A sharp knocking sound made her look up. Seconds later, the door swung open and Charlie entered, clutching a thin file.
“Sorry to disturb you. I looked for you in the interview suite and Gardam’s office but—”
“No problem,” Helen said quickly, slipping her grazed hand into her pocket. “What have you got?”
Charlie pulled a sheet of paper from the file, but hesitated now before replying. The look on her face suggested she knew Helen was upset, and was perhaps debating whether to say anything. In the end caution won out, and dropping her eyes to the paper, she said:
“We’ve made a bit of progress with Elder’s communications. He sometimes used texts and e-mails to set up his appointments, but his favored method of communicating with his clients was Snapchat.”
“Right.”
“Now, most people assume that when Snapchats disappear, they disappear for good, but actually the phone companies store them. We pulled Elder’s this morning, along with his recent texts and e-mails, so we’ve now got pretty much every communication he sent or received in the last three months.”
“And?” Helen said, hurrying Charlie to the point.
“Well, we cross-referenced them with mobile phones that were transmitting in or near the Torture Rooms on the night Jake was killed and we’ve got a list of about twenty numbers.”
Helen took this in—their first small lead in a difficult case. As she did so, she saw Charlie’s eyes flit to the dented locker, before quickly returning to Helen once more. If there was a question implied there, Charlie hid it well.
“Any links to anyone with a criminal record?”
“Not yet, but we’re still processing them.”
“Chase them all down,” Helen replied impatiently. “Anything else?”
“One regular texter who wasn’t in the vicinity was David Simons. He appears to have been in a serious relationship with Elder until fairly recently.”
Helen said nothing, her mind flitting back to the man she’d glimpsed in a city center bar all those months ago.
“How recently?”
“Split up a couple of months back.”
“Why?”
“Lack of commitment from Jake, clinginess from David—judging by their lengthy e-mails on the subject.”
“Where is Simons now?”
“Los Angeles. He divides his time between the US and the UK. He’s been there the last four weeks. I’ve been trying to get hold of him, but …”
“Get him over.”
“Of course,” Charlie replied, bristling slightly at Helen’s tone. “But I think we have to mark him off the list as a suspect, don’t you?”
There was something challenging in Charlie’s tone, but Helen decided not to rise to it. Instead, thanking her, she sent her on her way. Helen knew that she was being overly assertive, but the news that Jake’s boyfriend was long gone had sent her mood plummeting still further. Jake had seemed so happy when they last met, but Helen was suddenly struck by how lonely his life must have been.
No lover or friend had come forward to claim him, his parents wouldn’t have spat on him if he was on fire and even Helen had feigned ignorance of his identity to protect herself and her career. He had been abandoned in death by all those who should have cared for him, and that was something those who remained would have to live with for the rest of their lives.
21
“The victim lived and worked in Portswood. We’re still pinning down the precise details, but it appears that he earned his living in the sex trade, working out of his flat as a professional dominator. Today we are asking anyone who’s encountered Jake Elder—in whatever capacity—to get in touch and help us with our inquiries.”
Emilia jotted down the details, chuckling at Gardam’s careful euphemism. Everyone present knew what he meant—he was appealing to the spankers to put aside their embarrassment and come forward.
“Good luck with that,” Emilia whispered to her neighbor, who raised a jaded eyebrow in response. Gardam was in cloud cuckoo land if he thought anyone in the BDSM community was going to willingly walk into a police station. A lot of them had criminal records, others had wives and families, and none of them would want to run the gauntlet of being judged by the small-minded sergeant on the front desk. Better let a killer walk free than endure that.
As Gardam continued, casually talking over his Media Liaison officer’s attempt to direct proceedings, Emilia’s mind began to wander. She already knew what her article would look like—she’d written it in her head on the way over—and there was little that Gardam could offer that she hadn’t already been told. The real question—and the only reason she’d come to this briefing at all—was what role DI Grace would play in the proceedings. She was not someone who embraced the fourth estate, preferring to leave that to her superiors, but still her absence from the press conference was intriguing.
Emilia was pretty sure she was the only person present who knew that Helen had used Jake’s services. She had stumbled on their connection during the Ella Matthews investigation and had immediately tried to use it to her advantage, threatening the unfortunate DI with exposure unless she gave her exclusive access to the investigation. Not surprisingly, Grace had fought back, calling her bluff by revealing her knowledge of Emilia’s illegal surveillance techniques. It had ended in a score draw, both relieved to have emerged unscathed, but it still stuck in Emilia’s craw.
She had never been a good loser and perhaps it was payback time. Helen Grace had kept her on a short leash for a while, but the boot was on the other foot now. Had Grace confessed her knowledge of the victim to her team? Was that why she wasn’t present? Or had she kept her secret close? Emilia intended to find out. Journalists always love an exclusive and this story—“the copper and the bondage freak”—was going to be the best scoop she’d ever had.
22
Helen sped through the city streets, pleased to be away from the station. She found the incident room claustrophobic and unnerving—photos of a happy, carefree Jake staring down at her from the murder board—and there was little point being there just now. Charlie was chasing down Jake’s clients, McAndrew was leading the house-to-house calls and, until something concrete turned up, she was better used elsewhere.
As she slid past the stationary traffic, Helen felt her mood rise. Perhaps it was the fresh air, or the satisfaction that riding her bike always gave her, or maybe it was just that she was finally doing something. Her interview with Jake’s parents had yielded nothing, so it was good to be on the road at last, taking the lead.
Jim Grieves was still poring over Jake’s body, just as Sanderson, Charlie and the team were trying to climb inside his life. The items used to imprison and kill Jake, however, were only just being examined—Meredith and her team having recently returned from the crime scene—which was why Helen’s first port of call was the Police Laboratory at Woolston.
• • •
Meredith ushered Helen into the viewing area. Lying on the table in front of them were the wet sheets, the loose reel of silver duct tape and the leather restraints—their killer’s weapons of choice.
“Preliminary testing on the victim’s clothing and the bondage items has shown up only one source of DNA—the victim’s. We’ll run them again, but I wouldn’t bank on anything more on that front.”
Helen nodded, disappointed but not surprised.
“As for the rest of it, there’s nothing particularly unusual about these items. The duct tape can be bought from any hardware store and though the wet sheets and restraints are specialist gear, they’re the standard size, color and design. They were probably bought off the shelf, rather than custom-made.”
“Had they been used before? Was this gear the perpetrator already owned?”
“Probably not, given the lack of DNA traces. Plus, look at this.”
Meredith reached forward and picked up the leather straps, holding them up to the light. Intrigued, Helen leaned in closer.
“The hole
which the buckle prong penetrated to secure the victim has been punched through cleanly. You can see the light through it.”
“But the others haven’t,” Helen replied, running a gloved finger over the sequence of closed holes. “Which suggests that last night was the first time these straps had been used.”
“Your killer could have used them before, perhaps, practiced at home—”
“But he’d have to have known exactly which hole he’d use. And unless he correctly guessed the diameter of the victim’s ankle and the chair leg, then—”
“Exactly, so let’s assume they’re brand-new. That might narrow the field down a little?” Meredith offered hopefully.
Thanking her, Helen pulled her mobile from her pocket and headed on her way, speed-dialing Edwards back at base.
By the time she left the building, he’d already pinged her his list of local bondage outlets. And by the time she was on her bike, they’d divided up the list—split four ways between Edwards, Helen and a couple of broad-minded DCs.
It was time to take a walk on the wild side.
23
Sanderson sat perfectly still, as the brush caressed her cheek. As soon as Helen had asked her to lead the undercover work, her mind had been turning on how best to ingratiate herself into a scene that was utterly alien to her. She was a conventional, middle-of-the-road girl and now she wondered if she was a little bit “vanilla” for the role. She was no prude, but humiliation, submission, restraint and punishment had never been part of her personal lexicon and she knew she would be on a steep learning curve. She had spent most of the day studying the scene, picking out the latest trends in the fetish world, while creating a new identity and personal history to carry into the operation.
She’d already colored her hair and purchased the necessary bondage gear and now her good friend Hannah P. was applying the finishing touches to her face. Face painting and body art seemed to be a big part of the “peacocking” that characterized a world fueled by fantasy and role-playing. If she was honest with herself, it made her feel more relaxed, concealing her true identity beneath brightly colored paint. If she could forget herself, she could more easily become her alter ego. And that was crucial for the task that lay ahead.
It was not just that she wanted to appear convincing to elicit information from those attending the “Munch” this evening. It was also a question of safety. Their perpetrator had already proved to be without mercy or scruple, proficient and artful in taking another’s life. Sanderson was not easily scared—she could handle herself—but she knew she was out of her comfort zone here. This was the sharp end of the job.
Hannah had finished her work and now presented Sanderson with a mirror. Her older, more bohemian twin stared back at her. It was a good look and would serve her well tonight. Now was not a time for trepidation. If she could fashion a break in the case, it would play well with Helen. She’d always looked up to her superior, admiring her dedication, professionalism and bravery, and had felt well-placed to be her deputy. Now, though, there was competition and if she was honest, she feared that the personal connection between Helen and Charlie would hold her back. The only way to counter this was to prove to her boss that she was first among equals, the officer best suited to be her deputy. Which was why tonight was so important.
Thanking Hannah P. once more, Sanderson swept up her phone and keys before sliding her baton carefully into her suit. She was ready and there was no point putting it off. It was now or never.
24
Paul Jackson was between meetings and resentful of Charlie’s intrusion. He was a manager at the Shirley branch of Santander—a position of some responsibility—and was clearly embarrassed by her presence. His eyes kept flicking to the clock, and his answers—when they came—were brief.
“So just to confirm, that phone number—07768 057374—belongs to you?”
“Yes.”
“And you had your phone with you last night?”
“I think so.”
“Can I ask where you were? Between the hours of ten p.m. and two a.m.?”
There was a moment’s pause, before Jackson responded:
“I went for a drink after work. Watched the football. Then went home.”
“Oh, right, who was playing?”
Another slight hesitation, then:
“Saints versus Watford. Easy win.”
“And which pub was this?”
“The Saracen’s Head, near the hospital.”
“Bit out of your way, isn’t it?”
“There are pubs closer to the office, but the beer’s better there, so …”
“And you went with colleagues?”
“No, I went by myself.”
“Right,” Charlie replied, making a note on her pad. “And what time would you say you got home?”
“A little after midnight, I think.”
“That’s pretty late for a school night, isn’t it?” Charlie replied, smiling.
For the first time, Jackson seemed lost for words.
“Is it usual for you to be out that late?” she continued.
“Not really, but it’s not one of those pubs where they kick you out after last orders.”
“Lock in, was it?”
“Something like that.”
“I didn’t realize they did those on Tuesday nights.”
She smiled once more, but Jackson only gave her a tight grimace. He was nervous and uncomfortable and his answers were a little too stiff for Charlie’s liking. There could be a perfectly innocent explanation—most people tensed up as soon as they saw a warrant card—but Charlie suspected that was not the case here. Fortunately there was one surefire way to find out.
“Your phone number has come up in our investigation into the death of Jake Elder. His body was found in the early hours of this morning at a nightclub in Banister Park. You probably heard the headlines on the radio.”
Jackson nodded, but said nothing.
“A series of messages were sent to Mr. Elder from your phone. Snapchat messages organizing appointments with him—”
“I didn’t send any messages.”
“So you don’t know Mr. Elder?”
Jackson shook his head.
“Have you ever visited the Torture Rooms?”
“No,” Jackson replied quickly. “I’d never even heard of them until this morning.”
“And you’ve never used Mr. Elder’s services?”
“Of course not.”
“No contact with him whatsoever?”
“No.”
“Okay, then, I know you’re a busy man, so I’ll get out of your hair …”
Charlie could see the relief on Jackson’s face.
“But, before I do, I would be grateful if you’d consent to provide a DNA sample. Just so we can strike your name off our list.”
“Clearly my phone has been cloned or someone at your end has cocked up. As I’ve said, I didn’t know the guy. I’ve never met him—”
“I know this seems intrusive, but as we’ve established that you were out last night and were in the vicinity of the club in question, we’ll need to eliminate you from our inquiries, and believe me, this is the quickest way to do that.”
“I’m not sure. I’m already late for my next meet—”
“It is your right to refuse, but we could later compel you to provide one. So what do you say? I’ve got a swab here. It will only take a few hours to process and that will be that. All being well, I’ll never darken your door again.”
Keeping up her breezy patter, Charlie pulled the swab tube from her bag. Jackson stared at her, saying nothing. Before, he’d looked angry; now he just looked empty. He seemed determined to resist, to try to pretend this wasn’t happening, but Charlie had done this many times before and knew that insistent good humor often overcomes the fiercest of objections. If you give them nothing to argue with, they have nowhere to run.
Which was why, despite his unmistakable hostility, Paul Jackson now opened his mouth.
Slipping the swab in, Charlie extracted the necessary skin cells and sealed them in the clear plastic tube.
“That’s me done. Thank you for your time,” she said, shaking Paul Jackson’s hand and heading for the door.
Moments later, Charlie was out of the foyer and walking fast away from the building. As she went, she chanced a look back. Her suspicions had been raised by her interview and she wasn’t surprised by what she now saw.
Paul Jackson staring right back at her through the window.
25
“I’m not a snooper, but when it’s paraded under your nose, what can you do?”
DC McAndrew sighed inwardly, but smiled as she took the cup of tea being offered to her. She had been knocking on doors all afternoon, working her way up and down Jake Elder’s street. Elder was not a man who got involved in community events and he was seldom seen by other homeowners during the day. So far she had amassed precious little information about Elder or his activities. Now she expected she was about to get rather too much.
She was seated in Maurice Finnan’s front room. His wife had passed away some years back, but the “good room” was still spick-and-span, in keeping with the standards the dear departed Geraldine had laid down. Pristine sofas, startling white lace, a faux Persian rug—the whole room had the air of a museum piece. It was the sort of setup that made the naturally clumsy McAndrew nervous. A tea spillage here might herald the apocalypse.
“They were coming and going all hours and they weren’t social calls, if you get my drift,” he insinuated knowingly.
“I see. Anyone in particular catch your eye?”
“Not really,” he replied. “They don’t come dressed up, you know? They’re just ordinary-looking people—probably lawyers, accountants and the like. I imagine that kind of thing always attracts people with a guilty conscience.”
He winked at McAndrew, clearly pleased to have a young female to perform to. McAndrew sensed that Maurice was probably lonely and reminded herself not to judge him too harshly.
“Ever see Mr. Elder with any boyfriends? Girlfriends?”
“Confused, was he?” Maurice retorted. “Not really. There was a fella a few months back—tall chap, with short, chestnut hair, barrel-chested—but he didn’t last long. Funny thing is I seldom saw him—this Jake, I mean—just his visitors going in and out. Quiet as you like during the day, but as soon as darkness fell, you’d see them traipsing up to his front door. Three, four, sometimes more in a night. Say what you like about him, he was a hard worker.”
Little Boy Blue Page 5
