‘Dearie dearie me.’
The pathologist had arrived. She stood at the doorway, suiting up. Tall, slim, long hair pulled back into a ponytail. How apt, thought Phil. By her accent and bearing she seemed more at home on a horse than with a corpse.
She smiled at him. ‘Esme Russell. You must be the new boy.’ She sounded like she had never mispronounced a word in her life.
Phil introduced himself.
‘Welcome aboard.’ She crossed to the body. ‘Now, what have we here…’
‘No one’s touched her,’ said Sperring. ‘Been waiting for you, Esme.’
‘And so you should, Ian, so you should. Right.’ She stood over the body. ‘Dearie me. Something she ate disagreed with her?’
‘You tell us,’ said Sperring.
Crime scenes were always horrific. And those that attended them often hid their revulsion with sardonic gallows humour. The alternative being to break down in tears or throw up. It was something Phil had never subscribed to. Laughing, for whatever reason, disturbed the scene, blocked the signals, the instructions that the ghosts were sending, made them angry. And he didn’t want that. He carried enough angry ghosts around with him already.
‘You boys can run off and busy yourself with whatever it is you boys do.’
Phil shared a look with Sperring, who moved towards the hall. ‘Let’s have a look upstairs,’ he said. ‘We’ll leave you alone, Esme.’
‘Hardly that.’ She turned to the body, already engrossed.
They left the room and started up the stairs. They reached the landing, both treading warily in case they disturbed any potential evidence, hands not touching walls or banister, feet making as little tread as possible. Phil looked out the window. Uniforms were going door to door, talking to neighbours, trying to build up a picture of the mysterious Glenn McGowan. TV vans and journalists were waiting ready to pounce behind the barrier. Phil had to shield his eyes from the glare of the arc lights.
‘Day fourteen in the Big Brother house,’ he said with a terrible Geordie accent.
Sperring didn’t reply.
The redecoration downstairs hadn’t extended upstairs. It was slightly shabby. Clean but not cared for. A typical rental property.
Something on the landing caught Phil’s eye. He knelt down. Studied the carpet. Took his iPhone out, switched on the flashlight.
‘Ian, what d’you think that is?’
Sperring knelt down alongside him. Looked where Phil indicated. The carpet was a nondescript brown, tough and hard-wearing, but dotted about were areas of darker discoloration. The DS unfastened his paper suit, reached into his pocket, took out a pair of reading glasses. Peered at the marks once more.
‘Blood, I reckon,’ he said.
‘Me too,’ said Phil. ‘Let’s get Jo and her team to take a look. Do a luminol test.’
He straightened up, looked round the landing, deciding which room to try first. It was hived off into three bedrooms, each one smaller than the last, and a bathroom.
‘I’ll start here,’ he said, entering the smallest bedroom.
Sperring moved off to one of the others.
The room held a laptop, desk and chair. Some empty shelves on the wall. A racing car calendar had been pinned up. Phil checked the dates. The last entry was 10 December, the previous Friday night. It had a big star scribbled on it. There was nothing planned beyond that.
He left the room, moving into the main bedroom. It had a bed, two side tables and a wardrobe. All in variations of brown and beige. He opened the wardrobe. A couple of suits, some jeans. A few plaid shirts. T-shirts, socks, underwear. An empty canvas holdall on top of the wardrobe. Nothing remarkable. He left the room for the bathroom.
It was small, feeling crowded even with just Phil in there. He looked round. The showerhead was lying in the bath, curled like a long metal snake. There was something around the rim of the tub.
He knelt down, examining it closely. Dried blood. Watered down but not totally washed away. He checked the shower curtain. The same. It had been streaked a pinkish-brown colour in parts. The wall behind the bath too.
Phil felt that familiar tingle. This was the crime scene. He was sure of it.
He stood up again, scrutinised. The bathroom looked clean apart from that. Trying to leave as little trace as possible, he carefully opened the mirrored cabinet on the wall. It was divided in half. On one side was shaving equipment, aftershave. Men’s moisturiser. Toothbrush and mouthwash. On the other side were more feminine things. Make-up. Removing pads. False eyelashes. Depilatory cream. Phil noticed the halves weren’t equal. The female side was fuller, overpowering the male side.
Glenn McGowan hadn’t lived here alone, he thought.
He closed the cabinet door but didn’t move. He’d missed something. He turned, open the door again. Saw it.
Two people, but only one toothbrush.
Maybe she just visits, he thought. Leaves her stuff here. He looked again. Awful lot of stuff…
He closed the cabinet door, left the bathroom.
‘Think I’ve found the crime scene,’ he said to Sperring. ‘Bathroom.’
Sperring nodded. ‘Come and look at this, sir.’
Must be important, thought Phil. The older man had forgotten to be sarcastic.
Sperring was in the middle-sized bedroom. Phil entered. It couldn’t have been more different from the main one. It was a miniature version of the living room. All pinks and frills. Curtains and matching duvet and pillowcases. Pink walls, pink carpet. Sperring was standing by the wardrobe. Phil joined him, eyes widening. It was full of women’s clothes. Dresses, skirts, blouses. Mostly pink and frilly like the dead woman downstairs. But in amongst them were others. Fetish wear. PVC. Rubber. Uniforms. He pulled out the drawers. Lingerie ranging from filmy and wispy to industrial and constraining. Another drawer yielded restraints, bondage material. The bottom drawer held sex toys. Phil took one out, held it. It was a huge black plastic phallus, about the thickness of his forearm.
‘Sex toy,’ said Sperring, clearing his throat.
‘Doesn’t look like there’s much fun involved,’ said Phil. He replaced it, closed the drawer. Turned to Sperring. ‘Well.’
‘Well indeed, sir.’
Esme called them. They made their way downstairs.
‘Looks like we’ve got a deviant sex killer on our hands,’ Phil said to her. ‘We’d better find Glenn McGowan as soon as possible.’
‘That’s why I called you,’ said Esme. ‘I think I have.’
‘Where?’ asked Sperring.
Esme pointed to the body, held up a blonde wig.
‘There,’ she said.