The Doll's House (6 page)

F
rom the outside, it looked like an old Gothic schoolhouse with its red-brick exterior and leaded casement windows, chimneys and crenellations. Inside had more than a whiff of it too, with dark wood-panelled walls and doors, exposed heavy metal pipework and shiny worn floor tiles the colour of old blood. The rooms would have been big, echoing halls if the twenty-first century hadn't invaded and subdivided with its plasterboard and glass offices, its laminate cubicles and workstations. Computers, phones, internet, TV all installed and working, keeping the old ghosts at bay, helping the new ones find rest.

It was the home of the West Midlands Major Incident Unit.

The building was an annexe of the main central police station on Steelhouse Lane. With its grey stone front and heavy wooden double doors, the station looked to Phil like a 1950s Hollywood version of a medieval castle. Both buildings were a far cry from the late eighties beige brick urban prison architecture of Southway station that he was used to in Colchester.

Inside his office, Phil held a mug of what he had been informed was tea but looked and felt more like the weather outside. Cold and grey. He hadn't taken to Birmingham. Or his new team.

He had finished late the previous night, but not too late – overtime hadn't yet been signed off. They had done what they could, Sperring accompanying Esme Russell and the body to the mortuary for the post-mortem, Khan heading home. Phil had followed suit.

He had been exhausted but unable to rest, tired but wired, the way he always was at the start of a new investigation, potential leads and avenues of investigation fizzing and popping in his head. So he had phoned Eileen, checked Josephina was OK and set about getting a drink, trying to calm himself down. Marina wasn't in. He remembered she was attending the department's Christmas party and wasn't expected back early, so he settled down with his bottle of beer, Wintersleep playing softly in the background. They were living in Moseley village, a suburb of Birmingham between Edgbaston and Balsall Heath that consisted of huge old Edwardian houses, thirties semis and well-established plane trees along the pavements. Many of the large houses had been divided up into flats, attracting students from the nearby universities, as well as lecturers and academics, which gave the centre of the village a relaxed, bohemian air. Marina had described it as a big-city suburban version of Wivenhoe, minus the river, and Phil had laughed but agreed with her.

Marina still wasn't back when, a couple of hours later, he turned off the CD player, dumped his bottles in the recycling bin and went up to bed.

She was settling in to their new surroundings much better than he was. He was sure she was starting to realise that. She would come home from work energised, sharing anecdotes and stories about her day, laughing as she retold them. He kept silent, having nothing to share with her except the discomfort and unease he felt at his own team and the doubts and uncertainties he had about taking charge once more. He didn't want to burden her, spoil the obvious enjoyment she was experiencing at her new job, and consequently could feel himself drawing away from her as he tried not to infect her with his darker moods. It wasn't the healthy thing to do, he knew that, but it was the way he dealt with things. Everything would pick up now he had a major investigation to run. It had to.

It had to
.

He took a sip of the tea, grimaced and stepped out of his office into the main workroom of the MIU. The doll's house had been removed from Glenn McGowan's rented house the night before. It had been forensically examined overnight and now stood at the side of the murder wall in the briefing room. It was large, wooden, Georgian in design, old. The front wall hinged open. Inside, the majority of the rooms had been laid out in period design. Judging from the peeling wallpaper and the dust collecting on the miniature furniture, it had been done some time ago. The one exception was the living room. It had been recently decorated to match that of the room in which they had found the body – Glenn McGowan, it had just about been confirmed – the night before. Freshly papered pink walls, new furniture. As near to a small facsimile as could be achieved, even down to the crockery on the table.

The only thing missing was the doll.

Phil heard noise behind him, looked up. His superior officer, Detective Chief Inspector Alison Cotter, put her head round the door.

‘There you are, Phil. Morning. Got a minute?' She turned and walked towards her office. Phil put down his mug and followed.

DCI Cotter's office was adjacent to his. Bigger and better decorated, it also showed signs of permanent occupancy. Family photos, books on the shelves. Personal souvenirs and mementoes. The opposite of Phil's office.

Cotter sat down behind her desk. She was in her mid forties, red-haired, with pale skin that glowed inwardly with the kind of vitality regular competitive exercise gave. The squash tournament trophies on the shelves showed how successful she was.

Phil sat down. The photos on Cotter's desk were angled towards her. Phil knew who they were of. Cotter's wife, a defence barrister, and their son. She was out and proud, and anyone who had a problem with that would, Phil imagined, feel the business end of a squash racquet. He could imagine Sperring's opinion on having a lesbian for a boss.

‘So,' said Cotter, leaning back, sipping the same anonymous grey liquid from her mug that Phil had attempted to drink, ‘I hear you caught a live one last night.'

‘Yeah,' said Phil. ‘This could be big.' He didn't have to go into detail. He knew she would have read up on it.

‘Any clues? Leads? Anything to go on?'

Phil shook his head. ‘Nothing yet. I just put my head round the door to see if there were any updates, but no. Khan's co-ordinating the door-to-door, collating all that. I'll get him to run down any CCTV there might be too. Sperring's following chain of evidence with the body for the post-mortem.'

‘And you?'

‘I'm going to do a bit of legwork this morning. Pay a visit to the letting agency, see if I can find out something about our deceased's background. Then his place of work. Try to track down any family, friends, see what we can do.'

She gave a professionally rehearsed smile. ‘Good. Glad you're on top of it.'

‘I am,' he said and stopped.

Cotter leaned forward. ‘But?'

‘But… I could do with more staff. More bodies on the ground. I'm used to working with a bigger team on a major inquiry.'

‘So am I,' she said, her features darkening. ‘But this is out of my hands, as you know. We're being reformed. Having our waste trimmed. Streamlining efficiency. Becoming leaner and meaner. Doing more with less.'

‘And other euphemisms for having our operating budget removed,' said Phil. ‘I didn't vote for them.'

‘No,' said Cotter, lifting an eyebrow, ‘I don't suppose you did.'

‘I'm sure this one'll be upgraded,' said Phil. ‘The media'll get hold of it. It's too big for them not to.'

Cotter frowned. ‘Maybe not. There's no angle. No cute victim. They might leave us alone to do our job.'

‘We've got a dead mutilated transvestite. They're not going to let this one lie.'

She sighed. Gave up on her mug, placed it on the desk. ‘Leave it with me. Let me see what I can do.'

‘Thanks. I appreciate it.'

She nodded. Looked straight at Phil. ‘How are you getting on, Phil? Taken to your new surroundings yet?'

He didn't know what to say. He was sure she had seen he wasn't happy, wasn't fitting in. ‘You'll have to ask the team,' he said.

She smiled. It didn't reach her eyes. He guessed from that look that she already had asked them. ‘We're very pleased to have you here. You come highly recommended. Excellent record. A little unconventional, perhaps, but you get results. And Gary Franks is an old friend of mine. I trust him. If he says you're good, you're good.'

‘Let's hope so,' said Phil.

‘Yes,' said Cotter. ‘Let's.'

Phil sensed the meeting was at an end. He rose, left the room, ready to get to work. ‘If you could think about some extra bodies, I'd be very grateful.'

‘I'm sure. We need a result on this one. Let's make sure we get it.'

Walking out, he felt less reassured than when he had gone in.

M
arina had chased her hangover away long enough to get out of bed, make herself a coffee and get back in with the morning papers. Josephina had spent the night with Eileen and she was enjoying the first lie-in she had had for several weeks. She was under the duvet, an old Natalie Merchant album on the bedroom CD player, the mug of hot coffee to her lips, when her mobile rang.

She placed the coffee on the bedside table, picked it up. Her first thought was: Eileen.
Something's happened to Josephina
. But she dismissed it from her mind. She could be forgiven for thinking like that after everything that had happened recently. Her second thought: Phil. Catching up with her, wishing her a good morning since they had missed each other the night before.

The night before. She shuddered.

She checked the phone's display. It was neither of those. It was a number she didn't recognise. She answered.

‘Hello?'

‘Good morning.' The voice overly cheerful, a redcoat at a holiday camp chivvying up the late sleepers.

Oh God
, thought Marina,
a sales call
, and made to hang up.

‘Not up and about yet, Marina? Shame on you. Glorious day, you're missing it.'

She stopped, finger poised above the button. She knew that voice. It took her a few seconds but she placed it. Hugo Gwilym.

‘Hugo?'

‘Who else would it be?' He gave a chuckle. That was the only way she could categorise the sound – a chuckle.

She looked round the room, confused. It somehow felt wrong hearing his voice in here. This was her and Phil's room. Private. She felt stupid and a little ashamed for thinking it, but it was almost like an invasion.

‘How… What are you calling for?'

‘Just wanted to say thank you. For last night.'

She said nothing. Waited for her memory to come back.

‘You can't remember last night?' Another chuckle, deeper this time, heavy with meaning. ‘I can.'

‘Course…' Could she? Her memory flashed back. What was he talking about? What had happened? She tried to order events. The details were cloudy. She was sure she hadn't drunk that much. She tried to think. The dinner. Everyone talking, laughing. Then Hugo arrived. Smarming all over her. She could remember glances and looks from the rest of the table, not all of them approving. Had she done something wrong? She didn't think so. They had chatted. Well, argued was a better word. He had explained his theories, she had rebutted them. Then… nothing. It all became hazy from there on.

She looked round the room once more. Her clothes were piled on the chair in the corner where she had taken them off before getting into bed. She could barely remember that. Or how she got home.

Her face reddened, her heart tripped. How much had she had to drink? Not much. A gin and tonic before the dinner, a couple of glasses of red during. Nothing after. Her colleagues were still pretty new – she didn't want to make a fool of herself in front of them so she had been moderating her intake. And then… nothing. Until she woke up.

‘Good,' he said. ‘Wouldn't want to think you'd forgotten me.'

She had no idea what he was talking about or what had happened, so she said nothing.

‘Speechless? Not like you. You are still there, aren't you?'

‘Yes, yes, I'm still here.'

‘Good. Thought for a minute you'd nodded off. No chance of that last night, though, was there?'

She had to say something. ‘What… what d'you mean?'

‘Last night,' he said, an irritable edge to his voice, as if it was beneath him to explain. ‘I mean about what happened last night.'

‘What did happen last night?'

Another laugh, more like an explosion this time. ‘Well that's an insult, I must say.'

Marina's head was spinning from more than just the alcohol residue. ‘Just… tell me what happened.'

‘You know what happened. You were there.'

‘Humour me. Pretend I wasn't.'

Another noise – an intake of breath, a snort, she couldn't be sure – then a sentence started and quickly halted before she could make out what he was saying. ‘We… had fun.'

Her stomach flipped over. She thought she was going to be sick. ‘What kind of fun?'

‘What kind d'you think?'

Suddenly Marina's skin was too hot for her body and she felt like she wanted to claw it off. Her head spun again, her breathing fast and irregular. It was how what she imagined one of Phil's old panic attacks felt like.

‘I… I…'

Another chuckle. ‘Two I's. Very egotistical. But I like that in a woman.'

‘I… don't know what you're talking about…'

‘Oh come on, don't be bashful. Don't try and pretend it never happened. We're all grown-ups here. Deal with it and move on.'

Marina said nothing.

‘Until the next time.'

‘What? What are you… I can't even remember the last time. There's not… there's not going to be a next time.'

‘Would you like to meet for lunch? I'll pay.'

‘Aren't you listening to what I'm saying?'

‘I am. And I'm asking you to lunch today. And you're going to say yes.'

‘Oh, am I?'

‘You are.'

‘Why?'

Another chuckle. ‘Because I'm a much better psychologist, and a better reader of people for that matter, than you give me credit for. And because you won't let this go without seeing me. For whatever reasons you think you may have.'

Marina said nothing. She could hear her breathing, the blood pumping round her body, hot and fast.

‘All right. When and where?'

He told her. ‘And don't be late. I can't abide that.' The words carried an undertow of threat. He hung up.

Marina flung the phone on the bed. Looked around the room, taking in the walls like a zoo animal trapped in its cage.

She took a mouthful of coffee. It was still hot. It tasted cold.

Then she ran to the bathroom and threw up.