It was dark by the time Ferreira reached Simon Trent’s house, a red-brick terrace on a sparsely lit street with a disused church almost opposite, its crumbling bulk a smudge of darker black against the gloom. The site was boarded off for redevelopment, one- and two-bed apartments, high-spec, gated, a residents’ gym. Ferreira had been eyeing them since the architect’s scheme went up.
The place she was renting was fine, for now. Not as new and sleek as she would have preferred, none of those luxury touches, and it had been freezing over winter, with the boiler not working properly, but climbing out of the car into driving wind and a light, stinging drizzle, her imperfect flat seemed suddenly very tempting.
A hot shower, a large drink. Slip into her pyjamas and watch a film. Or call Adams. Let him entertain her instead.
All she had to do was turn round and leave Simon Trent with his secrets.
The wind whipped her hair across her face and she hunched her shoulders against it, feeling the cold cut into the exposed gap between the waistband of her jeans and the hem of her leather jacket. She started moving before she could change her mind.
This wasn’t how she wanted to do it. She wanted him alone, vulnerable to her questioning tactics but also free from the judgemental presence his wife had proved herself to be in the hospital. She should have ignored Zigic’s advice.
Not advice, she reminded herself. His order not to approach Simon Trent at work.
Drawing closer to the house she heard a door open and slowed her pace, straining to make out the woman’s features as she stepped into the porch light.
Donna Trent. Slimmer and with newly blonde hair, but it was definitely her, getting in her car and driving away. Hopefully for a long evening’s distraction.
It was as good an opportunity as she was going to get.
Simon Trent answered the door wearing a white towelling dressing gown and an expression of impatience which quickly gave way to discomfort.
‘I suppose you want to come in,’ he said, making it clear how welcome the prospect was.
Ferreira thanked him and stepped into a cheerfully decorated hallway, bright runners on the tiled floor, abstract prints on the white walls. She found herself wondering whose taste it was, couldn’t picture the dowdy wife she’d met picking out these things. But even a brief glance under a weak light had told her Donna was no longer the same woman she’d met a year ago.
Simon was different too.
She’d spent the last few hours looking at photos of him as Simone, had begun to think of him almost exclusively as her, a high-maintenance, incredibly glamorous ‘her’, and she’d half expected to find him presenting as Simone when the door opened, all spray-tan and glossy hair and pout.
But there was no trace of her on the small, nervous man who stood in front of Ferreira now, his pale-skinned face bearing the after-effects of his attack; an unevenness to the sweep of his right cheekbone, a kink at the bridge of his nose where it had been imperfectly reset.
Given the damage done to him it could have been much worse, but Ferreira knew from personal experience how even the faintest scars grew grotesque if you looked at them for long enough.
Simon’s were far from faint and she imagined the internal ones were even more ragged and ugly, slower to heal, prone to festering. Those were the scars that poisoned your blood.
‘I’m not really dressed for visitors,’ he said, tightening the cord of his towelling robe.
‘Why don’t you go and get changed?’ Ferreira suggested. ‘I’ll wait.’
He nodded and took off up the stairs.
She went through into the living room, where there were more bright colours and white walls, an L-shaped red leather sofa hooked around a glass coffee table. It should have been homely but there was something hollow about the room and she wondered how much time Simon and Donna spent in here.
She couldn’t picture them snuggled up on the sofa together, chatting about their respective days at work, bitching about colleagues and worrying over deadlines.
They’d been through something terrible. How did you act, as a couple, on the other side of such a violent attack? Events like that could break the strongest partnerships. Not enough sympathy shown, a suspicion of blame being laid on the victim, impatience or insensitivity or just the sheer grind of having to keep picking the other party up when it all came flooding back and knocked them down hard.
Ferreira was surprised they were still together. Guessed they were a stronger couple than she’d thought.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ Simon asked, standing in the doorway, dressed in yoga pants and a T-shirt. ‘Coffee or something?’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’ She went to the sofa and sat down. ‘You’ve heard what’s happened to Corinne?’
Simon took the seat furthest from her, perched on the edge of the cushion with his hands tucked between his thighs.
‘Only what I’ve seen on the news.’
It was a lie, she’d checked out his Twitter and Facebook accounts before she left the office. Not his, she supposed, but Simone’s. Was he embarrassed or so accustomed to lying about Simone that it came as second nature now?
‘Did you go to counselling after the attack?’ she asked.
‘No.’ Simon closed his eyes. ‘I’d had enough of doctors.’
‘I can put you in touch with someone now. It’s never too late for you to get help.’
‘I’m fine. I can deal with this on my own.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘I don’t need any help.’
Ferreira thought of the interview they’d conducted last year. Simon sitting very stiffly in a hard plastic chair, his hands between his thighs under the table. It was the same closed-off, defensive posture he was aiming at her now, answering every question with as few words as possible, those catching in his throat, but he never cracked.
He’d been bottling it all up since that day, she thought. Pushing it down. But so much suffering couldn’t be contained and she feared for him.
‘Where’s Donna?’
‘Pilates,’ he said. ‘She’ll be a couple of hours.’
‘How are you two doing?’
Simon shot her a hard look. ‘We’re fine.’
‘What about Simone?’
His gaze dropped to the floor and he ground his hands together. ‘I told you, I don’t do that any more.’
Ferreira didn’t want to press him, could see the toll it was going to take, but she had no option. So much of this job was about weighing the damage you would do against the damage you could prevent.
She didn’t want another dead trans woman joining Corinne Sawyer on the murder board and Simon was going to have to pay the price.
‘I need to ask you some questions about that night.’
‘I’ve already told you what happened.’
‘We’ve reason to believe the man who attacked you might be responsible for Corinne’s death.’
Simon hunched over tighter, like he’d been punched in the stomach. Like she’d done that to him.
‘I’ve spoken to another woman he attacked,’ Ferreira said. ‘Before you, this woman was followed into an underpass and severely beaten. Her wig was stolen. The same as he did to you.’
‘Then ask her to help you.’
‘I have and she’s given us as much as she could but I need you to think very carefully about this man.’
He shook his head, biting his lower lip. A hint of Simone coming through in that oddly feminine gesture. She was still in there. Bottled up with all the rest of it.
‘Is there anything you didn’t mention in your original statement?’
Her words hung in the air and eventually she realised he wasn’t going to give her the answers she wanted. Not that easily. He’d been evasive in his initial interview because he wanted to protect himself and nothing that had happened to him in the intervening year had changed that.
‘Simon, please, you are the only person who can help us now. Think of Corinne’s family, her children.’ The words sounded weak; it was the wrong approach. ‘Simon, this man is escalating. Okay? If he’s killed Corinne there’s no telling what he’s capable of or who he’ll target next.’
He stood sharply and walked across the room to the bookshelves. They were cluttered with framed photographs of Donna and him, their wedding, their holidays, all smiles and sunshine, scenes very distant from this one and none of them showing the other side of his personality. He wasn’t looking at them though, his eyes were closed, head resting against the edge of a shelf, despair etched in the line of his jaw.
She wondered if Donna realised how much pain Simon was in.
‘You ruined my life,’ he said at last, turning towards Ferreira. ‘Why did you tell her?’
‘Who?’
‘Donna,’ he snapped. ‘Why couldn’t you just say I’d been mugged?’
Ferreira blinked. ‘But Donna knew you were cross-dressing. We didn’t grass you up. She went to the Meadham with you. She was supportive of your choice.’
A cold laugh broke out of him. ‘She was never supportive. She went there to keep an eye on me. She didn’t trust me. She thought if I went on my own I’d meet a man and leave her.’
‘And is that what you wanted?’ Ferreira asked. ‘A man?’
‘No.’ Simon slammed his palm against the edge of the shelving unit so hard that a small photo frame fell flat on its face. ‘I’m not gay. It was never about sex.’
It was a strong reaction, the kind she’d usually associate with a lie, but she found she believed him, knew what a touchy subject sexual attraction was for cross-dressing men.
‘How would lying to your wife about the attack have changed anything?’ she asked.
‘Because she realised I wasn’t safe,’ he said, desperation in his voice. ‘Anyone can get mugged, she would have accepted that. But she—’ He gulped down the emotion, went on quieter. ‘I could have died. She didn’t want to lose me, so she gave me a choice. Keep putting myself at risk and be on my own or stop and be safe.’
‘And keep her?’
He nodded. ‘You did that.’
‘No, Simon. The man who attacked you did it.’ Her words were harder than she meant them to be but there was no taking them back.
Simon brushed past her, went to sit down again, curled up into a tight ball at the far end of the sofa. Another glimpse of Simone in his posture, scared and defensive.
‘I made my statement. I can’t tell you anything else.’
‘Look, you don’t have to go on record. You won’t have to give evidence.’ The same lie she’d told Aadesh and she hated herself for it once again. ‘But maybe there’s something you’ve remembered since the last time we talked?’
She tried to catch Simon’s eye and failed.
‘Please, did he say anything to you?’
Simon’s jaw clenched firm and he was back there. On Cross Street. Walking drunk along the uneven pavement, thinking of the party he’d just left and the taxi he needed to find.
‘I’m not going to do this,’ he said, turning away to face the curtained window. ‘Please, get out of my house.’