you tea.’ He shook his head. ‘What d’you want? This is Saturday. I’m at home. There are rules.’

  ‘I know, Mr Parsons,’ said Phil, ‘but I just wanted to run a couple of things by you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘To do with the house you let to Glenn McGowan.’

  Parsons looked irritable, if not angry. ‘Couldn’t it wait till Monday? Monday’s a work day. Weekends are for family. It’s not the done thing turning up here. Not the done thing.’ He pointed a long, bony nicotine-yellow finger. ‘You should know that. Time was you knew where you were in this town.’

  Phil remembered the conversation he and Imani had had in the car: Like a king who doesn’t reign any more but still wants to be treated like one. A perfect description.

  ‘What d’you want to know?’

  ‘There’s a discrepancy in the paperwork,’ said Imani.

  Parsons stared at her, not bothering to hide his distaste. Phil didn’t know whether that was because she was a woman, black, a police officer or all three. ‘So what.’ Another mouthful of whisky. ‘It can wait till Monday.’

  ‘No, Mr Parsons, I’m afraid it can’t,’ said Phil. ‘We’re in the middle of a murder investigation and we have to explore every avenue. It’s our job. And I’m afraid murder inquiries don’t keep office hours. Because murderers don’t.’

  Parsons muttered something under his breath, took another pull of whisky. The glass was empty. He stood up, went to the trolley, poured himself another one. Sat down again sighing. Waved his hand at Phil. Continue. The gesture managed to look both regal and defeated at the same time. Imani leaned forward.

  ‘There’s a discrepancy between what you told us and what the papers show, Mr Parsons.’

  ‘Discrepancy, what discrepancy?’

  ‘The house you let to Glenn McGowan,’ she said. ‘That wasn’t to the company he worked for.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘It wasn’t to him personally, either. It was to a holding company. An umbrella company.’

  Parsons shrugged, knocked back the whisky. ‘So? Why’s that important?’

  ‘Because you’re one of the directors,’ said Phil. ‘It’s your company.’

  ‘No it’s not,’ said Parsons quickly, then looked at them, realising his mistake. His eyes darted to the photos on the wall, as if he found them suddenly interesting. ‘Well, all right. What if it is? So what?’

  ‘Why didn’t you think to mention this before, Mr Parsons?’ said Phil.

  Parsons shrugged. Said nothing.

  ‘We did some more digging,’ said Imani. ‘It turns out that you – or rather Shield Holdings, the company of which you’re a director – actually own the property. Care to explain that?’

  ‘What’s to explain?’ Parsons squirmed in his chair. Phil felt waves of heat coming from the man. Anger. ‘The holding company owns the house. It’s entirely separate to the letting agency. The letting agency lets it out. We make a profit.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Phil, ‘you would. If you weren’t leasing out your own property to yourself. Where’s the profit in that?’

  Parsons said nothing.

  Imani continued. ‘We found another couple of interesting names on the board of directors of Shield Holdings. Cheryl Parsons.’ She looked towards the door. ‘I believe we’ve had the pleasure?’

  Parsons said nothing. Just stared at them, drained the whisky.

  ‘And Grant Parsons. That your son?’

  Parsons’s expression changed. His cheeks, already flushed, turned beetroot. He looked like he was about to have a coronary. But Phil noticed that there was something else mixed with the anger in his eyes. Fear. Parsons’s eyes flicked over to the photos once more.

  ‘Leave my son out of this,’ he said. ‘You’ve got nothing… He’s got nothing to do with this.’

  ‘To do with what, Mr Parsons?’ Phil felt his stomach flip. He was on to something. He knew it.

  Parsons tore his eyes from the photos, stood up. ‘To do with…’ He gestured with the hand holding the whisky glass. ‘This. Anything. You leave him out of it.’

  Phil remained seated. ‘Can I ask —’

  ‘No. No, you can’t ask. You can’t ask anything. If you want to talk to me, from now on, you make an appointment and do it in office hours. And I’ll have my brief with me too. He’ll answer your questions for you.’

  ‘Mr Parsons —’

  He cut Imani off. ‘Coming here to a man’s house on a weekend, like he’s a… a…’

  ‘What, Mr Parsons?’ said Phil. ‘Witness? Suspect? Criminal?’

  Anger flared once more in Parsons’s eyes. No fear this time; he was on home territory. ‘Get out. Both of you. Out. Now.’

  They got out.

  Didn’t speak until they were in the car and driving away.

  ‘See the way his eyes went straight to the photos on the wall?’ Phil said.

  ‘I did. Two of them there, though. Wonder which one’s Grant.’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll find out.’ Phil leaned across, switched on the radio. ‘Better than watching the Villa?’

  Imani smiled. ‘Definitely.’

  52

  ‘

  J

  esus Christ… what a fucking mess… Bloody savages…’

  Spe
rring looked round the remains of Keith Burkiss’s living room. Khan stood at the door, decoding messages from his stomach, deciding whether it was safe to enter.

  ‘It looks…’ the DC swallowed hard, ‘like an abattoir…’

  The forensic scene investigators were just finishing up. Trying to glean all they could from what was left of the room. Which wasn’t much. There was a body half in, half out of a wheelchair. A man, or what was left of him. Another body lay by the door. Or most of it did. A woman.

  ‘If you’re going to spew your ring, do it outside. I need you here working,’ Sperring said, not looking round. Khan turned, left the room quickly.

  Sperring stared at the carnage before him. Being squeamish wasn’t something he had any time for. Khan had the makings of a good detective, but if dead bodies upset you, go work Traffic. He didn’t want bleeding-heart liberals on the job feeling sorry for whoever was dead. Not like fucking Brennan. Wouldn’t be surprised if the DI got little crystals out and started trying to commune with the dead. Fucking hippy. Sperring realised he was letting his anger at his boss cloud his judgement. He took a few seconds, got Brennan’s face out of his head.

  No, as far as Sperring was concerned, he wasn’t looking at people. Not any more. He was looking at a crime scene. And it was his job to catch whoever had done it. Plain and simple. That was what he told himself; that was how he dealt with it. He didn’t like post-mortems, it was true. But that, he rationalised, was different. That was the aftermath. This was a crime scene.

  But Jesus, what a crime scene. Jo Howe and her FSIs had tagged, bagged and numbered as much as they could. Little yellow markers dotted the floor of the room. Sperring, in his paper suit, was careful not to disturb any of them, walking in and out only on the common approach path laid out for him.

  He looked down at the first body, the woman, and felt himself gag. No, he told himself. I won’t do it. I’m harder than that. He swallowed, ignored the sudden lightheadedness he felt and glanced again at the body. She looked like she was dressed up for a night out. A short, tight party dress was still on her torso. Torn and bloodstained, it was revealing more than she had anticipated, he thought. Her high-heeled shoes were partially on her feet, one heel snapped off, the straps still round her ankles. But it was her face, or what was left of it, that drew his eye and repelled him at the same time.

  ‘Worked out what’s happened?’ said Jo Howe, crossing over to him. ‘I can see the cause of death.’

  Sperring nodded, didn’t look up. ‘Stevie bloody Wonder could see the cause of death.’

  The living room wall looked like a gigantic meat painting. From the remains of the woman’s face, it was clear that someone had taken her by the back of the head, probably holding on tight to her hair, thought Sperring, and smashed it repeatedly into the wall. Until she was dead. He looked again. No, he thought, long after that.

  There were other marks on her body too. Cuts. Burns. She didn’t go easy.

  He turned away from her, studied the dead man. He looked shrunken. That was the first thing Sperring noticed. Not the lack of legs; the fact that it seemed as if he’d recently lost a lot of weight and his body hadn’t caught up with the fact. His skin was used to being stretched and the abrupt contraction meant it had no elasticity. It hung in folds around his arms, his neck.

  His death had been different to the woman’s. Sperring could see that much. No blood at all. A pillow lay nearby. He knelt to examine it. Careful not to touch, he scrutinised the surface, looked at it from different angles, let the light catch it. He found what he was looking for. Dried saliva.

  ‘Smothered,’ a voice said from behind him.

  He turned, stood. Esme Russell was there, similarly suited.

  ‘You looked already, have you?’ he said.

  ‘A cursory once-over. Smothered. Most probably with that pillow.’

  Sperring nodded. Jerked his thumb to the doorway. ‘And her over there?’

  ‘A much more unpleasant ending. It looks like it was the repeated bashing that finally killed her, but her body is covered in marks. I won’t know if those were made before or after her death until I’ve properly examined her, but my instinct says before.’

  ‘He played with her, then killed her,’ said Sperring. ‘Took his time.’

  Khan re-entered. Sperring turned to him. ‘Nice of you to join us. What you brung to the party?’

  Khan took out his notebook, opened it. He knew how Sperring would react if he came in empty-handed, especially after his embarrassing retreat. So he had dug up some information.

  ‘House belongs to Keith Burkiss. He has an ex-wife, Kelly, but they had a bit of an on–off relationship, apparently. Divorced, but she was back living with him.’

  ‘Well it’s permanently off now,’ said Sperring. ‘Who told you this?’

  ‘Next-door neighbour. Apparently the wife divorced him when he got cancer. And diabetes. Said he had to have his…’ Khan trailed off, looked at the body. ‘Oh yeah.’

  ‘His legs amputated, you mean. Keep going.’

  Khan managed to drag his eyes away from the scene and back to his notebook. ‘She came back, the wife, Kelly. Well, ex-wife now. Don’t know when. And…’ he shrugged, ‘that’s it.’

  Sperring thought for a moment. Scrutinised the room. Took in the carnage. The place had been destroyed. Not just the bodies, but the furniture, the TV, ornaments. He turned to Khan.

  ‘You’re probably too young, but can you remember the Manson Family?’

  Khan frowned. ‘Was that a TV series? Did they play instruments?’

  Sperring shook his head. Maybe Khan wasn’t such a good copper after all. ‘No. They were a cult in California in the late sixties. Manson would tell them what to do and they’d break into some rich Hollywood type’s house, cause as much damage as possible and rape and murder whoever was there. Looking at this, all this, that’s what I think it must have been like.’

  ‘Right,’ said Khan. ‘So you think this is a cult, yeah? Some ritualistic murderer?’ His eyes were glittering with excitement.

  ‘Is it bollocks,’ said Sperring. ‘It’s just some mental-case druggie who broke in, found him at home, thought he was an easy target, then was disturbed by her. Then lost his shit. That’s what I reckon. That’s what it looks like.’

  Khan looked disappointed. Then a sudden thought struck him. ‘Hey, d’you think it might be connected to that transvestite murder?’

  Sperring stared at him. ‘Why? What can you see here that could possibly link the two?’

  Khan looked round, then back to Sperring. Defeat in his face. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Right. Nothing. Mental druggie. We’ll ask around. He’ll turn up sooner or later. Bragging about what he’s done. Trying to flog off what he’s nicked. Going mental somewhere else. We’ll catch him.’

  Khan nodded. ‘Right. But shouldn’t we, you know, check other stuff as well?’

  ‘Like what?’ Sperring was irritated now.

  ‘Well,’ said Khan. ‘Burkiss was suffering from cancer. We should find out if it was terminal, and if it was if anyone had anything to gain from his death. Financially, I mean. Did he have a will, you know. Like that. All that kind of stuff.’

  Sperring sighed. Saw work piled up ahead for him. ‘Yeah, all right. Do that. Let’s examine all the avenues.’

  ‘Isn’t that what DI Brennan would say?’ said Khan.

  Sperring turned to him. ‘Fuck DI Brennan.’

  Khan laughed. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Fuck DI Brennan.’

  Sperring smiled. ‘Good lad. Glad we agree on something.’ He turned to Jo Howe and Esme Russell. ‘Thank you, ladies. All yours.’

  He turned and left the room. Khan scurrying after him.

  53

  T

  he Arcadian hated this time of day. That crepuscular transition between the dying day and the not-yet-born night. It was the heavy trudge home, the missed opportunities of the day, the optimism that had arrived with the morning now transformed into f
ailure and sadness. Or maybe it was just him. Maybe everyone else liked it. Thought it contained the possibility of fun, adventure. Looked forward to seeing what the night brought.

  Maybe.

  He looked at the doll’s house once again. The figure of the doll, his beautiful firstborn, still looked lonely. Her smile more painted on than ever, her hair sticking out and unkempt from where he had repeatedly stroked it. She looked worn from being carried. The grinning idiot with the cut-off legs beside her did nothing to help either. The Arcadian had added the blonde bimbo doll to the scene. But it still wasn’t right. He had tried to make her fit in, taken a knife to her features, carved and cut away. Stabbing her in the face at the end. But it still wasn’t right. He looked again. And felt nothing but sadness at the house, sinking down into depression.

  The phone call hadn’t helped. He had thought he had done the right thing. Disguising his tracks by making it look like a burglary. He had thought he was being clever. Apparently not.

  He had run from the Bullring Centre, back home, where he had pulled down the hatches, locked them behind him and just sat on the floor, giving himself over to despair. He had cried and screamed and sobbed. Once he was all cried out, once he was empty, despair had eventually given way to anger.

  He had stood up then, begun to pace. How dare he talk like that, say what he had said. To him. To me. Who the fuck… who the fuck… I’ll show them, he thought. Teach them a lesson. Go in there, confront them. Tell them what’s what. Eventually his anger had subsided too and he had slumped to the floor once more. Drifted off, staring. He didn’t know how long for.

  No butterfly. That was the thing that upset him the most about his work at the big house. No butterfly from either of them. He hadn’t been surprised at the man. Wouldn’t have expected it. But the woman… He had thought he would have seen hers leave her body. After all, he had spent a long time on her. Worked her up into the kind of state where the butterfly should have appeared. But it hadn’t. He sighed. Sometimes he wished he had never heard from the voice. He had been happy enough before. In his own way.