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

by M. J. Arlidge

  ‘You were late and I will not let anyone’s lack of professionalism hamper this investigation.’

  ‘That’s completely unfair,’ Charlie said, stunned by this personal attack. ‘I work harder than anyone else –’

  ‘It’s a statement of fact. You weren’t here when you should have been.’

  Charlie stared at Helen, speechless.

  ‘But I’ll tell you what. As you’re so convinced Jackson is guilty, you can take the surveillance detail.’

  ‘Oh, come on, that’s a DC’s job at best –’

  ‘It’s yours now,’ Helen asserted.

  Charlie opened her mouth to protest, but Helen continued:

  ‘Bring me evidence of his guilt. Show me I’m wrong and I’ll eat my words.’

  She crossed the room and pointedly opened the door of her office.

  ‘But know one thing, Charlie. This case is not about you. You may think it is, but it’s not. It’s about an innocent man –’

  Helen’s voice faltered as Jake’s lifeless corpse once more sprung to mind.

  ‘– an innocent man who deserves justice.’

  ‘Why are you being like this?’ Charlie said, emotion suddenly ambushing her.

  ‘Because it’s my job. You’d do well to remember yours.’

  Helen stared at Charlie, challenging her to respond. But this time she didn’t. Instead, she turned and walked straight out of Helen’s office and towards the exit without saying a word to anyone. Helen retreated quickly to her desk, keen to busy herself with her case files. She could feel her face burning, as if she were the one in the wrong. She needed to regain her composure.

  Silence reigned in the incident room beyond but Helen knew that that was just show. They were all trying very hard to look busy and engaged, but as Helen distractedly turned the pages of the case file in front of her, she knew instinctively that all eyes were on her. Everybody was watching her, but nobody was saying anything.

  46

  Max Paine flicked through the pages of the newspaper until he found what he was looking for. The Evening News was dominated by sensational reports of the Torture Rooms murder, but it was the centre spread he was after. There at the top-right-hand corner of the page was the journalist’s mug shot and direct line.

  Emilia Garanita was no looker, given the extensive scarring on one of her cheeks, but she was a famous face in Southampton – with a number of high-profile exposés already to her name. She was happy to walk where angels fear to tread, going anywhere and talking to anyone who might provide her with a scoop. Paine hoped to use that to his advantage now.

  He would meet with Garanita and tell her in confidence the information he was prepared to sell. He would then ask her to make him an offer. Under the pretext of thinking about it, he would then contact Grace and see what she was prepared to pay. To the winner, the spoils. He wasn’t on some moral crusade after all. He just wanted money.

  He punched Garanita’s phone number into his mobile and turned away from the café counter – he didn’t want to be overheard. But the call didn’t connect, going straight to voicemail instead. He decided to be short and sweet.

  ‘My name is Max Paine. I have information about the Torture Rooms murder that you’ll want to hear. Call me on 07977 654878. I’ll be waiting.’

  He rang off, pleased to have made the first move, but irritated not to have been able to speak to Garanita in person. Still, there was plenty of time for that. No point getting strung out this early in the game.

  He finished his coffee, flicking carelessly through the rest of the paper, before heading on his way. It was getting late and he had work to do. He thought about taking the News with him, but he had Garanita’s number on his phone now, so tossing it casually on to the table, he left. The waitress swooped, scooping up his empty coffee cup, pausing momentarily to take in the front page of the abandoned paper. Something approaching sympathy now creased her features as Jake Elder’s smiling, happy face beamed out at her from beneath the screaming headline:

  SOUTHAMPTON SEX MURDER.

  47

  They stood staring at each other, neither daring to speak.

  The enormous relief Paul Jackson had felt on being told he was to be released swiftly turned to anxiety, when he realized what lay ahead. He didn’t trust himself to call Sally – he wasn’t even sure if she’d answer – so he’d texted her. His message was brief, saying simply that he was on his way home and would see her shortly. It was the kind of anodyne message he had sent a hundred times before. Now, however, it had a very different meaning.

  He had hoped to avoid the press by sneaking out of the back exit of Southampton Central, but they were waiting for him there, as they were when he eventually pulled into his road. There was no question of heading in via the back door – the garden wall was too high to be scaled without a ladder – so getting out of the car he made a dash for the front gate. Immediately, he cannoned off one journalist, knocking over a photographer in the process. Nobody actually laid a hand on him but they all contrived to impede his progress. They wanted to provoke him, to get him to lash out, but he kept his head down until he reached the sanctuary of his front door.

  His hand had been shaking when he’d put the key in the lock and the house seemed eerily empty when he finally succeeded in getting inside. The twins had been picked up by another school mum and were still blissfully unaware of what was happening. Sally, however, was waiting for him in the kitchen, seated at the table with her hands folded.

  He was about to kiss her, then thought better of it. He pulled out a chair – the trailing leg made a sharp, squealing noise on the polished wooden floor – and sat down. He saw Sally flinch at the noise and looking at her he now realized that she was on the edge of tears. The sight made him feel sick. This was his fault. All this … hurt … was his fault.

  ‘I haven’t been able to go out,’ Sally said suddenly. ‘They’ve been ringing the doorbell, banging on the door. I pulled the phone out of the wall, but they got my mobile number from somewhere …’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Sally. I never wanted any of this …’

  ‘Please tell me it’s a mistake,’ she replied quickly, her voice wobbling. ‘I heard the headlines, I know what this is …’

  ‘Of course it’s a mistake, my darling. I’m not a violent man. I would never hurt somebody like that.’

  ‘And the rest of it?’

  Paul was suddenly unable to look at her.

  ‘That place. Where this man died …’

  She didn’t elaborate further, but the unspoken question was clear.

  ‘Yes. I went there.’

  ‘How many times?’

  Paul said nothing in response.

  ‘How many times have you been there? And please don’t lie to me, Paul.’

  ‘Six, maybe seven times.’

  ‘What did you do there?’

  For a moment, Paul was tempted to lie, to soften the blow. He could start by saying he went to drink, dance … But in the end, he simply said:

  ‘I went there to meet men.’

  Sally nodded slightly, then rose from the table. Paul rose too, moving towards her, but she held up a hand to fend him off. Turning, she walked from the room without looking back, running up the stairs to her bedroom. Paul heard the bedroom door slam shut and moments later the sound of her crying.

  He walked over to the window, pulling the curtains round to block out the press photographers who were straining to see in from their vantage points on the wall opposite. It was a pointless gesture – it was too late to protect his family. He had never hated himself so much as he did in that moment. He hadn’t heard his wife cry in years and now in one awful day he had destroyed her happiness, her peace of mind and her faith in him.

  His very public arrest would cause her embarrassment both at home and at work. The revelation that he was bisexual would hurt her deeply too. But perhaps they could have worked through those things – for the boys’ sake – were it not for the fact that h
e had betrayed her. He had lied to her night after night, as he slept with casual pick-ups. It was this that would damn him ultimately and he knew that Sally would never forgive him. Nor, if he was honest, would he.

  48

  From her viewpoint across the road, Charlie watched the horrible soap opera unfold. Charlie remained to be convinced that Paul Jackson was innocent, but she still felt for him and his family. Like her, they must have got up this morning with no inkling of what was about to befall them. They might even have been looking forward to the day. But in the time it takes the sun to rise and set again, secrets had been revealed, accusations made and a family’s happiness shattered.

  Thanks to her job, Charlie came into contact with many unsavoury characters, but few were as unpleasant and pitiless as the journalists now camped outside the Jackson house. In time, they would drift away, as new developments emerged, but the next forty-eight hours would be Hell. The family could take legal steps to protect themselves from intrusion, but these things took time and in the interim press hounds, radio and TV journalists, bloggers and more would be beating a path to their door.

  They would claim that they were only doing their job – ‘it’s a free country’ was the common refrain – but Charlie knew they enjoyed it. It was bullying pure and simple, the pack descending on whomsoever they deemed fair game. They would climb walls, scale lampposts, shout through letter boxes, bribe, threaten, cajole – all in the hope of getting a few words with the accused or a photo of his weeping wife. Many people out there thought the same of coppers – that they were only on God’s earth to cause grief and upset – but in Charlie’s mind, at least, the two professions were very different indeed.

  The biting wind whistled round Charlie and, cursing her luck, she retreated to her car. Helen had sent her here as a punishment, knowing full well it would be a wasted journey. It was easy enough to blend in with the journalists and gawpers, but with such a crowd outside what were the chances that Jackson would actually do anything incriminating? If he was smart, he would stay exactly where he was, until the interest in him waned.

  Charlie had the disquieting feeling that Helen had turned against her. They had exchanged some harsh words earlier – words that had shaken Charlie to the core – and even though she knew she deserved to be sent to purdah for rowing with Sanderson, she never expected to be publicly dressed down like that. Helen’s behaviour was out of character – impulsive and erratic – and it unnerved her. Especially when she still felt she had so much to prove.

  Charlie hoped her exile would be brief. She missed her family, hated the tedium of a stakeout and desperately wanted to be back in the heart of things. But this case was doing strange things to people – to Helen, Sanderson, even Charlie herself – and she wondered if she had permanently blotted her copybook with her boss. Truth be told, she had never felt so uncertain of her position as she did tonight.

  49

  ‘I like the look of this one.’

  Sanderson was hunched over her desk, running Helen through a print-out from the PNC database. The atmosphere was tense following the latter’s clash with Charlie, and Sanderson was working overtime to appear efficient, professional and productive. Like her rival, she still had a lot of ground to make up.

  ‘There’s a few on the list, but she seems the most likely, given Dennis’s description. Real name Michael Parker, now a mid-op transsexual, living as a woman. She’s used a number of different identities over the years …’

  ‘Sharon Greenwood,’ Helen replied, reading the details, ‘Beverley Booker and most recently Samantha Wilkes.’

  ‘Exactly. And look at her form. Affray, drugs, theft, obtaining money by deception, false imprisonment …’

  ‘What have we got on that last charge?’ Helen said.

  ‘Questioned, but never charged, about an incident with a Julian Bown, a married man she took back to her flat. Parker said their acts were consensual, Bown said they weren’t, wanted to press for GBH, but dropped it at the last minute.’

  ‘And obtaining money by deception?’

  Sanderson leafed through her file to find the relevant page.

  ‘Credit card fraud,’ she said, looking up at Helen. The excitement that always comes with a new lead was rising inside her, but she hid it well. Best not to get ahead of herself when her boss’s mood was still so hard to read.

  ‘Dennis said Samantha never missed an Annual Ball, so it’s likely we can place her there …’ she continued.

  ‘Let’s check her out,’ Helen said decisively. ‘Does this Dennis know where to find her?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘Then I’d better pay him a little visit. In the meantime, let’s contact gender reassignment clinics, starting in Southampton and rolling out from there. If Samantha’s a mid-operative transsexual, then she shouldn’t be too hard to track down. Also, can you locate Julian Bown? If he still lives locally, we need to talk to him.’

  ‘Sure thing, boss.’

  ‘Stay in touch. This is good work, Sanderson.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But that doesn’t excuse what happened this morning.’ Helen lowered her voice. ‘I’m sure you know that, so I won’t labour the point – except to say that I expect every member of my team to work together regardless of their rank, temperament or personal history. Is that clear?’

  ‘One hundred per cent.’

  ‘I’m very glad to hear it.’

  Sanderson watched on as Helen scooped up her jacket and marched from the office, handing out a few last tasks as she did so. As reprimands go, it had been brief and to the point – Sanderson knew she had escaped lightly. But there was still work to do. The decision to release Paul Jackson may have angered Charlie, but it also reflected badly on her. Helen clearly didn’t believe he was guilty and Sanderson’s call in arresting Jackson so publicly now looked very misguided.

  Charlie had been right about her motivation. Sanderson did feel threatened by Charlie and the chance to grab some glory and emphasize her rival’s tardiness was too good an opportunity to miss. She had hoped it would play well for her, but in fact it had achieved the very opposite. But all was not lost and a new lead, and a possible breakthrough in the case, could change everything. She would do whatever was in her power to remedy the situation because through all the backstabbing, insecurity and confusion one thing remained true – she craved the good opinion of DI Grace.

  50

  Emilia Garanita hit the hands-free button and punched in the number. She was the last person in the office and this was her final duty on what had been a tiring, but satisfactory day. She always replied to phone and email messages before the day was out – it was one of the things she prided herself on as a journalist, one of the things that singled her out from her peers. Once she was done, she would head home, open a bottle of wine and read tonight’s edition.

  It was an indulgence but she never got tired of seeing her words in print. It was just a provincial paper in some people’s eyes – but to Emilia it had always been more than that. It was a city paper – her city – and it still excited her to see her byline and photo at the top of the page.

  Today’s spread was particularly good. Everyone knew that people in stressful, high-pressure jobs often had unusual ways of relieving the pressure, but, still, a respectable bank manager was an absolute gift. This story had all the best ingredients – murder, sex, betrayal – and was guaranteed to run and run. Not just because the killer was still at large, but also because the main suspect, Paul Jackson, was clearly leading a double life. He was happily married with two kids and, judging by the look on his wife’s face, the revelation about his involvement in the Torture Rooms murder must have come as a complete shock to her, not to mention to their friends and neighbours.

  It was the kind of story that would have people all over Southampton speculating about what their neighbours were up to after hours, so the Evening News had gone to town on it – Emilia once more enjoying a four-page spread all to hers
elf. They’d mocked up an image of the crime scene, constructed a possible narrative of events and gone large on the views of a psychologist about the attraction of hardcore BDSM. The latter element had been part of their wide-ranging profile of Paul Jackson. They’d initially run shy of using his name, but once he was released on bail the gloves were off. Maybe he was guilty, maybe he wasn’t. In some ways it didn’t really matter – it was still great news, packed with secrets, lies and depravity.

  The phone was still ringing, so Emilia clicked off and tried again. But she was growing tired now, so after another fifteen rings she hung up, heading for the exit. Whatever Max Paine wanted would have to keep for another day.

  51

  ‘Always nice to see a fresh face,’ Max said as he straddled the chair and sat down to survey her. ‘I’ve not seen you before, have I?’

  ‘I’m just passing through.’

  ‘You seem very well kitted out for someone who’s in transit.’

  ‘Oh, don’t let this fool you, I’m very green really.’

  Max Paine smiled. He loved the tease of this job and always responded to clients who were prepared to make their time together more than just a soulless exchange. They were the ones who became regulars, the ones with whom the job was always fun and never a chore.

  ‘Well, let me take you in hand,’ he suggested, walking over to her.

  She was tall and thin with slicked black hair and striking eye make-up. It was a classic Berlin look and suited her down to the ground. Running his finger up her arm, he paused to knead the flesh beneath her shoulder blades. She exhaled happily, so he carried on running his hands down her back, sliding them round to the front. Continuing his progress, he ran them over her chest, before bringing them to rest on her crotch. The soft, pliable bulge that now began to harden to his touch revealed that this was going to be even more interesting than he’d imagined.

  ‘Aren’t you the girl that’s got everything?’ he said, rounding her to face her full on.

  ‘You better believe it’ was the impish reply.

  Smiling, Max walked away, towards the locked cupboards at the back.