Little Boy Blue: DI Helen Grace 5 (A DI Helen Grace Thriller)

by M. J. Arlidge

  5

  The panic shears lay on the floor, untouched. The heavy-duty scissors were specifically designed to cut through clothing, tape, even leather – but they wouldn’t be used. There would be no deliverance tonight.

  The chair had toppled over as the panicking victim attempted to wrestle himself free of his bonds. He made a strange sight now, bucking pointlessly on the floor, as his fear grew and his breath shortened. He was making no headway loosening his restraints and the end could not be far away now. Standing over him, his attacker looked on, wondering what the eventual cause of death would be. Overheating? Asphyxiation? Cardiac arrest? It was impossible to say and the uncertainty was quietly thrilling.

  His victim’s movements were slowing now and the leather-clad figure moved away. There was nothing to be gained by enjoying the show, especially when some sexed-up freak might burst in at any minute. His work here was done.

  Turning away, he walked calmly towards the door. Would they get it? Would they realize what they were dealing with? Only time would tell, but whatever happened there was one thing that the police, the public and the freaks out there wouldn’t be able to ignore: the lovingly bound figure lying on the floor nearby, twitching slowly to a standstill as death claimed him.

  6

  Where was he?

  The same question had spun round Sally’s head for hours. She’d tried to go to sleep, but had given up, first flicking on the radio, then later switching on the light to read. But the words wouldn’t go in and she’d reach the end of the page none the wiser. In the end she’d stopped trying altogether, turning the light off to lie awake in darkness. She was a worrier, she knew that, prone to seeing misfortune around every corner. But surely she had a right to be worried? Paul was ‘working late’ again.

  A few weeks ago, this wouldn’t have been a cause for concern. Paul was ambitious, hard-working and committed – his fierce work ethic had often meant him returning to cold dinners during the course of their twenty-year marriage. But then once, three weeks ago, she’d had to contact him urgently, following a call from his mother. Unable to reach him on his mobile, she’d called his PA, only to be told he’d left the office at 5 p.m. sharp. The hands of the kitchen clock pointed mockingly to 8 p.m., as Sally hung up in shock. Her mind had immediately filled with possible scenarios – an accident, an affair – but she’d tried to quell her anxiety and when he returned home safe and sound later that night, she said nothing.

  But when he next called to say he’d be late home, she plucked up courage and visited him in person. She’d gone to the office armed with excuses, but they proved unnecessary, as he wasn’t there. He’d left early again. Had she successfully hidden her distress from his PA? She thought so, but she couldn’t tell. Perhaps she already knew. They say the wife is always the last to find out.

  Was Paul the kind of man to have an affair? Instinctively, Sally thought not. Her husband was an old-school Catholic who’d promised to honour his marriage vows and meant it. Their marriage, their family life, had been a happy, prosperous one. Moreover, Sally had kept her looks and her figure, despite the birth of the twins, and she was sure Paul still found her attractive, even if their lovemaking was more sporadic these days. No, instinctively she rebelled against the thought that he would give his love to someone else. But isn’t that what every scorned wife believes until the extent of her husband’s duplicity is revealed?

  The minutes crawled by. What was he up to so late at night? Who was he with? On numerous occasions during the last few days, she’d resolved to have it out with him. But she could never find the right words and, besides, what if she was wrong? Perhaps Paul was planning a surprise for her? Wouldn’t he be devastated to be accused of betraying her?

  The truth was that Sally was scared. One question can unravel a life. So though she lay awake, groping for the correct way to bring it up, she knew that she would never ask the question. Not because she didn’t want to know. But because of what she might find out if she did.

  7

  It was nearly 2 a.m. and the seventh floor was as quiet as the grave. DS Charlie Brooks stifled a yawn, as she leafed through the cold-case files on her desk. She was exhausted – the twin pressures of her recent promotion and motherhood taking their toll – but she was determined to give these cases the attention they deserved. They were unsolved murders going back ten, fifteen years – cases that were colder than cold – but the victims were all someone’s daughter, mother, father or son and those left behind craved answers as keenly now as they did at the time of their bereavement. There was so much going on during the daily grind that it was only at night, when peace finally descended at Southampton Central, that Charlie could get to grips with them. This was just one of the extra duties required of her now that she’d made the leap from Detective Constable to Detective Sergeant and she was determined not to be found wanting.

  She had Helen Grace to thank for her elevation. Although Helen already had DS Sanderson to act as her deputy, she’d demanded that Charlie be promoted, following her good work on the Ethan Harris case. Helen had met resistance from those who worried that the chain of command would be compromised, but in the end Helen had got her way, convincing enough of the people who mattered that Charlie deserved promotion.

  DC Charlie Brooks had thus become DS Charlene Brooks. Nobody called her that of course – she would always be Charlie to everyone at Southampton Central – but it still felt good when she heard her full name read out at the investiture ceremony. Helen was on hand that day, giving Charlie a discreet wink as she walked back to her place among the other deserving officers, trying to suppress a broad grin from breaking out over her face.

  Afterwards she’d wanted to take Helen out, to say thank you to her personally, but Helen wouldn’t have it – ushering her instead to the Crown and Two Chairmen for the traditional ‘wetting’ of the new sergeant’s head. Was this to avoid any charges of favouritism, or simply because she wasn’t comfortable accepting Charlie’s thanks? It was hard to say and in any event the booze-up that followed had been a good one. The whole team had turned up and everyone, with the possible exception of Sanderson, had gone out of their way to tell Charlie how pleased they were. Given the dark days she’d endured getting to this point, Charlie had been profoundly grateful for the vote of confidence they’d given her that night.

  Charlie was so wrapped up in her recollections – dim memories of a very drunken, late-night karaoke session with DC McAndrew now surfacing – that she jumped when she looked up to see the duty sergeant standing over her.

  ‘Sorry, miles away,’ she apologized, turning to face him.

  ‘Justice never sleeps, eh?’ he replied with his trademark wink. ‘This just came in. Thought you’d want to see it straight away.’

  The piece of paper he handed her was scant on details – a suspected murder with no victim ID and no named witness – but there was something that immediately leapt out at her. Listed at the top of the incident sheet was the address – one she’d never been to, but which was notorious in Southampton.

  The Torture Rooms.

  8

  Helen walked towards the chaos. The club had been packed to the rafters and the partygoers now spilled on to the street, ushered there by the harassed bouncers. It was an arresting sight – a dozen police officers in their high-visibility jackets drowning in a sea of PVC, chainmail and naked flesh. In different circumstances it would have made Helen smile, but the fear and shock on the faces of those present banished any such thoughts. Many of the clubbers lingered outside despite the management’s attempts to move them on, clinging to each other as they speculated about the night’s events.

  Flashing her warrant card, Helen pushed through the throng towards the entrance. The uniformed officer gave her an awkward nod, embarrassed to be found standing guard over a notorious S&M club, then heaved open the vast leather doors that kept its members in and the world’s prying eyes out. Helen had never visited the Torture Rooms, and as she stepped across
the threshold, she was immediately struck by the gaping staircase that descended in front of her. Deep crimson from floor to ceiling, flanked by walls studded with ingenious instruments of torture, it looked like the entrance to Hell.

  Helen descended quickly, clinging to the rail to avoid slipping on the stairs that were uneven, sticky and cast in shadow. The club was comprised of a series of brick-arched vaults and Helen made her way to the largest of them now. An hour or two earlier, this had been a scene of wild abandon, but it was deserted now, save for Charlie, DC McAndrew and a number of junior officers. Only the smell lingered: sweat, spilled lager, perfume and more besides – a sweet, pungent cocktail that was at odds with the lifeless feel of the club.

  ‘Sorry to have called you so late. Or early. I’m not sure which it is.’

  Charlie had spotted Helen and was walking towards her.

  ‘No problem,’ Helen replied warmly. ‘What have we got?’

  ‘Lover boy over there found the body,’ Charlie answered.

  She indicated a pale, blond youth who was giving his statement to McAndrew. The police blanket he’d been given couldn’t completely conceal his skimpy LAPD outfit and he tugged nervously at it now, seemingly embarrassed by the presence of genuine police officers.

  ‘He and a friend were looking for somewhere to be intimate. They barged into one of the back rooms and found our victim. We’ve separated the pair of them but their accounts tally. They swear blind they didn’t go into the room – Meredith’s taken samples from them to check.’

  ‘Good. Any sign of the manager?’

  ‘DC Edwards is in the back office with Mr Blakeman now.’

  ‘Ok. Let’s do this then, shall we?’

  Charlie gestured Helen towards the back of the club and they walked in that direction.

  ‘Any witnesses?’ Helen asked.

  ‘We’ve no shortage of people who want to talk, but I wouldn’t call them witnesses. It was dark, noisy and crowded. Half the punters were in costumes or masks. We’ll be lucky to get anything useful and no one is saying they saw anything “unusual”. According to the bouncers, a few punters scarpered as soon as the police turned up. We’ve asked Blakeman for a full list of their members, so we can try and track them down but –’

  ‘They’re unlikely to have used their real names,’ Helen interjected. ‘And I can’t see them willingly coming forward to help us. Keep on it anyway, you never know.’

  Charlie nodded, but Helen could tell her mind was also turning on the peculiar complications a case such as this might offer. Given the paucity of eyewitnesses, they would probably have to rely heavily on forensic evidence, CCTV and the post mortem results if they were to make any tangible progress.

  Upping her pace, Helen now found herself in the company of scene-of-crime officers. They had reached the murder scene. Slipping sterile coverings on to her shoes, Helen nodded to Charlie and, bracing herself, stepped into the room beyond.

  9

  The small space was a hive of activity. Meredith Walker, Southampton Central’s Chief Forensics Officer, was already on her hands and knees, diligently searching the floor space. The club’s owners clearly didn’t spend much on cleaning and it was going to be a mammoth job for Meredith and her team to bag all the detritus. The footfall in this room was evidently large – Helen feared it might be easier to work out which of the club’s members hadn’t been in this room than pin down those who had – further complicating the task that lay in front of them.

  Helen caught Charlie looking at her and, putting these defeatist thoughts aside, moved cautiously forward. The victim lay in the middle of the room, bound to a metal chair with duct tape and wet sheets. Helen presumed he was a man, given the height, but it was hard to be sure. The victim’s entire head was encased in silver tape, not a strand of hair or patch of skin visible anywhere. The wet sheets clung to him, bolstering Helen’s sense of the paralysing immobility the victim must have felt. It was a horrific way to die.

  There had been S&M deaths before of course – auto-eroticism and sex games gone wrong – but this one felt different. A pair of sturdy panic shears lay on the floor next to the body, circled by Meredith’s team and tagged for inspection. Whoever did this then had the means to release their victim, but had chosen not to. Instead, they had left the room, closing the door behind them and walking away without once attracting anyone’s attention. This was no accident then. This was a deliberate, calculated attempt to kill.

  The police photographer gave Helen the nod and she now moved forward. Slipping her gloved hand beneath the victim, she raised him from the ground. The chair wobbled a little, then righted itself, settling into position in front of her. The victim’s head lolled downwards, eventually coming to rest on his chest.

  ‘Could you give us a couple of minutes, guys?’ Helen said quietly, but firmly.

  Meredith and her team withdrew, leaving Charlie and Helen alone with the deceased. It was time now to reveal the victim and begin the process of trying to identify him – a task that didn’t require an audience.

  Gripping a pair of sterile scissors, Helen snipped through the wet sheets that bound the legs and torso. She was unlikely to be able to ID him from the sight of his feet, but she wanted to release his arms and legs from their constraints. This would allow her a better line of attack on the duct tape that bound him from the chest up. She knew she could ill afford to inflict any post-mortem injuries on him by hacking blindly at the tape, so though every instinct urged her to remove the tape from his eyes, nose and mouth, she resisted for now.

  Patiently, Helen cut through the stiff sheets, releasing his body from its purgatory. The sheets fell away, revealing the ribbon that secured his ankles to the chair legs. Helen untied this, bagging it along with the sheets, but the body didn’t respond at all. Rigor mortis was setting in – their victim looked like a man frozen in time.

  Pressing on with her unpleasant task, Helen stripped off the upper sheets, passing them to a rather pale-looking Charlie. Now she slipped one scissor blade underneath the tape on his chest, sliding it over the soft leather of his suit without marking the surface. She slowed her progress as she cut upwards towards his neck – every mark, every bruise on his body, might provide them with vital clues and Helen was determined not to stymie their investigation through human error.

  The tape covering his throat came away easily – only his head remained covered now. Downing the scissors, Helen decided to finish the last, most delicate stage by hand. Teasing her fingers along the top of his head, she soon found what she was looking for. The end of the tape had been stuck down firmly, but with a bit of coaxing, it came free.

  This was the moment of truth then. Grasping the loose end, Helen began to unwind the tape. Slowly at first, then faster and with more confidence, until finally it fell away altogether.

  The sight that greeted her took her breath away. Not because she was disgusted by the victim’s waxy, lifeless face, but because she recognized him. This poor wretch was her friend. Her dominator.

  It was Jake.

  10

  Helen stumbled up the stairs, her hand clamped over her mouth. She could feel the vomit rising in her throat and she needed to be away from this underground hell. The green exit light could be glimpsed up ahead and she took the final steps at speed, barrelling through the exit and out into the night.

  Ignoring the startled looks of the uniformed officers on guard, Helen hurried over to the chain link fence that bordered the club and clung on to it. Her breath was short, her heart was racing and the waves of nausea just kept coming. She gulped in huge lungfuls of air, desperate to avoid drawing attention to herself, but to no avail. She vomited now, hard and loud, her stomach cramping over and over again until there was nothing left inside.

  Nobody made a move to help her, so Helen remained staring at the ground, empty and drained. It couldn’t be Jake. A small part of her was tempted to return to the crime scene, to prove to herself that she’d made a stupid mistake. But in
her heart she knew it was him. His face was distinctive and familiar and, besides, the tattoo on his neck sealed it. The man whose company she’d paid for on numerous occasions over the years, who’d beaten her dark introspection from her many times during their S&M sessions, was dead. Jake was the only person who knew the real Helen, and his sudden death left her feeling disoriented and confused.

  The last time she’d seen him he was happy and settled. He was dating a new boyfriend, had relinquished his crush on Helen and seemed to be making a decent fist of his life. What had gone so terribly wrong that he had ended up here, in an after-hours club, falling into the clutches of a brutal and pitiless killer? Helen would have given anything to be able to turn back time, to step into that small room as Jake was being attacked and drag his assailant away.

  ‘Are you ok?’

  Helen looked up to find Charlie standing nearby, framed by the darkness. No one else would have spoken to her so informally or with such affection and it knocked the stuffing out of her now. Normally she would have blustered a response and sent them away, but she and Charlie had been through too much together for her to be dismissed like that. A large part of Helen wanted to blurt out that she knew the victim, that he was a friend. But as she opened her mouth to speak, her tongue refused to obey.

  ‘What is it, Helen? What’s wrong?’ Charlie persisted.

  Still Helen said nothing. To admit that she knew the victim would mean confessing how they met. Instantly she recoiled from this – she didn’t want to offer Jake up to them like this – and, besides, how could she look any of her colleagues in the eye once the details of her private life were laid bare? She’d be a laughing stock, the butt of endless ribald jokes, but more than that they would know. Her sessions with Jake had always been private, discreet and special – a space where she could reveal her historic wounds and confront her feelings of guilt. If she opened herself up like that she’d be exposed, humiliated and in all likelihood taken off the case – and that was something that Helen was not prepared to countenance.