Avaline Saddlebags

by Netta Newbound

  “Is it Gina? Did you find her?”

  The sound of thundering footsteps rushing down the stairs threw me for a second. Moments later a slightly built woman, with vibrant pillar-box-red hair that looked like a wig, pushed the man aside. “Have you found her?”

  “Are you Mrs Elliot?”

  “Yes. Just tell me. Have you found my daughter?”

  “Maybe we could step inside for a second.” I eyeballed Layla and was relieved when she stepped forward, putting her hand on the older woman’s arm.

  Moments later, seated on the burgundy floral lounge suite, all eyes once again were turned to me.

  “It’s bad news, I’m afraid.”

  Mrs Elliot let out an inhuman wail, causing Layla to gasp. The man moved sideways and pulled his wife into his huge embrace. She sobbed hysterically.

  Mr Elliot stroked his wife’s hair and, taking a deep breath, he turned to face me again. “Go on.”

  “A body was found in the Mersey this morning. We believe it’s your daughter, Gina.”

  “No! No, please no.” Mrs Elliot continued to howl.

  I hated having to do this. It was the worst part of my job by far.

  Layla looked away. I could see she was poking at the corners of her eyes.

  “What makes you think it’s her?” he said.

  “Going by the description you gave when you reported her missing, and the tattoo on her arm, we’re pretty certain.” I removed my phone from my pocket. “I have a couple of images here. Can you confirm this is Gina’s tattoo and necklace?” I handed the phone over.

  Mrs Elliot’s heartbroken sobs confirmed we were right.

  Half an hour later, Mrs Elliot had calmed down somewhat and agreed to take Layla to see Gina’s bedroom.

  I took the opportunity to ask her husband a few more questions. “Can you tell me when you last saw your daughter, sir?”

  “She went out as usual on Friday night. We had dinner together and she was excited about starting her new job today.”

  “Who was she going out with? Do you know?”

  He nodded. “Felicity someone, I don’t know her surname. She works—worked with Gina at the post office.”

  “Which post office is that?”

  “The main sorting office in town.”

  I nodded and wrote the name down in my notepad. “Did your daughter have any enemies that you know of?”

  He shook his head. “Not that we were aware of, but she would rarely tell us anything for fear of upsetting us. Her Mum has been sick—breast cancer, and she’s just getting over the ravages of the chemo.”

  That explained the wig. “I’m sorry to hear that, sir. Understandable she’d keep something like that from you under the circumstances. Did she have any trouble when she first made the transition from George to Gina?”

  He shrugged. “You know what people can be like, especially around here. There was a lot of nastiness initially, but Gina didn’t let it bother her—she often said the relief she felt more than made up for any negativity. She would shrug it off and it wasn’t long before everyone that mattered accepted her as Gina. Anyone who met her recently wouldn’t even know George had ever existed.”

  “Do you have a recent photograph of Gina, Mr Elliot?”

  He got to his feet and picked up a photo frame from the sideboard. “This is a couple of years old, but it’s a good likeness.”

  “Thank you, I’ll take a copy of it and bring it back.”

  “Don’t bother. We have it on the computer.”

  I nodded and removed the photo of Gina standing beside a yellow sports car from the heavy frame. “She was pretty,” I said. “Did she have a significant other—either as George or Gina?”

  “Gina was a lesbian which I don’t understand to be honest. I thought when she told us she wanted to be a woman it was because she fancied men, but apparently it doesn’t always work that way.”

  “Were you unhappy with your daughter’s lifestyle choices?”

  “No, not at all. It broke my heart to see my child so miserable. He was always on the wrong side of the law. I suspected he’d end up getting into more serious crimes if he’d stayed as he was. I’d have agreed to anything to make him happy. Being Gina made him happy.”

  I nodded. “So, did she have a girlfriend?”

  “No. Not for a long time. George had a daughter with his first girlfriend when they were still at school. Lisa, our granddaughter, lives with us now. She’s twelve this year. I don’t know how we’re going to tell her…” He broke off and placed a shaky hand against his lips. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry. Take your time.”

  Mr Elliott coughed and shuffled in his seat. “Where was I? Oh, yes. I’m sure she dated, but she never brought anyone home or told us about anybody special.”

  Layla and Mrs Elliot re-entered the room. Layla was pale with dark circles under her eyes.

  “So, what will happen now?” Mrs Elliot asked, sitting down next to her husband and reaching for his hand, back in control.

  “Somebody will need to formally identify her, of course. But that can be done tomorrow if you’re feeling up to it.”

  “I’d rather do it today. There’s still a chance it may not be Gina.” She was back in denial.

  I glanced at Layla and smiled sadly before turning back to the couple. “We are quite certain, Mrs Elliot. But I understand you wanting confirmation. As soon as the autopsy has been performed, somebody will be in touch with you.”

  “Is there anybody you’d like us to call?” Layla asked.

  “No. It’s okay, love. I can manage.” Mr Elliot smiled sadly.

  “Fuck, that was intense,” Layla said, once we were back in the car.

  “I know. I hate having to tell any parent their kid is dead, never mind brutally murdered—Bella usually takes over, she always knows what to say.”

  “And you brought me along because you thought all women were bound to be the same?” She grinned.

  “No. But it is common knowledge women are better at that kind of thing than most men.”

  “Not me. I was well out of my depth in there.”

  “Yeah, I could tell. You looked worse than Mrs Elliot when you came downstairs. Had something happened?”

  “Not really. She showed me Gina’s bedroom and it felt strange and more than a little wrong to be going through a dead person’s private things. Her book opened on her pillow, dirty undies thrown into a pile behind the door, half-drunk cup of tea on the dresser—I felt like an intruder.”

  “But you saw nothing out of the ordinary?”

  She shook her head. “The room looked pretty normal to me, if not overly girly for the victim’s age.” She paused and turned to look out of the window. “So, where are we going now?”

  “Maybe we should do a detour to the post office. Gina was meant to go out with someone called Felicity on Friday night.”

  “I believe you’re looking for me,” The woman approaching us must’ve been well over six feet tall. Her fine blonde hair fell in a tumble around her broad shoulders. The strong jawline and the shape of her brow told me she was also transgender.

  “Are you Felicity?”

  “Yes.” She shuffled nervously. “What’s this about?”

  I flashed my warrant card. “DI Dylan Monroe and DS Layla Monahan. Shall we take a seat?” I smiled, indicating the red plastic chairs dotted around the staff room we’d been ushered into by the receptionist.

  Felicity glanced at us, her forehead furrowed. “So?”

  “We’re here about Gina Elliot. Can you tell me when you saw her last?”

  “Gina? Why? What’s happened? She was supposed to start her new job today but didn’t show up.”

  “Can you just answer the question please, miss?”

  “Erm.” She shook her head, clearly panicked. “Friday. Yes, Friday night at Dorothy’s. Why?”

  “Did you spend the entire evening together?”

  “No. I had a headache. I left after one dr
ink. Gina was hanging around for the open mic—she sang the same old songs every week and I wasn’t in the mood. Has something happened? I tried to call her when she didn’t turn up this morning, but her phone was off.”

  “When you left the bar, did you see who Gina was with?”

  “We always hang around with the same crowd of people. We meet up every Friday although I couldn’t tell you their full names. Please, tell me. I need to know.”

  I glanced at Layla before turning back to Felicity. “Gina’s body was found in the River Mersey this morning.”

  Once the initial shock had worn off, Felicity gave us the Christian names of the people they were with at Dorothy’s on Friday.

  I handed her my business card. “I’d appreciate you letting me know if you remember anything that might be important.”

  She stifled a sob and nodded.

  “What are the chances of that?” Layla asked when we returned to the car.

  “What?”

  “A couple of trannies working in the same place.”

  “Birds of a feather flock together, or so they say. And for the record—they’re transsexual or transgendered, not trannies, thank you very much. Now, come on, let’s see what Lauren has to say.” I turned the car around and headed for the hospital.

  On the ground floor of the Central hospital, I knocked on the glass door and pasted on a smile. “Have you been here before?” I asked Layla.

  “No. Savage used to deal with this sort of stuff on his own.”

  I always thought it was strange how Savage kept his sidekick mostly office based. “Brace yourself then,” I warned.

  “Why? Because it’s gruesome?”

  Forensic Pathologist, Lauren Doyle, looked up from her desk and rolled her eyes. “Come in,” she said.

  “Yes, that and the fact she’s a grumpy old bugger who loves pulling my chain,” I said, under my breath before opening the door. “Hey, Lauren, how are you?”

  “I was okay until about thirty seconds ago.”

  “Aw,” I said, pulling my best sulky face. “You’re not pleased to see me then?”

  “When am I ever pleased to see you?”

  We were good friends really, but both enjoyed a bit of banter.

  “This is my colleague, DS Layla Monahan.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Layla added, stepping forward to shake her hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “Oh, I bet you have,” she said, grinning. “Now what can I do for you both?”

  “We’re here about Gina Elliot–any news?”

  “I finished up a little earlier and will email the full report shortly. To cut a long story short, she’s a mess. Broken back, shattered kneecap, stamp injuries to one side of her face, the fingers of her right hand have been cut clean off.”

  “Shit,” I said, casting a glance at Layla who looked sickened.

  “That’s not the worst of it,” Lauren said. “Come on, I’ll show you.” She led us into the adjoining room and pulled back the sheet covering the body on the examination table.

  Layla gasped and began dry retching. “Sorry.” She retched again. “Sorry.”

  An inappropriate rumble of a giggle began in the pit of my stomach and I had to fight to suppress it. Every time she made the terrible retching sound, the harder it was for me to maintain a professional appearance.

  “I’m so sorry,” Layla said for the last time before racing from the room.

  Lauren shook her head, clearly unamused, which made the child in me want to bark out a laugh all the more.

  “Should we get on?” she snapped.

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

  She picked up a Ziploc bag from a metal dish at the side of the table and handed it to me. “This had been fitted just like last time.”

  I examined the contents and my stomach muscles clenched. “Fuck!”

  Layla returned holding a wad of toilet roll to her mouth. “Oh, my God,” she said, gripping the back of the chair. Her face drained of colour.

  “Exactly,” Lauren said. “A prosthetic penis was in place, just like on the last victim, but super-glued this time.”

  “So, we’ve definitely got ourselves a serial killer then?” I inspected the bag.

  Lauren nodded. “Without a doubt, although technically we can’t declare it’s a serial killer until there have been at least three victims, but in this case, I’d stake my career on it.”

  I rubbed my temples.

  Lauren continued. “However, this time, the killer has excelled himself.”

  “How so?” I dreaded what she was going to say next.

  “Take a look for yourself.” She beckoned us down the bottom of the table and lifted one of Gina’s legs.

  I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The lips of Gina’s vagina had been crudely sewn shut with a length of red wool.

  Two

  We headed to a greasy spoon café and ordered two coffees to go. Taking our drinks outside, we sat on a rickety picnic bench.

  Unsurprisingly, neither of us had much of an appetite. The sight of the killer’s handiwork had left an indelible impression in my mind. The sickening brutality of Gina Elliot’s murder lit a furnace of fury in my belly. I’d get the animal responsible and make sure he spent the rest of his life behind bars.

  This case was proving to be the most harrowing I’d ever worked on. Murder of any kind is the worst of crimes, but these latest killings were too close to home.

  Layla was quieter than usual. She made no secret she didn’t like seeing dead bodies—especially ones that had spent a couple of days bloating in the river.

  “That was pretty traumatic wasn’t it?” I asked.

  She rolled her eyes. “I’d rather not think about it—talk about embarrassing. I wanted the ground to swallow me up.”

  “I thought it was hilarious if you want the truth. I almost combusted with the effort of keeping it in. Lauren would’ve rapped my knuckles with a surgical hammer if I’d laughed.”

  She stifled a grin which briefly lit up her face.

  “Are you okay? I know you’ve just thrown your ring up, but you’ve been pretty quiet all day.”

  She shrugged and took a sip of her coffee.

  I felt for her. Going through divorce proceedings at thirty-one, especially when there were three children involved, must be devastating. I wanted to wrap my arms around her, but technically, we weren’t close friends.

  “Talk to me,” I said.

  “What about?” She seemed distracted.

  “How about you and Max for starters, and why, today of all days, you turned up for work?”

  “What am I going to do at home besides stare at the four walls and wonder where my marriage went wrong?”

  “Max left you, remember?”

  “I know that,” she snapped.

  “Then it’s not your fault–it’s his.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it anymore, Dylan.”

  “But what will you do?”

  She drained her coffee cup then stood up from the table. “I’ve got a kickboxing class tonight and I’ll take my frustrations out on my sensei.” She began to walk away.

  “Where’re you going?”

  “I just need five minutes to clear my head, do you mind?”

  “No, take as much time as you need. In fact, if you’re not up to it, I can go to Gay Town on my own.”

  She glowered at me. “I can still do my job, you know.”

  We entered Dorothy’s, Liverpool’s oldest gay bar, and waited for our eyes to adjust to the dimly lit interior after the glaring sunshine outside.

  We headed towards the bar and I noticed many pairs of leering eyes following me.

  I scanned the area looking for CCTV cameras and could only see a couple—one covering the bar and the other the stage.

  The place was huge. A single bar stretched from one end to the other. A butch lesbian was at the far end pulling a pint of beer, and a pretty boy with crazy hair and multiple piercing
s stood serving closest to us. He gave me the side eye and continued to serve the guy propped up against the bar.

  As a fully paid up homosexual, I was no stranger to the gay scene, but wasn’t a fan of this particular place. Everything about it, even down to the sparkly silver wallpaper and video screens showing old Kylie and Madonna videos, screamed camp. It was also a haunt for drag queens, and, although an acquaintance of mine was a drag queen, they terrified me.

  “I bet you love it here,” Layla teased, knowing full well I wasn’t that kind of gay.

  “Yeah, it’s my favourite place in the whole world.” I rolled my eyes.

  “What is it with you?” she asked. “You’re out and proud, but you’re so weird about it.”

  “So?”

  “You don’t like anything that’s considered remotely feminine, which I find odd.”

  “Just because I’m gay, doesn’t mean I know the routine to YMCA or have every fucking Abba album on vinyl. Have you ever thought it’s other people who are weird for assuming we’re all the same?”

  “Oooh! Touchy today, aren’t we?”

  “For your information. This case has me rattled, and whatever I think about my place in gay world, somebody has it in for a community I’m a part of.” My anger was rising. “This isn’t just a case to me. I actually care about these people too.”

  “Nobody’s saying people don’t care.”

  “Really? Two women are dead, Layla, and yes, the papers will report it, but rather than show sympathy to the victims, they’ll dig up every little piece of dirt they find and make them out to be some sort of deviant who deserved their fate. It’s not right.”

  “All right,” she said. “Take it easy.”

  “Why should I?” Suddenly I was feeling I had to speak up for the victims. “They were transgendered, not easy prey for some sicko. Imagine how you’d feel if you were forced to live your life as a man. These women were braver than most by choosing to be true to themselves.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting anything, but I get it’s difficult for some people to understand. And besides, what if it’s nothing to do with their gender? There could be more to these deaths than you realise.”