Helen thanked him and headed for the lift bank. Paul Jackson was an unlikely suspect in some ways, but he had history with Jake, a taste for the exotic, as well as access to people’s credit card details. Killers came in all shapes and sizes and Paul Jackson had a lot of explaining to do. Would he be able to tell her why her good friend had been so brutally killed? As she descended to the custody area, Helen felt a surge of excitement, a sense that they were finally getting somewhere. And unless her eyes had deceived her, Gardam was feeling it too.
37
Charlie waited until Paul Jackson had been handed over to the desk sergeant before making her move. Having brought him in and cautioned him, Sanderson had ten minutes to gather herself while he made his obligatory phone call. Ten minutes would be plenty for what Charlie had to say.
“I didn’t think you’d stoop this low.”
Sanderson turned, surprised by Charlie’s sudden approach. Something—was it embarrassment?—stole across Sanderson’s face before she recovered her composure.
“Come on, Charlie, you know the drill. We had a lead, I was the senior officer on duty—”
“Jackson was my lead. I spent half the night watching his house …”
“So I hear,” Sanderson replied knowingly.
“Don’t you dare take the piss out of me,” Charlie spat back, anger suddenly flaring within her. “I questioned him, wrote the follow-up report. I got his bloody DNA, for God’s sake—”
“No one’s denying that. It was good work. But you know what the boss has been like on this. She wants everything done yesterday—”
“Great. So now you’re blaming her—”
“Of course not.”
“We’re equal rank—you can’t steal leads from me. Just because your undercover gig was a bust—”
“You weren’t here, Charlie,” Sanderson interrupted. “What was I supposed to do?”
“You were supposed to call me. That’s what any normal person would have done. But you’re so busy trying to impress Mummy that you’d—”
“You’re out of line.”
“Deny it, then. Look me in the face and deny that you deliberately stole my collar to make yourself look good in front of—”
“Go to hell.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Be just like the old days—”
“What’s going on?”
Charlie was almost nose to nose with Sanderson, but pulled away sharply on hearing Helen’s voice.
“We have a suspect in custody,” Helen continued, approaching fast. “We have dozens of leads to chase up. So why are my two senior officers going at it like a pair of fishwives?”
Neither Charlie nor Sanderson answered. They didn’t dare, given the look on Helen’s face.
“You’ve both been around long enough to know that any problems need to be settled in private, not paraded for the rest of the station.”
Charlie stole a glance at the desk sergeant, who’d clearly been enjoying the show.
“DS Brooks, you will accompany me to the interview suite. DS Sanderson, you will return to the incident room and lead the team.”
Sanderson opened her mouth to protest.
“And don’t even think about answering back,” Helen said, silencing her before she’d begun.
Without another word, Helen turned, walking away fast toward the swing doors. Charlie sped after her. She didn’t bother looking back at Sanderson—she could tell what she’d be feeling now. Not that this was any consolation—they were both in trouble now and had a lot of ground to make up.
Whatever way you looked at it, Charlie’s bad day had just got a whole lot worse.
38
“You are making a monumental mistake and when this is all over, I will be expecting a formal apology.”
Helen Grace had already been surprised twice by Paul Jackson in the ten minutes they’d known each other. His agreement to field questions before his lawyer arrived was unusual, as was his decision to adopt such an aggressive tone. He was either extremely confident of his innocence or an accomplished liar.
“As I’ve said, you’re here because your DNA was found on the victim’s body,” Helen responded calmly. “In saliva on his cheek and ear. It’s highly unlikely that our laboratory got that wrong. They double-and triple-check their findings—”
“You hear about mistakes all the time in these places,” Jackson interrupted. “Petri dishes that haven’t been cleaned properly, evidence that has been cross-contaminated—your lot are constantly arresting the wrong people because of cock-ups at laboratories.”
“I agree that there have been mistakes, but the fact remains that it is your DNA. The only way cross-contamination could have occurred is if they had a sample of your DNA stored there from a separate incident. Is that the case? Have you ever had to provide a DNA sample for the police before?”
“No.”
“Then the only ‘mistake’ that could have occurred was if your saliva was accidentally transferred to Mr. Elder’s face. Can you explain how this might have happened?”
“I’ve no idea. Perhaps our paths overlapped on the way to work. Perhaps we use the same gym—”
“Mr. Elder works from home, keeps very different hours from you and to the best of our knowledge didn’t have a gym membership.”
“I can’t explain it, then.”
“You’ve never met him?”
“Never. I’ve said this three times to three different officers now. Perhaps if you tried listening to me, we could sort this mess out.”
Helen was about to respond when the door opened and Jackson’s lawyer hurried in. Helen knew Jonathan Spitz to be an astute and experienced lawyer and he wasted no time in reprimanding her for proceeding without him. Helen ignored his protests and carried on:
“Mr. Jackson has confirmed that he didn’t know Mr. Elder and can’t account for the DNA samples we found on the victim’s face.”
Spitz looked relieved that no serious damage had been done.
“I’d now like to ask your client about his phone history. I’m showing Mr. Jackson a black iPhone. Can you confirm that this is yours?”
Jackson nodded.
“For the tape, please, Mr. Jackson.”
“Yes.”
“When we spoke yesterday,” Charlie interjected, “you said that you’d never contacted Mr. Elder via e-mail, message, phone—”
“Correct.”
“Yet dozens of Snapchat messages were sent from this device to Mr. Elder. I have the dates of some of them here”—Charlie pulled a sheet of paper from her file—“August the tenth, August the fourteenth, September the first, September the sixth, September the fourteenth. The list goes on.”
“I didn’t send them. The phone must have been cloned or something—”
“It’s curious, though, that the gap in messages in the second half of August coincides with the dates that you and your wife were on holiday in Santorini. The data roaming charges on your account give us a pretty good picture of your movements, and of course, we’re double-checking this with Sally as we speak.”
For the first time since they’d started, Helen saw Jackson react. Clearly he was not keen on his wife being dragged into this.
“Furthermore, we’ve had a chance to look at some of the other messages and texts you sent from this phone. And it’s interesting that the same grammatical tics that we see in your texts also crop up in the Snapchat messages that Mr. Elder received. You always seem to leave a gap between a word and a question mark, for example, and you’re pretty scrupulous about using commas. Not everyone is as fastidious in their messaging these days.”
It was said with a smile, but provoked a blank response from Jackson.
“This is all circumstantial,” Spitz butted in. “Do you have any actual evidence against my client?”
“Apart from the DNA evidence, you mean?” Helen rejoined. “I should point out that no other DNA was found on the victim, hence our interest in talking to your client.”
>
Helen let that settle before continuing.
“I’d like now to move on to your movements on the night of the fourteenth. You told my colleague that you left work at seven p.m. and went for a drink at the Saracen’s Head.”
Jackson said nothing. He appeared to be waiting for Helen’s next move before committing himself.
“That’s strange, because your phone was transmitting in the Banister Park area of the city—very near to the Torture Rooms—at around eight p.m. that night and again at just after twelve thirty a.m. the following morning. I’m assuming that in the interim you were in the basement club and thus out of reception?”
“I don’t know anything about the Torture Rooms or Banister Park. Somebody’s obviously messed up—”
“Yet another mistake—you do seem to be unlucky …”
“I went to the Saracen’s Head. I watched the game, had a few drinks—”
“Why the Saracen’s Head, out of interest? You work in Lansdowne Hill. You live in Freemantle. Going to a pub near the hospital seems an excessive diversion.”
“For God’s sake, I like the beer there, so—”
“What beer do they serve?”
“Shepherd Neame, I think … Adnams, a couple of local brews.”
“Actually they haven’t served Shepherd Neame in over two years,” Charlie interjected. “I went there yesterday afternoon, spoke to the bar staff. Nobody remembers seeing you there on Tuesday night. In fact, I couldn’t find a single person to back up your version of events.”
Spitz looked at his client, hoping for more defiance, but none was forthcoming. Helen took over, adopting a more emollient tone.
“I know you’re in a fix here, Paul. You’re thinking of Sally, of the twins, of what this will do to them. But lying won’t help. We have firm evidence you knew Jake and were active on the S and M scene. Your phone places you near the scene of the crime, yours is the only DNA on the body and I have no doubt that one of those present at the Torture Rooms will positively ID you as having been there that night. So let’s start again, shall we?”
Helen looked Jackson straight in the eye.
“Tell me what really happened on Tuesday night.”
39
She didn’t see her coming until it was too late.
Sally Jackson had been in the midst of a particularly difficult conversation when the call came. Paul’s PA had seized the nettle, ringing Sally to tell her that her husband had been arrested and taken to Southampton Central. She’d been irritated when the phone rang—she worked at a local family center and was busy explaining to an irate dad why his meetings with his estranged children had to be supervised. These discussions required finesse and patience, not interruptions, so she was tempted not to answer. But when the phone kept ringing, her curiosity was aroused.
She didn’t know what to say at first, other than to check that it wasn’t a joke and that she was sure. But the tone of Sandra Allen’s voice—tight, somber, with a hint of embarrassment—convinced Sally that she was. What do you do in these situations? Sally had extricated herself from her work, claiming a migraine, and hurried to her car. But once inside she just sat there, trying to process what was happening. Why hadn’t Paul contacted her? Terrified, she’d considered calling a lawyer friend, then, discarding that option, decided to go to her sister’s. In the end, she’d done neither, driving home instead. It was like she was on autopilot, heading to the place she felt safest.
“Mrs. Jackson?”
She had just stepped out of the car when the woman approached. She was curious to look at—beautiful from one angle, but scarred on the other—and the situation was made stranger still by the look of concern on her face. How did she know so soon? Who was she?
“I’m Emilia Garanita from the Evening News. I understand you’ve had a terrible shock.”
She was so blindsided by the woman’s sudden approach—had she been lying in wait for her?—that initially Sally was struck dumb.
“There’s no way you can be alone at a time like this, so why don’t I sit with you until someone else comes?”
Sally was surprised to see that the woman had taken her arm and was now guiding her toward her own front door.
“Your hands are shaking, poor thing. Give me your keys and I’ll do the honors. Then we can have a nice cup of tea.”
She stood there smiling, her hand outstretched for the keys. She seemed so confident of what she was doing that Sally now found herself rummaging for her keys. As she pulled them out, however, she spotted her key ring. On it was a small picture of her, Paul and the twins, taken about six months ago at the top of Scafell Pike. They were all smiling—tired but exhilarated by their triumph in reaching the summit.
“I’m sorry—who did you say you were again?” she said, keeping the keys gripped tight in her hand.
“I’m from the Southampton Evening News,” the woman replied, her smile tightening a touch. “I know you must be wondering what to do for the best and I’d like to help. Within the hour, you’re going to have reporters, TV journalists and God knows who else camped on your doorstep. I can deal with them. Let me do that for you,” she said, casting an eye across the street as a van pulled up nearby, “or, believe you me, it’s going to be a free-for-all. And nobody—least of all you—wants that.”
“I don’t even know you.”
“Here’s my ID,” she replied, thrusting a laminated press card into Sally’s hand. “You can call the office if you like. It’s now or never, Sally.”
Sally now spotted a reporter she recognized from the local news heading up the road toward her.
“I’m sorry. I don’t want to talk to anyone,” Sally said, finally finding her voice.
“You’re going to have to talk to someone—”
“Please get off my property,” said Sally, cutting her short. She opened the door and bustled inside.
She turned to find the woman had a toe on the doorstep—where do these people get their cheek?—and slammed the door shut quickly. She hurried out of the hall, taking refuge in the kitchen, but before she’d even sat down, the doorbell rang. This time she heard a male voice, imploring her to answer. She said nothing in response. There was no way she could talk to anyone. She had the boys to think about, and besides, what could she tell them? She didn’t have any information about why Paul had been arrested, what was happening or when he’d be back.
The only thing she did know was that their happy, ordered life was about to implode.
40
He grasped the metal bar and pulled down hard. The weights at the other end of the rope shot up and he held them in that position, his broad shoulder muscles taking the strain. He counted down the seconds in his head—thirty, twenty, ten—before easing the weights back down to base. They touched down without making a noise, bringing a smile to his face. It was stupid to revel in the finesse he brought to the job, but not everyone could do it, so why not?
Rising from the bench, Max Paine surveyed the scene around him. This was by far the most expensive gym in Southampton—complete with floor-to-ceiling views of the Solent—but you got what you paid for. It had the latest equipment, was quiet and full of professional gym bunnies. A particularly well-toned pair of girls wandered past now as he toweled himself down and he took the opportunity to scrutinize their tight backsides. They pretended to be deep in conversation, but they knew he was checking them out and loved it. Max made a mental note to say a few words to them before he left.
He was still following their progress toward the treadmills when his attention was caught by one of the large plasma screens on the wall. There were TVs everywhere in this place, showing sports, lifestyle programs, soaps and of course the ubiquitous game shows that clogged up daytime viewing. He generally ignored them—he was here to exercise—but this time what he saw stopped him in his tracks.
The news was playing, showing a press conference with Hampshire Police. Max didn’t recognize the guy leading it and his headphones were switched off,
so he couldn’t hear what he was saying—but his eye was drawn to the headline bar at the bottom of the screen: TORTURE ROOMS MURDER. Dropping his towel on the bench, he hurried over to the screen, tapping his console to tune in to the relevant channel.
“… in custody. We won’t be releasing a name, but we can confirm that he is a male in his forties who lives locally.”
Max Paine listened intently. He had been to the Torture Rooms on numerous occasions and had been scouring local media for updates since he’d heard the news of Jake Elder’s death.
“That’s all I’m prepared to say for now. As you know, Detective Inspector Grace is leading the investigation, and I’m very confident that we’ll make swift progress in this case. There is no need for members of the public to be alarmed, as we are currently treating this as a one-off incident.”
Max stood still. Had he been hearing things? No, the guy had definitely said DI Grace. Suddenly he laughed out loud, provoking startled looks from the gym bunnies nearby. This was too good to be true. No, this was priceless.
All thoughts of his workout were now long gone. As he strode toward the exit, his mind turned on the possibilities this surprising development threw up. This was an opportunity to make some serious money. What he had to say would pay for his expensive gym membership and a lot more besides.
41
“So this was your third visit to the Torture Rooms?”
“Yes,” Jackson replied, without choosing to elaborate further.
Helen nodded, but didn’t push it. He had clearly never spoken about this to anyone before.
“What time would you say you got there?”
“Around eight p.m.”
“Did you go with someone else or—”
“I was alone.”
The way he said it made Helen think he had been “alone” for some time.
“This is not something I’ve shared,” he continued. “It’s not something I want shared. It’s been a process for me.”
“You’d told Jake Elder, though.”
Jackson looked up sharply at Helen, then lowered his gaze once more.
Little Boy Blue Page 8
