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

by M. J. Arlidge

  ‘So nothing out of the ordinary happened that night?’

  ‘No. Same old, same old …’

  ‘Have you ever used wet sheets?’ Helen asked, changing tack sharply.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Other forms of restraints? Leather straps, hog ties –’

  ‘Who hasn’t?’

  ‘A witness – a cabbie – picked you up that night after the Annual Ball. Said you were in a terrible state. Angry, distressed, unpredictable. If it was such a mundane evening, why were you so affected by it?’

  Samantha said nothing, but Helen could see her eyes narrowing.

  ‘What happened that night, Samantha?’

  There was a long pause, as Samantha toyed with a broken nail. Then she leant forward, rewarding Helen with an ample view of her cleavage as she did so, before whispering:

  ‘That’s for me to know. And you to find out.’

  80

  Gardam leant against the two-way mirror, his eyes glued to the contest in front of him. In his younger days, he had loved the tussle of suspect and interviewer, revelling in the feints and parries, the carefully laid traps and elegant evasions, but he seldom got the chance to enjoy it now. His was a desk job, important but managerial, far from the front line, far from the fun. So he had to amuse himself vicariously, watching others do the job he once loved.

  The experience was always sweeter when the interview took place under high pressure. The discovery of a second body and the ensuing media excitement had left no one in Southampton Central in any doubt about the need for a quick resolution to the case. Two men had been sadistically murdered, but worse still their initial suspect now languished in hospital, following a botched suicide attempt. Southampton was being made to look like a den of vice and its police force far from competent – Gardam had already had the police commissioner, the local MP and the Mayor on the phone, bending his ear about it.

  His get-out-of-jail card in these situations was always Helen. She was an officer of such standing that nobody – least of all the local politicians, who liked to appear strong on law and order – could take serious issue with the way investigations were run. Yes, there were false starts and accidents, and you could never predict how people caught up in cases like these would react, but Helen’s track record at getting results in the big investigations was second to none.

  Gardam had used her name many times to smooth ruffled feathers, assuring his critics that justice would prevail, and in his heart he did believe that this case would be no exception. But another part of him knew that it was already very different. He and Helen had worked together on complicated investigations before, but never as closely as this. Something profound had changed in their relationship.

  Was he genuinely falling in love with her? He’d had office crushes before, but he’d never been tempted to act on them. This was something else. She had opened herself up to him. He had replayed their recent conversation over and over in his mind. Did she know how he felt about her? Was it even possible she knew that he watched her? He hoped not because that made her confession even more unprompted. She had bared her soul to him, revealing things she hadn’t confided to anyone else. He had the strong sense that she did this not just to unburden herself, but also to test him, to see how he would react. If he’d been obviously shocked or judgemental she might have backed off, but he had been accepting and encouraging, so she had elaborated, drawing him into her world. He hoped in time she would go further.

  But that was for another day. Now there was work to be done. Still, it didn’t stop Gardam drinking in his subordinate now, noting the way she spoke, the way she held herself, the manner in which she teased and coaxed her suspect towards her traps. It was magical to watch and Gardam knew that his other duties would be neglected until she was done. While she was here, performing for him, the rest of the world could go hang.

  81

  ‘So why do you do it?’

  Samantha arched an eyebrow, but said nothing, examining her nails.

  ‘Is it about you? The victims? What is it about them that gets you riled?’

  ‘Why should I hate them? They are nobodies.’

  ‘So maybe it’s about you, Michael.’

  ‘Don’t call me that.’

  ‘It’s your name, isn’t it? Michael James Parker.’ Helen pulled a couple more sheets of paper from her file. ‘Born just outside Portsmouth, second child of Anna and Nicholas Parker, brother to Leoni. Are your parents still alive?’

  ‘No, thank fuck.’

  ‘But Leoni is. She’s had to post bail for you on a number of occasions, hasn’t she?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I see you’ve got form for credit card fraud. Tell me about that.’

  ‘I was working at a café. Management took all the tips and I needed some money to survive –’

  ‘So you lifted customers’ credit cards and then what?’

  ‘I feathered my nest.’

  ‘Until you got caught.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Also charges of affray, assault … and false imprisonment.’

  ‘That was bullshit.’

  ‘Your victim didn’t think so.’

  ‘It was a game that went wrong.’

  ‘Went wrong how?’

  ‘I thought the guy had balls. Turned out he hadn’t.’

  ‘It’s never your fault, is it? Everything we’ve talked about so far –’

  ‘Why should it be my fault?’

  Samantha snarled as she said it. Her female carapace was slipping now, her voice low and breathy, revealing a masculine side that was usually hidden from view.

  ‘Tell me, when did you realize that you wanted to be Samantha, rather than Michael?’ Helen said, changing tack once more.

  ‘I didn’t realize, I knew.’

  ‘So it was from birth.’

  ‘Of course. I was just born wrong.’

  ‘And this desire to be a woman, how did it express itself when you were a kid?’

  ‘How do you think? I had a mother and a sister.’

  ‘You borrowed their clothes?’

  ‘Sure. My mother said she never knew, but she did.’

  ‘And your father?’

  Samantha suddenly threw her head back and laughed.

  ‘He definitely didn’t know. Not initially at least …’

  ‘And when he did?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘He beat you?’

  ‘Have a look at my past medical records. You’ll see a lot of accidents there.’

  ‘How long did this go on for?’

  ‘Until he sent me away. He decided my mum and sister were the problem, so he packed me off to boarding school.’

  Helen watched Samantha closely. The pain of this separation was still evident.

  ‘It was all boys and I hated it. Nowhere to dress, no one to talk to and then puberty, God help me.’

  ‘Your voice broke?’

  ‘And the body hair, and walking round with a giant pair of balls between my legs like a fucking ape.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I cut myself, played the fool, I messed up in pretty much every subject I took. Still I was bullied to shit. Turns out the boys there didn’t like sissies any more than my dad did.’

  ‘So you’ve always been a victim of violence?’

  ‘Pretty much, though they saved the best till last. I took their abuse for five years then one day I thought “fuck it”. I turned up at the sixth-form disco dressed as Samantha. Immaculate, I was, far better-looking than the rest of the sad sacks there. And you know what? Nobody said a bad word to me. No, they waited until I was on my way back to the dorm. Doctors said I was lucky not to lose my sight.’

  Samantha was looking directly at Helen, her eyes boring into hers.

  ‘And the scar … on your face?’

  ‘A present from my dad when I was eventually expelled.’

  Helen nodded. She instinctively disliked Samantha, b
ut her story was not so dissimilar to hers. The wounds inflicted by family are the deepest of all.

  ‘Do you still self-harm?’

  Samantha gave Helen a withering look that answered strongly in the affirmative.

  ‘Do you think that’s why you’re drawn to recreational violence? To BDSM?’

  ‘I’m not a shrink, sweetheart. Are you?’

  Helen smiled and shook her head. She didn’t like her attitude, but she was talking, which was good.

  ‘Tell me what you like to do when you’re having a session? What’s your taste?’

  ‘The usual.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Restraint, role play, punishment, isolation techniques, sensory deprivation –’

  ‘Edge Play?’

  ‘It’s been known.’

  ‘Give me some examples.’

  Samantha looked at Helen. She had been warming to her, becoming almost garrulous and sociable, but now Helen saw her hesitate.

  ‘In one of Max Paine’s previous entries against your name – or your initial at least – he’s written Phoenix. Can you explain that to me?’

  Samantha looked dead straight at Helen. Was she looking for an excuse not to answer the question? A way out?

  ‘We’re not due to break for another thirty minutes, so please answer the question.’

  ‘I’d like a lawyer now.’

  ‘Your brief is on her way and should be here soon. In the meantime, what does Paine mean by “Phoenix”?’

  ‘It’s a scenario.’

  ‘A scenario you act out?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Describe it to me. Samantha, you can look away all you want, but I prom—’

  ‘It’s a scenario in which the bottom comes out on top, ok?’

  ‘So the victim – you – are in control.’

  ‘Right. Sometimes you act out a little bit first, where the top verbally abuses you, beats you up, but then the tables are turned.’

  ‘Meaning that eventually you are the one handing out the punishment.’

  ‘The Phoenix rising.’

  As she said it, a smile crept over Samantha’s face. Did she feel she was finally getting the upper hand with Helen too?

  ‘Did you act out the Phoenix with Max Paine?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘I don’t mean in the past,’ Helen butted in, ‘I mean on Thursday night. Is that what you wanted? Is that what he offered you?’

  Samantha took a long time to think about her answer, before she finally said:

  ‘Yes.’

  82

  The silence in the room was deafening. Normally the Incident Room was the epicentre of noise on the seventh floor – mobiles ringing, printers whirring and officers arguing, laughing, speculating. But not today. It was tense and hushed, the spectacle of both Sanderson and Charlie avoiding each other putting everybody else on edge.

  Sanderson finished her tea and contemplated heading to the canteen for another. She’d been chivvying the computer operatives into carrying out their data checks on Paine’s devices for over an hour, but with little success. This was especially galling, given Charlie’s arrest of Parker. Despite her argument with Helen, Charlie would still get all the plaudits, if they managed to secure a confession from their prime suspect. Sanderson had started the day in conciliatory mood, thinking she should perhaps apologize to Charlie and try to make things right. But Charlie had gone her own way, stitched the rest of them up and now she had the upper hand. So her apology had been swallowed.

  ‘Ok, let’s park the smartphone for now, focus on the tablet instead,’ she said, her patience finally wearing thin.

  Her abruptness earnt her a reproachful look from the data analyst, but Sanderson ignored it. She knew she was behaving petulantly, but she couldn’t help herself. As her aggrieved subordinate punched the keyboard, Sanderson’s eyes strayed across the room. She could see Charlie out of the corner of her eye, leafing through files. It made Sanderson smile. Hard though she was trying to look busy, she knew that all Charlie’s thoughts were bent on the interview downstairs – an interview she was excluded from. This would be a big feather in her cap, if things played out as she hoped.

  ‘Here you go,’ her neighbour said, failing to conceal the hint of triumph in her voice. Sanderson turned to her, irritated with herself for being so distracted.

  ‘What have you got?’

  ‘Someone’s using Paine’s tablet.’

  ‘Where?’ Sanderson said, suddenly engaged.

  ‘Not sure yet. They’re hooked into a server in the city centre. Give me another five minutes and I’ll give you a more precise location.’

  Sanderson was already heading to the door.

  ‘Buzz me in the car. I’m heading down there now.’

  Sanderson pushed through the door and down the corridor, half walking, half running. She didn’t want to overdo it, but she couldn’t look this gift horse in the mouth. There was a chance that she could still redeem herself. More than that, there was a chance that DS Charlene Brooks had pulled in the wrong guy.

  83

  ‘So what do you think?’

  Gardam had been waiting for Helen outside the interview suite. She’d been keen to get back to the team, but he’d pressed her for an update. So they now found themselves in the smokers’ yard once again.

  ‘I think she’s a good suspect. She’s admitted engaging in extreme BDSM practices with Paine on the night he died, she knew Elder and I’m pretty sure we’ll be able to place her at both scenes. She’s definitely damaged enough – she’s been a victim of violence all her life and I suspect it’s the only language she knows. Plus it’s clear that she has an unhealthy interest in subjugating other people.’

  ‘She told you all this?’

  ‘She doesn’t seem to mind, in fact she seems to enjoy it.’

  ‘So why hasn’t she confessed? If she’s so willing to talk?’

  ‘It could be that she’s innocent – though she’s never said as much. It may be that she’s cornered and wants to enjoy the game for as long as possible. Or it may be that actually admitting what she’s done is too hard for her. Don’t forget she’s a victim too.’

  ‘So what’s the next play?’

  ‘We keep digging – see if we can link her to BDSM purchases made with stolen credit cards. Anything we can turn up will increase our leverage.’

  Gardam nodded and drew hard on his cigarette. A brief silence followed as Helen did likewise. They were alone today and the smokers’ yard had a curiously intimate feel.

  ‘I really should give these things up,’ he said, exhaling.

  ‘Me too. But somehow every time I make the decision to quit –’

  ‘Something comes up.’

  Helen nodded.

  ‘Occupational hazard, I guess,’ Gardam continued, flicking his ash on to the ground. ‘How long have you been a smoker … ?’

  ‘Since I was a kid,’ Helen replied. ‘There wasn’t much else to do round our way when we were bunking off school. It was my sister who really got me into it.’

  ‘I was the same. I wanted to be like my older brothers. Of course, they both quit years ago and now the bastards do triathlons just to rub my nose in it.’

  Gardam finished his cigarette and rubbed it out on the wall behind him.

  ‘Maybe we should both quit together?’ he said. ‘Keep an eye on each other.’

  ‘Let’s not run before we can walk, eh?’ Helen replied, extinguishing her cigarette. ‘We’ve still got a long way to go on this one.’

  ‘I guess you’re right,’ Gardam answered, pocketing his packet of cigarettes.

  Helen waited to be dismissed, but Gardam made no move to do so.

  ‘Was there anything else, sir?’

  ‘No. And don’t feel you need to call me that. Jonathan is fine, as long as it’s not in front of the troops.’

  ‘Of course, thank you.’

  ‘Good night, Helen.’

  Helen took her leav
e and headed back to the seventh floor. Perhaps she had been wrong about Gardam. Against all the odds, they were starting to get along.

  84

  ‘It’s so nice to have someone to talk to. Someone who understands. It must have been hard losing your dad so young, but you turned out ok, didn’t you?’

  Emilia Garanita nodded and gave Dinah Carter’s arm a squeeze. The latter was clearly terrified that her son would be left traumatized by his father’s sudden death and she desperately needed some female reassurance. Emilia was happy to oblige – she was good at making people feel better and what she’d told her so far was mostly true. The fact that her dad was not dead, but serving a sentence for drug smuggling, was a minor detail. It had been tough for her becoming a surrogate parent to her many siblings at such a young age, but the experience had been beneficial for her in the long run and now she didn’t regret it. It was certainly useful in situations such as these.

  Dinah Carter had been reluctant to open the door. She’d already had journalists round offering her money, but she’d run scared of them. Emilia sensed that they had been too aggressive, too obviously grasping for a piece of Dinah. Emilia by contrast had tried the softly, softly approach, mainlining on her sympathy for the bereaved ex-wife. And it had worked – Carter hadn’t shut the door on her. Emilia suspected it was more than just her empathetic manner that had made Dinah hesitate – the extensive scarring on her face helped too. Emilia wasn’t proud of the way she looked, but it certainly had its uses. People could see she had suffered – there was no need to explain – and more often than not that got her through the door.

  They had already spoken at length about Dinah’s son, Thomas, but there was a finite amount of copy in this, so Emilia moved the conversation on. The moral majority out there had limited sympathy for a man of Max Paine’s alternative lifestyle, however loving a dad he might have been at the weekends. What they – and Emilia – were interested in was who might have killed him.

  ‘Did DI Grace tell you what lines of enquiry they’re pursuing, in relation to Maxwell’s death?’

  Dinah shook her head, fiddling nervously with the buttons on her cardigan.