John finds the body of a neighbour who has been murdered. The police detective assigned to the case deduces that John hides a secret - but the detective has secrets of her own.

Part 2 of 25 — Confession

I thought I’d been so careful but the look on my face probably confirmed that she was right. She rose from her chair, took my hands in hers and said, gently, “Please don’t worry, it’ll go no further. I assure you that everything you say as a material witness will remain completely confidential; and the way you were dressed will stay between us two.” She continued to hold my hands as she said, “I’d like to meet your… sister, cousin?”

“Jenny? I think of myself as Jenny and always have done. I’ve had to dress and act as John all my life, and it hurts,” I replied shakily. “But why do you want to meet my other self?”

“She may recall something that you’ve missed.”

“But I’m…we’re....” I spluttered.

“I know that you and she are the same person, but this isn’t the first time that one of the material witnesses in a criminal investigation might have different memories associated with the way they were dressed, and the role they were playing.”

“I really would feel stupid meeting someone else,” I hedged.

“Have you never before dressed as a woman in company or gone out for the evening?”

My immediate reaction was to answer ‘No’ but I thought about it for a few moments and admitted, “Well, I did go to a few meetings of a TV/TS support group, but that was a few years ago.”

“You wouldn’t want to be accused of obstructing a police investigation now, would you?” She smiled disarmingly.

“Put like that, I suppose I could…”

“Right; you give me a time tomorrow evening when I can meet Jenny and I’ll come over.”

“I’m not really sure that this is a good idea at all,” I again tried to dodge.

She was having none of it. “It’s not a matter for debate; your cooperation is vital.”

I said hesitantly, “How about eight-thirty? That will give me time to get home from work, eat and change. If I’m held up at work, can I call you? We’re in the middle of the annual race to get the accounts up to date for the end of the tax year and it’s quite possible that I’ll have to work late again. Are you really sure that this is necessary?”

In answer, she gave me a card with her contact details. She said, firmly, “I’ll see you at eight-thirty tomorrow evening; you are simply helping the police with our enquiries.” She gave my hands a little squeeze, and then breezed out of the door.

I sat down shakily and thought about the meeting. After a while, I tried to concentrate on the Cricket Club papers, but my mind just kept drifting back to Jane Dyson and her insistence upon tomorrow evening’s interview. I eventually decided that I just couldn’t achieve any more, so I retired to bed.

I hardly slept that night, and had great difficulty keeping my mind on my work again the next day; I couldn’t drag my thoughts away from that evening’s meeting. Then the inevitable question arose — what should I wear? I assumed that Jane would wear her usual work suit; I wanted to be comfortable but I didn’t want to dress up too much.

While my meal was cooking I showered, put on my underwear, applied my makeup — although how I achieved that given the way my hand was shaking, I don’t know - and eventually decided on a soft, cosy long-sleeved cowl-necked burgundy sweater and black skirt. I added tan stockings and the black court shoes that I’d worn on the evening of Mrs Jones’ death.

With a spritz of my favourite fragrance, some jewellery, and my hair brushed into a more feminine style, I felt somewhat less terrified, although that feeling returned as the time approached eight-thirty. I’d tried painting my nails with a coloured polish, but gave up because my hands were shaking so much. With a sigh, I resigned myself to the clear polish I used every day in the office. If anyone challenged me, I was prepared to use the excuse that “my nails are brittle, and this is a strengthener” - but no-one ever did. I made a pot of tea and put a plate of biscuits on the coffee table.

“Hello,” Jane said, cheerfully, as she arrived promptly and then appraised me in that ‘quick glance’ way that women often do. She said, “That’s one of the things that gave you away.”

“What?” I enquired, mystified, as I poured the tea.

“Chanel Allure,” she laughed.

“Oh! It’s my favourite fragrance.”

“Mine too. Then there’s the Georgette Heyer novel that was on your table the evening that Mrs Jones died; you’d tidied it away by yesterday evening. A very appropriate title by the way - ‘The Masqueraders,’” she chuckled.” You hadn’t been careful enough with your cleansing after your walk; there were traces of makeup on your eyes. Finally, you visibly winced when I referred to you as a ‘single man’ last night. Oh, and I do like your spectacles, they really suit you.”

I blushed. “The ‘Georgette Heyer’ is mine. I love the story; I’ve read it four times. I’ve always read a lot, right from childhood, and get my money’s worth from the local Public Library. I did change in rather a hurry after my walk so I’m not surprised if I missed some makeup. I absolutely hate being referred to as a man; as far as I’m concerned, I’m not a man and never was. I’ve always felt that I was female, but with a birth defect. The optician didn’t bat an eyelid when I asked for unisex glasses; the only person that has a problem with them is my father. He thinks that they should look more masculine, probably something with a chunky black frame. Euch!”

She ran her hand over my smooth face. “Have you had electrolysis?”

“I can’t stand the idea of having facial or body hair and I don’t grow any. Other than the faulty plumbing, I don’t know what else went wrong when I was born. I just wish that I’d been built properly in the first place, and then I wouldn’t have to try and hide what I am.”

I confirmed that I used a moisturiser every morning and night. “My father insists that I must be a gay male, but I’ve never had a relationship with a man. I just hoped that people wouldn’t jump to the wrong conclusion and get violent.”

“Do you find women attractive? Female television presenters, for example?” She asked.

“I do look enviously at them and would love to look as good as they do. I haven’t thought about whether or not I find them attractive in a relationship sense.”

“Hmm, your voice doesn’t sound at all out of place, you’ve either had some training or it’s never broken properly, and your hands are in proportion to the rest of you. You look very good, I really am impressed. I presume that you’ve had a lot of practice.”

“I’ve been dressing as a woman for a couple of years, at least.” I more fully appraised her as she put her teacup on the table and sat opposite me. “I spend nearly every evening here on my own, reading, browsing the Internet, listening to music and watching old movies. I’ve read about trans-people going for their chosen role and even finding partners and fulfilment. I’m certain that won’t happen for me. I know where and how to start, but I’m scared witless that I’ll lose my job and have to give up my flat. That would inevitably leave me having to try and get work somewhere else, or even having to move back in with my parents. I can imagine what my father would have to say about that. Every time I visit, he makes sure that I know I’m a total failure.”

“Why do you visit your parents?”

“I’ve always seen it as my duty.”

I was suddenly conscious that Jane was the first woman, indeed the first person at all, to visit the apartment. Even my parents hadn’t bothered. It felt very strange in an exciting sort of way.

After I’d refilled her tea cup, she slurred her words as she said, “It looksh bad for a pleece ossiffer to be arreshtid for vriving under the affluence of incohol.”

We both giggled; it helped to break the tension.

She looked me up and down. “You appear to have quite a good sense of colour and style, but are obviously very shy; and you seem to like classic clothes. That’s often a good thing, especially if you haven’t had the opportunity to experiment and learn from mistakes as most teenage girls do. People often get their ideas of what a tranny looks like from the media and you really don’t want to look like that. Many trans-people try to dress too young. It’s okay if you’re a teenager, but most are well beyond that age.”

I was relieved by her words and replied, “I buy most of my clothes from catalogues and the Internet, so I know what fashions suit my age. I prefer classic styles anyway; I just like to look and feel comfortable, if you know what I mean. I can be myself in the evenings; it’s the only thing that makes life worth living — if you can call this living. I expected to see you in a trouser suit or uniform but that skirt suit really is a beautiful colour.”

She wore a kingfisher-blue jacket with a matching above-the-knee straight skirt that really showed off her long legs. She had on a white strappy top and navy, low-heeled court shoes. Her blonde hair, cut in a short, but easy, care-free style, made her look like she had just left university and I was shocked when I eventually found out her actual age.

“We’re CID (Criminal Investigation Department — detectives, not patrol officers); we rarely wear uniforms, although many people can tell a mile off that we’re police. We might as well wear a big badge with ‘POLICE’ on it. I showered and changed before I came to visit you this evening. In the office doing paperwork, you never know when you’ll be called out, so a trouser suit is much more practical. Let’s change the subject. You’ve obviously been dressing as a female for a number of years. When did you first know and when did you start?”

By now, I was feeling a little more relaxed and began my story. “I suppose I was in pre-school when I first worked out that something had gone drastically wrong; I just couldn’t understand why I wasn’t allowed to play with the other girls; it came as a horrible shock when I was told that I was supposed to be a boy and that it was about time I just got on with it. As soon as I was old enough I spent every spare moment in the library and devoured anything and everything that I could find about my situation.

“Now I browse the Internet, and I’ve learned that I can suppress my feelings, but I’ll never grow out of them. I did my best to hide them all through school, and then college. Bullying was endemic at school and I’m sure there was no way I’d ever have escaped without more serious injury if the bullies had found out the truth about me. The beatings were bad enough when the thugs assumed I was gay. I suppose having bad eyesight and no girlfriend made me an easy target. I learned from my father that “men don’t talk about their feelings”. As I was supposed to be a boy, I couldn’t talk to anyone, especially my parents, even if they would listen — which they never did. My father boxed for the Navy and is passionate about almost any kind of sport. He’s always glued to the television whenever I visit. Boxing, wrestling, football, rugby; it seems that the more violent it is, the more he likes it.

“My parents retired a couple of years ago to North Wales. I’m fairly sure that they don’t know about Jenny, and I’m certain that they wouldn’t be at all supportive if they were to find out.

“My brother Peter was the sporting hero at school, playing every ball game he could; he did his time in the Air Force and now runs his own computer consultancy. I know I’ll be a huge disappointment to my parents because I’ll never provide them with a daughter-in-law or grandchildren like he has. I’m scared to tell them, though, because the inquisition will go on and on and I couldn’t cope with that.

“That about sums it up; dreams were all I had to get by. I suspected that my feelings would affect my ability to get or keep a job. I just dressed sufficiently male to get through the interviews, and to survive work. I desperately wanted a place of my own; this is ideal. It’s small, but enough space for me.”

Jane asked, “Have you thought of transitioning at work? Do they know?”

She seems to have some knowledge of the subject; I wonder how?

I sighed. “I’ve no friends, and people at work ignore me — except when they want something. They probably think I’m gay as well but nobody’s said anything; the way they treat me, though, it seems to be more an assumption — as though I’m unclean or something. Anyway, I haven’t the courage to risk my job by telling them how I really feel.”

“You do know that you and your job are now legally protected?”

I shuddered at the thought of my colleagues turning against me. “Yes, I suppose you’re right, but the whole thing just scares me: what if my colleagues don’t like it and make my life a misery? I still might have to leave and I don’t know if I’d get another job very easily.”

“Is there a local support group with changing facilities?”

I wondered again at her apparent knowledge. I asked, “Do you know someone else who is in the same position as I am?”

“I did, a long time ago,” she said, seeming to drift away a little. Then, “Sorry; you were saying?”

I sighed. “I don’t want to go out as John, change into Jenny for the evening and then change back again to come home. Even though the people at the meetings were very friendly and kind, I didn’t feel that I really belonged with them. I’d far rather go out as a woman for a purpose, such as shopping or to the theatre, but they’re no fun on your own and, anyway, I’ve never had the confidence. Sometimes, like the evening before last, I go out to post a letter and walk around the block, but I don’t really want to go anywhere where all you hear is what surgery they’ve had or where there are men dressed as women. I suppose, technically, that’s what I am although, as I’ve said, I’ve never felt male — if that makes any sense.

“I could get to the meetings when I first passed my driving test, which I only took because I was fed up with being labelled a failure. The roads are so much busier now so I always try to get home or very close to home before dark. I drive into town to get the shopping but, other than short journeys in the summer, that’s it really. I’d rather travel by train anyway; motorways are just so tiring.”

“Hmm,” Jane was obviously deep in thought. Eventually she said, “Let’s change the subject again. Now I don’t want to rush you but I’d like you to tell me what you did and what you saw on the night of Mrs Jones’ death. Anything, however insignificant you might think it is; I need to know about it. I might prompt, and I’ll write down anything that might be even remotely helpful. I will leave out any reference to how you were dressed. As far as the police report is concerned, you went out to post a letter and found Mrs Jones when you returned home.” She took a notebook and pen from her bag and began to write.

I was very relieved at hearing the last comment and related my journey in minute detail, telling her about the jogger and also how Mrs Jones was sitting when I returned to the apartment.

Jane drew in her breath. “You didn’t mention the jogger on the night of the murder, or the fact that Mrs Jones appeared to be sitting on the step,” she accused.

“No, I forgot; I suppose that’s why you like your witnesses to be themselves when you interview them.”

“Tell me about the jogger.”

“I don’t think there’s much to tell. As I told you on the night, I had my mind on the minutes of the Cricket Club AGM and went for a walk round the block to try and clear my head a little.”

“I can’t imagine you playing cricket.”

“Of course I don’t play cricket, or any other sport at all, much to my father’s disgust. I use shorthand for notes of meetings in the office. Someone noticed this so I got volunteered to be cricket club secretary; I presume that nobody else was silly enough to volunteer for the job. Anyway, I was on my way home and was about to pop my letter into the post box on the corner of Mortimer Road, when this slightly built figure dressed in a dark coloured leisure suit and trainers jogged past me. As far as I could tell, she wasn’t wearing any fragrance. Oh, and she also had her dark hair done in a high ponytail. She just jogged away from me down Mortimer Road.”

“It could have been a woman; men usually wear long hair in a low pony tail. That would tie in with the result of our enquiries. Of course, it could have been a man trying to make us think it was a woman.”

“No; I’d say it was definitely a woman, I could tell by the way she moved.”

“Hmm. Interesting.”

“Anyway, she’d been going in the opposite direction to mine, and I saw her jog past me. But,” I put in, slightly puzzled, “you said that I was seen that evening on my walk. If it wasn’t the jogger, then who was it?”

“I’m sorry; I’m not at liberty to tell you.”

I gave her my best guess at a minute-by-minute account of my journey.

“That was near enough to the minute, both coming and going,” she said.

“Pardon?” I asked, sitting bolt upright,

“You were observed in Warner Road, both going out and returning. A woman walking at that time of the night attracts attention, particularly from males. And don’t forget, there are two pubs on your route and you were walking with the traffic flow, not against it. That’s not a good idea at all.”

I tried to justify my actions. “I only ever go around the block, and at night, and that so very rarely. I don’t have the confidence to go out during the day. Anyway, what if I were seen? Coleridge House and the other two blocks are identical buildings with six flats in each; I could have come from any one of them.”

“Don’t do it again,” she advised. “Go in daylight, to a busy shopping centre. You can lose yourself in a crowd, a lone woman stands out. Its fine to go out at night if you’re escorted, but don’t go on your own. Please.”

I felt about one inch tall. “Even after all this time, I still have a lot to learn, haven’t I?” I said, as I refilled the teacups again.

“Learn from mistakes. Just don’t make the kind of mistakes that get you attacked or killed,” she said, bluntly.

I cringed. “You must think me naíve and stupid.”

“Not at all. You just need a good teacher, but you’ll learn.”

“Oh, right. And where do I find this teacher? I suppose I should go back to the support group?”

End of Part 2