The Doll's House (18 page)

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 deviance. 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. Any
one
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.'

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?
'

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.

‘
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.