Charlie lingered there for twenty minutes, but it was cold tonight and as the pubs began to empty, she’d abandoned her position and returned to the comparative warmth of her Renault Twingo. Minutes later, she’d been rewarded with the sight of Paul Jackson returning to the front room once more, kissing his wife good night as she headed off to bed. Jackson stayed where he was, watching the TV, but occasionally casting a glance upstairs.
Would he venture out tonight? Charlie looked at the clock. Her partner, Steve, had not been pleased when she’d called to say she wouldn’t be home. She usually relieved him for Jessica’s bath and bedtime, and even though he knew her job was unpredictable, he still got grumpy when she didn’t show up.
She suddenly felt foolish to be stuck out here on her own, when she could be home in bed with her family. Police work was increasingly encroaching on her home life, but it was hard for it to play out any other way. She wanted to make a decent arrest, create a bit of a splash, if only to rid herself of the feeling that she was on probation. The odd look from Sanderson and a stupid sexist comment from a junior officer had been enough to make her feel as if she still had something to prove, despite her promotion.
Which was why she wasn’t going anywhere yet. Even though it was well past midnight, she would give it one more hour.
31
“I knew it was time for a change. I mean, no one needs that abuse, do they?”
Sanderson was deep into her tale about a violent and neglectful boyfriend. Despite the fact that she had actually been single for nearly eighteen months, she was doing rather well, sprinkling her tale with lots of choice details.
“So what did you do, flower?” Dennis replied, his eyes still glued to her.
“I cleaned him out and moved on. He’d saved up nearly ten grand for some souped-up Mazda and I took every penny of it.”
One of those present whistled, earning a smile from Sanderson.
“You should have seen the texts he sent. Vile, they were. I replied a few times—then when I hit the M25, I threw my phone out the window.”
“A new life,” the PVC enthusiast said.
“Exactly.”
“And how long have you been doing this?” Dennis gestured at the dungeon they now sat in.
“Most of my adult life.”
“Why?”
“What’s the point of walking in a straight line? Life’s more fun if you deviate.”
“So what are you—top or bottom?”
“Bottom. I like to be disciplined.”
“Then you’ve come to the right place.”
Dennis rose now and crossed to the wall, running his finger over the heavy chains attached to the wall.
“Why don’t I give you a little test-drive, then? See how you like the Southampton touch …”
There were low chuckles from the group, as they turned their attention from Dennis to Sanderson. Was this what they’d come to see? Maybe Dennis hadn’t been joking about his “fresh meat.”
“All in good time. I’d need to know you a little better first.”
“What you see is what you get,” Dennis said, opening his arms to her.
“Uh-uh,” Sanderson said. “You’re still holding out on me, Dennis. You were about to give me a cautionary tale before.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” the satyr chuckled.
“You had someone in mind when you were talking,” Sanderson said, ignoring the joke. “Someone I should steer clear of.”
“Why are you so interested in her anyway?”
“Because she obviously got to you.”
“Perhaps.”
“Why won’t you talk about her? Are you scared of her?”
“Of course not,” Dennis responded sharply, but Sanderson didn’t believe him.
“Well, then?”
Dennis hesitated. Was he intimidated by this mystery person? Or was it just not the done thing to name names?
“Her name is Samantha. She’s a mid-op she-male.”
“What did she do to you?” Sanderson inquired, banking the name.
“Half killed me is what she did,” Dennis replied tersely.
Sanderson nodded sympathetically, but said nothing. Dennis was going to elaborate—he just needed a moment to collect himself.
“She put me in hog ties and a deprivation hood. You shouldn’t wear those things for more than an hour unless you want to go gaga, but she left me in it for five. I was panicking, couldn’t breathe, but she just seemed to enjoy it. She abused me, told me I deserved it—she even laughed at one point.”
Dennis’s voice shook as he said it. He was no longer the cheeky figure of fun he purported to be. It was clear that he had genuinely thought he was going to die during the experience.
“Is she likely to have gone to the Annual Ball?” Sanderson asked.
“Never missed it.”
“And where do you normally find her? Where does she live?”
“Well, that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?”
“Do you know?”
“Maybe I do; maybe I don’t. But I think I’ve said more than enough already. I’ve got no love for Samantha, believe me, but I’ve got even less love for the police. So I think it’s time you were going.”
As he said it, fourteen pairs of eyes swiveled toward her. Sanderson opened her mouth to respond, but Dennis quickly went on:
“You’re going to have to work on your act a little, Rose. The look of terror in your eyes when I suggested a bit of slap and tickle was a dead giveaway. Missionary all the way with you, is it?”
Now he was looking at her with open hostility. The atmosphere had suddenly turned and Sanderson wanted to be out of this basement as quickly as possible. She had overplayed her hand, pushed too hard. There was nothing to do now but retreat, so Sanderson stood up and scurried toward the exit, watched all the way by thirty accusing eyes.
32
“I won’t be able to come here again.”
Angelique looked up, pausing momentarily.
“Something wrong?”
“It’s just work,” Helen replied. “I’m going to be abroad a lot, so …”
Helen wasn’t a liar by nature and it showed. Fortunately this was not an environment in which awkward questions were likely to be raised.
“Let’s make it a good one, then,” Angelique replied. “Something to remember me by?”
The slender dominatrix moved forward, taking Helen’s wrist in her hand.
“No restraints tonight,” Helen said firmly.
Angelique paused. The look on her face suggested to Helen that there was much that could be said. Angelique was well-known on the S&M scene and had presumably heard about Jake’s murder. Had she known Helen a little better, she might have raised it—it had clearly rattled people—but they barely knew each other, so whatever it was, it would remain unsaid. Helen had visited Angelique on a handful of occasions in the last three months. She had tried to wean herself off her habit, but when the need became too great, she had sought paid companionship. This time she had sought out female company, hoping it would remove any sexual attraction from the equation—this had been her undoing on more than one occasion before.
Overall it had worked pretty well and Helen was glad to be able to use her services when the need arose. But she knew this would be her last visit. She would have to absent herself from this world during the investigation. It was hard to know what would fill the void—she was already running three times a week and smoking far more than she should—and Helen wondered what other compulsions might rear up in Angelique’s absence. As she’d biked home from Lynn’s house, she’d tried to persuade herself not to come. But her head was full of darkness tonight and the news that Sanderson’s cover had been blown so quickly had pushed her over the edge.
Nodding to Angelique, she relaxed her body and waited for the first blow. Today had been awful in so many ways and she couldn’t rid herself of the unpleasant images swirling round her mind. The look of disgus
t on Mike Elder’s face, his son’s cold corpse on the stainless steel slab, and—shot through with these—images of her own past. Mike Elder’s sneering face seemed to alternate with her father’s, while the submissive Moira seemed to walk hand in hand with visions of her own mother, turning the other cheek as her brutish husband beat, tortured and raped his own flesh and blood. Helen had never been a parent—and she knew in her heart that she never would be—but still she felt a fierce, primal anger at those who visited such terrible cruelty on those closest to them. The events of today had taken her straight back to when she was a little girl, remembering the intense fear, impotence and terror that only a child can feel. It filled her with terrible rage, but also terrible sadness. This had been her birthright, just as it had been Jake’s.
The crop bit into her back, jolting her from her thoughts. This had always been the way—the endorphins flooding through her as she concentrated on the rhythm and power of her beating. She needed the release now more than ever on this darkest of days. Which was why, as Angelique raised her crop a second time, Helen shut her eyes and uttered a single word.
“Harder.”
33
Her boots clicked on the stone cobbles as she walked away down the dark street. It was deserted and deathly quiet tonight. This was one of the reasons why Helen used Angelique—her flat was part of a converted warehouse down by the docks, away from the hustle and bustle of Southampton. It was discreet and off the beaten track, which was how Helen liked it.
Her session had been punishing, but still she couldn’t settle. Usually she would have walked away feeling lighter, happier, more optimistic. Tonight, though, she felt a weight on her conscience. Not simply because of what she had endured today, but because there was one task she had still to perform.
She had known it the moment she’d seen Jake’s lifeless face, but her conversation with Charlie had brought it home to her. Callous as it was, she had to sever her connection with Jake for good. She told herself that by so doing she was just freeing herself to pursue his killer, but it still made her feel disloyal and unworthy, as if she was somehow embarrassed of her relationship with him.
Unzipping her jacket pocket, she pulled the battered Samsung phone from inside. She had bought it from a market stall in Portsmouth. It had clearly been stolen, but Helen didn’t quibble, handing over the cash before heading off in search of another stall that sold knockoff SIM cards. Putting them together, she had an unregistered phone from which she could send messages that would never be traced back to her. She had her own phone, of course, for everyday stuff, but this phone was used purely to arrange her appointments. First with Jake Elder, later with another dominator, Max Paine, and then finally with Angelique. A discreet way to organize a side of her life that Helen wanted to remain hidden.
Helen knew this number would come up at some point in the investigation as the team examined Jake’s past communications. She had messaged Jake regularly in the old days, setting up their meetings, confirming times and occasionally canceling their sessions when duty called. Recently their communications had been much more sporadic, but he had messaged her a few months back. It was innocuous enough—a request to resume their professional relationship—and Helen had been kindness personified in knocking him back. Still, it would be on the list of numbers to check out. Her team obviously couldn’t place her at the club and there would be precious little to flag her number as one of particular interest, given how irregularly she’d used it. But it was just possible that they might try to trace its location and that could lead to some uncomfortable questions, as she often had the phone on her at work.
This was why this part of her life had to end tonight. Once more, she had cleaved close to someone only for him to meet a horrifying end. On nights like these, Helen genuinely wondered if she was cursed. Everyone she had feelings for, everyone she formed any sort of relationship with, ended up suffering for it. Her sister, Marianne, and her nephew, Robert, had suffered, as had her former lover Mark Fuller and now Jake. Was she the connecting factor here? Was it somehow her fault that these people should endure the horrors they did?
Helen suddenly realized she had come to a halt, lost in her own thoughts. Cursing herself for her self-indulgence, she scoured the surface of the road. She soon found what she was looking for and, marching across to the gutter, pulled both the battery and the SIM card from the body of the phone. She checked that the street was clear once more, then dropped all three parts down the drain.
And that was it. Brutal, short and definitive. The last rites on her relationship with Jake Elder.
34
Whose bright idea was it to put mirrors in the lifts?
Charlie was already late for work—she’d forgotten it was Jessica’s show-and-tell this morning—and her mood was not improved by the sight of herself in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Her clothes were okay, if a little tight—it was her face that depressed her. The lighting wasn’t great in the lift, but even so, she looked washed-out, with deep, dark rings under the eyes. She wasn’t the greatest advert for being a working mum.
The doors pinged open, and turning her back on the accusing mirrors, Charlie strode down the corridor to the incident room. She paused by the door to smooth her hair down, then pushed through it with an energy she didn’t feel. Her late-night stakeout had yielded nothing—Jackson had stayed put all night—and she was paying the price for it this morning. The only consolation—if you could call it that—was that Sanderson had lucked out too.
Charlie headed straight to her desk. As she approached it, however, she slowed her pace, surprised by the sight of two Media Liaison officers talking to Helen in her office. They only turned up when something important had happened, and looking around the office, Charlie noticed that there was something different in everyone’s expression today. They looked optimistic and energized.
Waving Edwards over, she cut to the chase.
“What’s going on?”
“Got the DNA samples back this morning.”
“And?”
“We got a match. Paul Jackson. He’s the manager at—”
“Santander in Shirley. I know. I spoke to him yesterday.”
“There you go, then.”
Edwards turned away, but Charlie stopped him.
“Someone should have called me.”
“I did, but it rang out. Then I thought I’d tell you when you came in—we were expecting you in a bit earlier.”
“I got held up,” Charlie responded tersely. “Anyway, what are we waiting for? We should be down there—”
“It’s under control,” Edwards replied crisply.
Charlie was already scanning the office. She had a nasty feeling where this was going and wasn’t surprised in the least when Edwards concluded:
“DS Sanderson has just gone to pick him up.”
35
He knew it was coming, but still it was much more brutal than he’d expected.
He was in the middle of a divisional meeting—the heads of all the local branches gathered together for tea and biscuits. These sessions always ran overtime, the various managers positioning themselves for promotion, while sharing tales from the coalface, but he still enjoyed them. In this environment, he was king. He liked the deference, the banter and, if he was honest, the power.
The meeting room was glass-walled, so everybody saw them coming. His PA—the redoubtable Mrs. Allen—was trying hard to look professional, but in reality she just looked shit scared, saying nothing as she opened the meeting room door and ushered the tall, serious-looking woman inside. He didn’t recognize her—she wasn’t the one who’d come yesterday—but he could tell by the way she carried herself that she was a police officer. A fact she now confirmed by presenting her warrant card to him.
“DS Sanderson. I wonder if I could have a word, Mr. Jackson,” she said, her voice quiet, but clear.
“Of course. My office is just—”
“I think it would be best if you accompany me to the st
ation.”
The walk of shame through the office was quick, but felt interminable—the eyes of every staff member glued to him. Colleagues shuffled out of the way in silence and moments later he found himself striding down the brightly lit corridor toward the exit.
Before long, he was in the back of a sedan, moving fast down the road. As he pulled away from the bank that had been a happy home for many years now, he caught sight of his managerial colleagues staring out of the meeting room window at him.
This was it, then. The end of his old life. And the beginning of something new.
36
“What do we say to the press?”
There was more than a hint of excitement in Gardam’s voice, but Helen knew he was experienced enough not to get carried away.
“There’s massive media interest in this case already and I don’t want to whip them up any more,” he continued. “I take it you’ve seen the early edition of the Evening News?”
Helen confirmed that she had, trying to put Emilia Garanita’s lurid four-page spread from her mind. It was written as if in sympathy with the dead, but in reality was a hatchet job on Jake and everyone “like” him. She could tell that Emilia was hoping that this story would be a long runner and felt a small sense of satisfaction that she might be about to cut her enjoyment short.
“I think we play it straight,” Helen carried on. “We say that an individual is helping us with our inquiries and leave it at that.”
“They’ll know he’s in custody. DS Sanderson has made sure of that. What details are we prepared to release?”
“Gender, age if you want, but leave it at that,” she replied, making a mental note to talk to Sanderson. “We don’t want a witch hunt.”
“I think we’re probably going to get one, come what may, but I’m sure you’re right. I’ll give them enough and no more. If you want to come along to say a few words to start us off—”
“I think I’m better used in the interview suite, sir.”
“As you wish. I understand he’s already downstairs, so don’t let me keep you. I’ll field the hacks and leave you to do what you do best. The sooner we nip this one in the bud, the better.”
Little Boy Blue Page 7
