Helen eyed Jackson carefully. It was a convenient excuse and Jake wasn’t around to contradict him. Was his bitterness just an act?
‘Did you go into the rooms at the back of the club?’
‘No.’
‘So we definitely won’t find any traces of you – hairs, skin, prints – in those rooms?’
‘I never got near them.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know, you tell me. Maybe it just wasn’t my night.’
‘A handsome guy like you?’
‘There’s no accounting for taste,’ Jackson spat back sourly.
‘Are you sure Jake didn’t accept your invitation and take you backstairs?’
‘Look, I’ve told you what happened. If you don’t believe me …’
‘Do you like the rough stuff?’
‘Don’t answer that,’ his lawyer interjected.
‘For God’s sake, Paul, our guys are poring over the search history on your phone. We’re picking up your computers – from home and work. We are going to find out what you’ve been looking at, so do not hold out on me now.’
‘Yes, I like the hard stuff.’
‘Paul …’ his lawyer warned gently, but his client appeared not to hear him.
‘Have you ever watched Edge Play? Online or in the flesh?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you ever participated in Edge Play?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘Have you used wet sheets?’
‘Yes, I have, but that doesn’t mean –’
‘Doesn’t mean what?’
‘That I did anything to Jake.’
‘Why would it mean that? I haven’t mentioned wet sheets in connection with his death. Neither has the press, so how would you know that?’
‘I wouldn’t … I was just saying that …’
‘Did you kill him, Paul?’
‘No …’
‘Did you take him to one of the back rooms that night, tie him up –’
‘No, a hundred times no …’
‘Punish him as he deserved to be punished?’
‘I would never do that.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s not my thing.’
‘You’re contradicting yourself now, Paul. We’ve all just heard you say –’
‘I like the rough stuff, but –’
‘But what?’
‘But I’m always the bottom, ok, never the top,’ he finally said, glaring at Helen.
‘Sorry, I’m a bit –’ his lawyer began.
‘Bottom means the submissive, the top is the dominator,’ Helen interjected, keen to keep the focus on Jackson.
‘I … I don’t like to dominate.’ Jackson’s voice faltered. ‘I want to be humiliated, abused, degraded. That’s why … that’s why I could never do something like this.’
Jackson raised his gaze to meet Helen’s and she was surprised to see that tears were threatening.
‘Please believe me. I didn’t kill Jake Elder.’
42
‘Is he lying?’
Helen and Jonathan Gardam were huddled in the smokers’ yard, away from the prying ears of colleagues, lawyers and Gardam’s PA.
‘Hard to say for sure. He sounds genuine, but there’s a lot that links him to Elder, to the scene. Also, Lynn Picket banks with Santander – it would have been the easiest thing in the world for him to lift her card details off the system and use them for his own devices.’
‘Would he really shit on his own doorstep like that?’
‘How could you link him to it? Nearly a hundred people work in that bank, thousands more have access to their system.’
‘So what’s our next move?’
‘I’m going to go back to Meredith, see if we can link Jackson to the crime scene. They’ve got mountains of stuff – cigarettes, beer bottles, hair, spit, semen – if we can put him in the room, then we can prove he’s lying.’
‘And if we can’t? What does your instinct tell you?’
‘I don’t really believe in the copper’s gut,’ Helen replied, dropping her cigarette to the floor. Nicotine was doing nothing for her today, but that still didn’t stop her wanting another.
‘You must have a view though,’ Gardam persisted.
‘I’d be tempted to believe him, in the absence of evidence to the contrary.’
‘Why?’
‘He was in the right place at the right time but … he just doesn’t seem the type to me. This murder was unusual, elaborate and provocative. It’s a statement killing – whoever did this wants our attention. Maybe he’s a good actor, but my feeling is that Jackson doesn’t want the world to know that he likes men, likes S&M …’
Gardam nodded, even as his eye was caught by the discarded cigarette on the floor. A smudge of Helen’s lipstick was still visible on the tip.
‘He’s married, got twin boys,’ Helen continued. ‘He’s leading a double life and my instinct is that he wants to keep it that way.’
The irony of this comment wasn’t lost on Helen – this case just kept rebounding against her – and she toyed with her lighter to avoid looking directly at Gardam.
‘Do you want to hold him?’ Gardam said, interrupting Helen’s chain of thought.
‘I’m not inclined to. He’s not a flight risk – he’s too anchored in Southampton – and I don’t want to put too much pressure on him, in case we’re wrong. He seems pretty fragile to me.’
‘Well, I’ll back whatever you decide.’
‘Thank you.’
Gardam offered Helen another cigarette, which she took without hesitation.
‘I know they’re not good for you,’ he said, lighting Helen’s cigarette before fixing one for himself, ‘but I can’t do without them. I have to smoke them here as Jane thinks I’ve given up.’
Helen nodded, but didn’t play along. She’d never been comfortable with the way male colleagues deceived their wives, then enjoyed publicizing the fact.
There was a brief silence, then Gardam asked:
‘Are you ok, Helen?’
‘Sure. Why do you ask?’
‘You look very pale, that’s all. Is anything the matter?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Helen lied. ‘I’m always like this during a big investigation. I’m not a good sleeper at the best of times, so …’
‘I’m the same,’ Gardam replied. ‘Thank God for cigarettes, eh?’
‘Indeed.’
They smoked for a moment in silence. Then Helen said:
‘I’d better get back.’
Gardam nodded and Helen walked off, squeezing the last vestiges of nicotine from her dying cigarette as she did so. Gardam watched her cross the yard, his eyes never straying from her, until eventually she disappeared from view and he was left alone.
43
She looked in the mirror and saw darkness staring back.
It wasn’t the scratches on her arms or the faint shadow of bruising on her face. It was what she saw in her eyes that shocked her. Something dying, an emptiness taking hold. She had no idea how long she’d been sitting here, drinking herself in, but somehow she couldn’t find it in herself to move. The last couple of days had taken so much out of her.
Draining the last drops of her vodka, she reached for her mascara and resumed her preparations. For most of her life she had been friendless, but if there was a staple in her life – apart from self-abuse, drugs and the dolls of course – it was this. Her war paint had been part of her for as long as she could remember and she never felt whole without it. There was something soothing, exciting and empowering about the ritual of self-improvement and she loved the feeling of the brushes against her skin. She had always been into this kind of thing – her mother had once said she was very intuitive about ‘texture’. It was one of the few kind things she had ever said to her.
Putting the brushes down, she pulled the tub of hair gel towards her. Scooping up a large handful, she smeared it over her hair and scalp. She often wore her
hair up – in a riotous, peacocking display – but not today. Running her hands over her crown, she worked hard to flatten her hair. She liked the severe, asexual look it gave her – she was determined that there would not be a hair out of place.
Satisfied, she rose and walked over to the wardrobe. This was the most painful part and best done quickly. Pulling the whalebone corset from the wardrobe, she stepped into it and raised it up and over her chest. Grasping the strings, she pulled as hard as she could. The corset gripped her ribcage, punching the air from her lungs. She gasped but didn’t relent, pulling still harder. She loved the feeling of breathlessness, of constriction, of pain. After thirty seconds, she finally relented, loosening the strings a notch and tying them in a neat bow. Surveying herself in the mirror, she was pleased by what she saw. She looked sleek, smooth, in control.
Time was pressing now, so she slid into her jumpsuit, reaching over her shoulder to zip herself up. Then marching into the bathroom, she applied the final touches. Coloured contact lenses, changing her irises from light blue to a deep chocolate brown. Her hair looked dark and slick, her face uncharacteristically pale and the eyes that stared back at her were those of a stranger. She didn’t recognize herself. She hoped others wouldn’t either.
Her preparations were complete now, so there was no point hesitating. Switching off the light, she walked quickly towards the front door. It was time to do battle again.
44
‘I’m going to release Paul Jackson.’
Helen had dragged the entire team into the briefing room. They looked shocked at the news – Charlie in particular – but Helen wasn’t in the mood for a discussion. Jackson might still have a role to play in the case, but in her mind at least he wasn’t the elusive, sadistic killer they were hunting. Crushing though it was to have to admit it, they were back to square one.
‘It’s only on bail and he’ll be under surveillance, but I want us to widen our search and consider other possibilities. We should assume for now that Jake Elder’s murder was not an opportunist act. The careful choice of venue, the credit card fraud, plus the tactics employed by the perpetrator to conceal the purchase of the items used suggests a high level of planning.’
‘Does that mean the perpetrator had a special grievance against Elder, that he’d been plotting his murder for some time?’ DC Reid offered.
‘Have we found anything in Elder’s communications or recent history to support that? Has he angered anybody recently?’ Helen responded.
‘Nothing on the drugs or money front,’ Lucas replied.
‘Nor in his private or professional life,’ Edwards said, overlapping. ‘His life seems pretty … empty, to be honest.’
Helen felt a sharp stab of guilt but, swallowing it, pressed on.
‘In which case we have to consider the possibility that whoever did this has no personal animus against Elder.’
‘Perhaps it’s what he represents?’ DC Lucas said.
‘Could be a hate crime,’ Sanderson added, overlapping. ‘Anti-gay? Anti-BDSM?’
‘Maybe, but if so I’d have expected someone to have claimed responsibility for the murder,’ Helen replied. ‘Or posted some kind of justification for their actions. Let’s keep an eye on that – see if anyone surfaces in the next twenty-four hours.’
‘Maybe they just get off on the thrill of it,’ DC Edwards said. ‘The sense of control, playing God. Maybe whoever did this enjoyed watching Elder die –’
‘He’d be taking a chance when anyone could have walked in,’ Helen interrupted quickly, keen not to dwell on this thought.
‘Perhaps,’ Edwards countered, ‘but according to Blakeman there’s a kind of unwritten rule in that club. If the door’s closed, it means “do not disturb”.’
‘What about exposure?’ Sanderson now offered. ‘By killing him he’s revealing to the world what Elder really was. A dominator, a “pervert” …’
Helen nodded, suppressing her alarm. She had seen this kind of thing before in the Ella Matthews case, a young prostitute who’d killed her male clients to expose them. Could this latest murder be a copycat killing of her awful crimes?
‘But that would suggest that the killer isn’t part of the BDSM scene,’ Charlie objected. ‘Which doesn’t hold water for me. I think our killer knew the club, knew the scene and was very deliberate in his choice of target.’
Sanderson said nothing. Nor did her colleagues. As Helen had predicted, everybody knew about their earlier row and they were keen to avoid getting involved.
‘In the absence of any specific pointers, we’ll have to keep an open mind on the perpetrator’s motivation,’ Helen said, shooting a warning look to both Sanderson and Charlie. ‘For now, let’s deal with what we know. Our killer was calm, methodical –’
‘Suggesting that he’s done this before?’ Reid offered.
‘Maybe. We should certainly consider the possibility that our killer has a criminal past. Let’s look for the obvious – hate crimes, false imprisonment – but I also want us to check out anyone who’s been convicted of credit card fraud in the last five years and cross-reference their names against those already on our list. How are we doing with our Snapchatters?’
‘Apart from Jackson, we’ve tracked down seven of the twenty – all of whom have alibis,’ Charlie replied.
‘Not good enough. That’s twelve possible suspects who like to conceal their identities and who have a strong personal link to the deceased. Chase them down quickly, please.’
Charlie nodded but said nothing, so Helen continued:
‘Edwards, I’d like you to do some further credit card digging for me. This is our killer’s only footprint so far. How did he get Lynn Picket’s card details? Check her friends, family, workmen who visited the house – anybody who could have gained access to her bag. Check where she shops, which internet sites she uses and ask the tech boys to investigate whether her card details could have been sold as part of a bundle on the internet or dark web. If our killer prefers anonymity, he may favour using a Tor browser.’
‘I’ll get them on to it straight away.’
‘I’ve also asked DS Sanderson to draw up a list of names from last night’s Munch. I’m sure word’s spread about our presence on the scene,’ Helen went on, ‘and it’s going to be hard for us to place someone else there, but we can at least follow up on the intel we do have.’
‘I’ll circulate the list to everyone,’ Sanderson added quickly. ‘Our main person of interest is “Samantha”, a mid-op transsexual – male to female – who indulges in extreme BDSM and has a history of assault, ABH and so on.’
‘Finally, I’m going to ask DC McAndrew to keep us all up to date with any forensic developments,’ Helen concluded. ‘In the absence of any other direct DNA sources on the victim’s body, we’ll need to interrogate the other traces found in the room and its environs. If there’s a match to someone with a criminal past – however trivial – we need to know about it.’
There was a silence in the room as everyone looked to Helen once more.
‘Well, don’t just stand there,’ she barked at them. ‘There’s a killer out there and he’s laughing at us.’
And with that she turned, heading for the sanctuary of her office.
45
Helen pushed the door to and tossed her jacket on to the sofa. She felt drained and dispirited, her high hopes of the morning dashed. She needed time and space to gather her thoughts – gather herself – but she had only just made it back to her desk when she heard Charlie’s angry voice:
‘You could have spoken to me first …’
Helen turned to see Charlie shutting the door behind her. Helen stared at her, then at the door, irritated by this act of insubordination. She was not in the mood to be crossed today.
‘I wasn’t under the impression I had to run my decisions past you,’ Helen replied, just about holding her anger in check.
‘Jackson is a good suspect.’
‘I agree, but you were in that int
erview room. Do you think he’s guilty?’
‘It’s too early to say. We have to go at him again.’
‘He’s being released as we speak.’
‘Why, for God’s sake? We’ve interviewed him once. We can hold him for at least another forty-eight hours –’
‘Because if he is an innocent man, I don’t intend to ruin his life completely. He has already been the subject of some pretty vile speculation in the press –’
‘I appreciate that –’
‘Do you? There are people out there who, for valid reasons, want to keep the different parts of their life separate, who’ve committed no offence –’
‘But Elder rejected him. Jackson told us as much. He wanted sex with him and he was rejected. He has a strong motive –’
‘So strong that two weeks prior to this murder, he ordered a collection of bondage items with which to commit the crime. This was not a crime of passion and you shouldn’t dress it up as one.’
‘You don’t know that for sure,’ Charlie threw back at her, her anger flaring now. ‘He could have bought those items discreetly, intending to use them recreationally, but on that particular night he was angry and rejected –’
‘Put him in the room then,’ Helen spat back, ‘put him at the crime scene and then we can have this conversation.’
The two women had now squared off against each other. Helen’s eyes flitted to her office window. She could tell the rest of the team were listening to their argument and she was keen to bring it to a conclusion.
‘I think we’re making a mistake,’ Charlie said defiantly.
‘Noted,’ Helen replied. ‘But ask yourself why you’re so hot on Jackson as a suspect. Could it be because you want to prove something to Sanderson?’
‘He was my collar and she brought him in.’
‘And now he’s “yours” again you want to see it through, one in the eye for your fellow DS.’
‘That’s not true. Yes, Sanderson was out of line –’
‘I told her to bring him in – because you weren’t here.’
This time Charlie said nothing in response, stung by the implication.
Little Boy Blue: DI Helen Grace 5 (A DI Helen Grace Thriller) Page 9
