‘Loads?’ That wasn’t the answer Phil had been expecting.
Trotter allowed himself a small smile. Gotcha, it said.
‘Why are there so many?’
Trotter was immediately cagey again. ‘Can’t say.’
‘Yes you can. Or I’ll think you’re making the whole thing up and charge you with the murder of Glenn McGowan.’
Trotter sat back in his chair. Puffed out his cheeks, his lips. Leaned forward again. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Here’s the thing. If I tell you what you want to know, about the tattoos and that, I want something in return.’
‘And what might that be?’
‘Immunity.’
Phil frowned. ‘From what?’
‘Everything. Immunity from everything you could do to me with what I tell you. And everything they could do.’
Phil looked directly at him. There was no one else in the room. The interview wasn’t being recorded. Someone from the team might be listening in, but he didn’t think that was a problem. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Immunity. Talk to me.’
Trotter nodded in acknowledgement. ‘It’s a club.’
‘I know that much,’ said Phil.
Trotter looked upset. ‘How?’
‘The thing on your arm. It’s the kind of stamp you’d get in a club. It must mean something special; you haven’t washed it off. And you’ve inked over it.’
Trotter looked aggrieved. ‘But you don’t know what kind of club, do you?’
‘A fetish club,’ said Phil. ‘Something like that. Loads of them around.’
‘Not like this one,’ said Trotter, the darkness dancing in his eyes.
‘What’s so special about this one, then?’
Trotter leaned forward, arms on the table. ‘It’s extreme. Extreme passions. Extreme behaviour.’
‘Right,’ said Phil. ‘So it’s an extreme fetish club. Big deal.’
Trotter slammed his hand down on the table, anger in his eyes. ‘You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Think you know it all? You know nothing.’
Phil leaned in to him, eyes unflinching. ‘Then make me understand.’
Trotter nodded. ‘There’s loads of clubs around. Fetish, BDSM, whatever. Some of them call themselves extreme. But they’re not. None of them. It’s just dressing up. They’re safe places with safe words in safe environments. Mutual respect. What’s extreme about that?’
‘So how is this place different?’
Trotter gave a sickly smile. ‘It’s the opposite. No safe words. And it’s definitely not a safe place. You go there, you take the consequences. If you’ve got passions that you can’t control, that need an outlet, crave an outlet, that’s where you go.’
‘Passions?’
‘Kinks. Desires. Dreams. Whatever. Not your run-of-the-mill shit. You like being beaten up, enjoy inflicting pain, dress up as a woman or a baby, there’s places for you. But this is if your thing’s further on than that.’
‘And what happens there? What d’you do?’
‘Anything to anyone. And fuck the consequences. Because there aren’t any. Might not even be consensual. Might not even be with adults.’
‘What, rape? Murder?’
‘Anything.’
‘Then you’d be arrested.’
Trotter shook his head slowly. When he spoke, it was as if he was explaining something to a very simple child. ‘You’re not listening. There are no consequences. Nothing will happen to you. You’re perfectly safe. The law doesn’t apply.’
‘I find that hard to believe,’ said Phil.
Trotter shrugged. ‘Believe what you like. I’m telling you the truth.’
‘So where is this club?’
‘Digbeth. In an old factory. The place looks derelict from the outside. But it’s not. Got a big red door. Can’t miss it.’
‘Street?’ asked Phil.
Trotter shrugged. ‘Dunno. I’ll draw you a map.’
Phil kept going. ‘How do people find out about it?’
‘All over the place. Fetish events, word of mouth, internet forums, wherever. Some are invited along, some enquire. They all know the score. But the club’s very choosy. They don’t take just anyone.’
‘When’s it open?’
‘Whenever. There’s always something going on there. Like I said, it’s not like a nightclub. It’s where people go when they want something. And somebody always wants something.’
‘Who runs it? Who owns it?’
‘He’s called Ben, bloke in charge,’ said Trotter. ‘All I know.’
Phil felt a jolt of electricity jump through him at the name. He opened his manila folder once more. Took out a couple of photos, slid them across. Screen grabs of Glenn McGowan as Amanda having sex with the person who called himself Ben. ‘Is this Ben?’
Trotter looked at the photos. Phil watched Trotter. ‘Might be.’
‘This tattoo,’ said Phil, pointing to a blown-up photo. ‘Like yours. But real.’
The words made Trotter angry, as Phil had intended. ‘I’ll get one soon enough.’
I doubt that, thought Phil. He continued. ‘What’s behind the tattoos, then? You get a stamp like yours if you’re… what? A newbie, or something?’
‘Yeah,’ said Trotter. ‘Then you work your way up.’
‘Why a tattoo?’ asked Phil. ‘What does it mean?’
‘Like I said. People go there to do things they can’t do anywhere else. You’ve got to have insurance. The tattoo’s a reminder. Of what you’ve done, what you owe the club. The deal you made. You keep quiet, the club keeps quiet. Loyalty. Then there’s the next level,’ said Trotter.
‘Next level?’
Trotter nodded. ‘The brand. That’s for the hardcore, the real elite.’
‘So what d’you have to do to get one of them?’ asked Phil.
‘Show commitment.’
Phil shook his head. ‘Right.’ He pushed across the photo of Glenn McGowan and Ben having sex. ‘What’s so extreme about this?’
‘Well, they’re both getting what they want.’
‘Then Glenn McGowan was murdered.’
Trotter shrugged. ‘Yeah. So they both got what they wanted.’
Phil sat back, thinking. An idea coming to him. ‘Hold on. You mean…’ He tried to order his thoughts coherently. ‘Whoever killed Glenn McGowan, they got what they wanted. They murdered someone. A transvestite.’
Trotter nodded.
‘And…’ he frowned, ‘Glenn McGowan, as Amanda, he…’
Trotter finished the sentence for him. ‘Wanted someone to kill him.’
Phil said nothing, processing the information.
‘When I said desires,’ said Trotter, ‘you just thought I mean the murderer. You didn’t think I meant the victim.’
‘So people go to this club who want to be killed? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘People go to do things they can’t do anywhere else. And I think that’s about as much as I have to say on the subject. The person in the photos may or may not be Ben. I don’t know. So, if you have no further questions…’
Phil leaned forward. ‘What do you go there for, Martin? I’m curious.’
Trotter smiled. This was the moment he had been waiting for, the one question he wanted to answer. He was an actor taking the stage to deliver his grand soliloquy. ‘I’m HIV positive,’ he said, and sat back, arms folded, as if that explained everything.
‘So?’ said Phil.
A wistful look came over his features. ‘I like to spread the love around.’
Phil’s stomach turned over. ‘You mean you go there to have sex, knowing you’re going to infect people?’
Trotter pointed his thumb and finger into the shape of a gun. ‘You got it.’
‘That’s a crime,’ said Phil.
‘Is it?’ said Trotter. ‘For one thing, you’ve given me immunity for what I’ve just said; for another, it’s entirely consensual.’ He smiled. It wasn’t pleasant. ‘The people I meet there want to be infected, I assure you.’
Phil said nothing. He could find nothing to say.
Trotter made to rise. ‘So if you don’t mind…’
Phil looked up. ‘Where are you going?’
Trotter pointed to the door. ‘Away. Off. Free.’
‘Sit down, please,’ said Phil.
Trotter stared at him.
‘Sit down.’
He sat.
‘You were promised immunity from anything that arose concerning your testimony about the club,’ Phil said. ‘But there’s a bit more to it than that.’
Trotter was getting angry now. ‘Like?’
‘Resisting arrest. Assaulting two officers in the course of their duty. Causing affray. You were engaged in oral sex in the cinema, so we can add deliberately trying to infect another person with HIV.’
‘You can’t —’
‘And also, due to the fact that you were caught willy-waggling in public, I think we can add indecent exposure to the list.’ Phil stood up. ‘Have a good day.’
He left the room. But didn’t get far. A uniform was running towards him.