Corinne’s laptop and mobile phone were sitting on Ferreira’s desk when they returned to Hate Crimes. The original mobile, not the one she’d found hidden in Corinne’s wardrobe. That was still up in the tech department, waiting its turn. She felt sure that would be the one to yield the more interesting information, but for now she had plenty to go at.
She poured a coffee and sat on the windowsill smoking a cigarette while the machine booted up, listening to Murray debrief Zigic about the man who Corinne had got into a fight with at the Meadham on the night before her death.
‘His alibi is cast iron,’ Murray said. ‘He works in the Amazon warehouse over Stanground, clocked in at seven, did a straight twelve-hour shift. No slacking.’
‘Is it possible that someone else clocked him in?’ Zigic asked.
‘No way. They run a tight ship. He was there.’
Zigic sighed. ‘Did you get anything out of him?’
‘He was embarrassed,’ Murray said, tapping a pen against her desk. She wanted to be done with this, Ferreira thought, get back to the women staring out of the board behind her.
‘Embarrassed about what?’
‘He said he was drunk, being stupid.’ She shrugged. ‘My gut says he’s a decent enough sort, just acts like an idiot when he’s had a skinful. Interesting thing was he had no idea Corinne and her mate were trans until I told him. He said he thought they were just a couple of rough old birds out on the pull. Think he fancied his chances, actually.’
Their first dead end, then.
Ferreira pitched the butt of her cigarette out of the window and returned to her desk.
She started with Corinne’s browser history. This was the truest representation of a person you could get, she thought. Search histories and sites visited, the times and frequency. It told you things they’d never share with another human being, their deepest fears and darkest secrets, revealed obsessions and vices and kinks.
Corinne’s greatest vice seemed to be shopping. She’d spent hours, late at night, on Net-A-Porter and Browns; her baskets showed totals into four figures, items destined never to be bought. She had Pinterest boards devoted to every article of clothing imaginable and her wardrobe at home suggested she’d denied herself nothing. Not when she was finally free to dress however she liked.
Binge and purge, Jessica had said. A cycle of extravagant spending while Corinne had been comfortable in her dual identity, then a forced catharsis when Nina found the clothes she’d been hoarding.
No wonder Jessica was so traumatised by the sight of Sam Hyde tearing apart her mother’s wardrobe. She’d seen it before and she never expected to witness Sam enacting the same behaviour that Nina had.
She wouldn’t find Corinne’s murderer here though.
On to Facebook.
There was an In Memoriam post at the top of Corinne’s page, set up by someone called Jolene – the friend who Terry Sutton had mentioned – and now Ferreira clicked on her photograph; a middle-aged woman with a strong brow and a nice smile, highlighted hair feathered around her face.
Hundreds of messages of condolence had stacked up already, the usual awkward clichés which people fell back on because the language of grief was the most elusive. A few were angry, though.
Whoever did this wants stringing up.
He’ll get what’s coming to him in prison.
I know what I’d like to do to this bastard.
Ferreira kept scrolling.
Most of her friends seemed to be trans or cross-dressers, although it was difficult to judge and Ferreira realised she probably shouldn’t. But this looked like a closed world. Security settings at their highest, everybody very open, complaining about the pain from recent electrolysis sessions and requesting advice from her on everything from breast forms to books they could buy their kids to explain what they were going through.
Corinne was generous and helpful. A very different person to the one Nina Sawyer had described, but it was easy to be kind on social media, Ferreira supposed; less demands, less shared history, and unlike a marriage there was always the option of switching off.
Across the office a phone started to ring. Kept ringing, insistently. Murray’s desk, but she was gone, and eventually Wahlia got up with a huff and answered it, took a message and stuck it to her computer screen.
‘What are you doing?’ Ferreira asked him.
‘Checking out whether there have been any similar trans-phobic attacks nearby recently.’ He stretched where he stood, reached around to dig his knuckles into his buttock. ‘I really think I’ve done some damage here.’
‘You’ve got office worker’s arse, that’s the problem.’ She took a mouthful of coffee. ‘You need to get out a bit more. Flex it.’
‘I’m a finely honed machine,’ Wahlia said, grinning. ‘I could bench-press you, no bother.’
‘Not in that state, you won’t.’
Gingerly he lowered himself back into his chair. ‘It wouldn’t kill you to show some sympathy.’
‘I’m not kissing it better, if that’s what you’re after.’
‘Please.’ He waved the suggestion away. ‘I know where your mouth’s been.’
She eyed him through the gap between their computers, trying to get a read on him, but his attention was back on his screen and she couldn’t decide if it was his usual teasing humour or if he’d heard something about her and Adams.
Christ, were they the talk of the station already?
No, Bobby would tell her. If the gossip mill had her in its teeth she trusted him to give her a heads-up. He’d take the piss afterwards, of course, but that was only fair. She’d do the same to him.
‘So, are there?’ she asked.
‘What?’
‘Any neighbouring forces reporting transphobic crimes?’
‘Nothing that matches what we’re looking for,’ he said. ‘It’s mostly random verbal attacks on strangers, pushing and shoving. I’ll stay on it.’
Ferreira went back to scrolling through Corinne’s Facebook page, stopping when she spotted an album of photographs taken in the Meadham.
Corinne in a white bodycon dress, holding her phone at arm’s length to snap a selfie with Jolene. More photos of the crowd, the women done up in party wear, all glitz and gloss, a few wives and girlfriends among them, dowdy-looking in comparison and not quite so into the swing of things. Sam Hyde was in a couple of shots, cheek to cheek with Corinne, with Jolene.
Ferreira studied the faces in the background, saw Sutton, the manager, being hugged by a busty woman in a black wig and clearly loving it. Zac Bentley sitting at a table with Evelyn Goddard, heads bent close.
Some of the photographs were tagged with the names of the people in them but nobody she recognised. She went to the other albums, the older ones, knowing what she was looking for might not be strictly useful but feeling a tug towards it.
December 2014. There was Aadesh, his beautiful, fine-boned face perfectly painted and blowing a kiss to the camera. He wore a gold dress, cut low across the collarbone, glittery powder dusting his chest.
This was the night he’d been attacked. A few hours after Corinne snapped him he walked into the underpass at Bourges Boulevard and was knocked down, his face beaten, wig pulled off. And the man who did it had whispered in his ear – ‘You’re disgusting.’
He wasn’t though. He was stunning.
Ferreira printed out the photograph.
A few minutes later she found one of Simone Trent and if it hadn’t been tagged she wouldn’t have recognised her. She’d only seen Simone as Simon, with his face swollen and bruised, stitches in his bottom lip, more across his cheekbone, both eyes blacked.
Simone had the same delicate features as Aadesh, a slim nose and narrow jaw, big eyes heavily made up. She printed that photograph too and when they were both done she stuck them to the board either side of Corinne Sawyer’s.
Footsteps came up behind her and she knew it was Adams before he spoke, catching the rhythm of his step and a hint of his aftershave.
‘More victims?’ he asked, standing close to her.
‘Old cases,’ she said. ‘But there’s a link.’
Adams pointed to Aadesh. ‘She’s cute.’
‘I’ve got her number if you want it.’
‘Think I can do better on my own.’ He smiled his bedroom smile at her and she was glad Wahlia couldn’t see it. ‘Where’s the big man?’
‘What’s the problem?’ Zigic asked, emerging from his office.
‘Colleen’s run down Lee Walton. Shitbag was hiding round his mum’s, we dragged him out of the loft, said he was checking the insulation around her water tank.’ Adams grinned but Zigic didn’t seem to find it very funny. ‘Thought it might be an idea if you sit in on the interview, see what he’s got to say about Ms Sawyer.’
Zigic frowned. ‘We haven’t got anything on him.’
‘He doesn’t know that, and this guy rattles so fast we’ve been running a book on it. I’m telling you, if he’s done something you’ll see it. There’s no filter with this arsehole.’
Adams started towards the door, expecting to be followed, and Ferreira saw the annoyance on Zigic’s face as he collected together the scant paperwork he needed.
A minute later, back in her seat, focused on the screen, she felt Wahlia’s eyes on her and when she looked up she was surprised by the seriousness of his expression.
‘What?’
‘Zigic is going to go ballistic if he finds out.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Sure you don’t.’
‘It’s none of his business,’ she said, voice angrier than she thought she was.
‘You know how this works, Mel.’ He shook his head, glanced away from her. ‘If I can see it, Zigic is going to. Just, tone it down, alright? For your own sake.’
Wahlia returned to his work and she watched him for a few seconds, swallowing every denial and excuse that came into her head, knowing he was right.
This fucking job. It ruled your life, made any semblance of normal existence impossible, with the punishing hours and perception-skewing experiences, turned you into a curiosity or a fetish object for any man you might get involved with, because civilians never understood. Not really. They might enjoy the vicarious thrill but only for so long.
They couldn’t handle the dark side.
She’d be more careful, but she wasn’t going to stop.