Suddenly Gary was seized by a nasty thought. Perhaps Paine had gone away, leaving the heating on. He might even have done a bunk, leaving his landlord with a hefty heating bill as a final fuck-you.
Slipping the key into the lock, Gary turned it hard and pushed the door open. Calling Paine’s name angrily, he stepped forward, but almost immediately found himself stumbling backward again. Crashing into the wall opposite, he remained rooted to the spot, momentarily stunned into silence. The temperature within the flat was overwhelming and a wave of choking heat now flooded out, crawling over the shocked landlord and escaping down the corridor beyond. But it wasn’t this that rendered Gary Lushington speechless, nor even the sight of a figure hanging from the ceiling. No, what really stopped him in his tracks this morning was the smell.
63
All eyes were on her. The team had gathered in the briefing room for the morning update, looking to Helen for guidance and inspiration. But she felt empty this morning—despite a few hours’ sleep she was still running on fumes—and had nothing new to give them. She had never been this deep into an investigation with so little to go on, and the morning papers—with their graphic accounts of Paul Jackson’s suicide bid—had done little to improve her mood. Everyone at Southampton Central, from her DCs right up to the chief super himself, had been rattled by this unexpected development.
“The good news is that Paul Jackson is stable,” Helen said, as she continued her briefing. “He’s still in ICU, but he’s conscious and the early signs are that there won’t be any permanent damage to his brain or lungs. He’s in a bad way, but the doctors are reassured that there’s no immediate danger to his life, which is in no small part thanks to the decisive intervention of DS Brooks.”
Charlie acknowledged the compliment with a brief nod, but kept her eyes fixed to the floor. Was this to avoid meeting Helen’s gaze or Sanderson’s? Helen hoped it was the latter—evidence perhaps that her DSs had decided against antagonizing each other further.
“I know you were all shocked by last night’s events,” Helen said, addressing the team once more. “But right now we have to keep our focus on the case. How are we doing on the Snapchatters?”
“We’ve ruled out seventeen of the twenty now,” Edwards informed them. “Nothing that links any of them to the club. Once we’ve run down the last three, we’ll widen our field—look at Elder’s e-mails, texts—”
“We’ve also just heard that David Simons is in the country,” DC Lucas interrupted gently. “The Border Agency confirmed he landed at Heathrow last night. We’ll get him in as soon as we can, but he’s not in any hurry to contact us.”
“Keep on it. In the meantime, let’s focus our attentions on possible suspects within the BDSM community, specifically ‘Samantha,’ formerly known as Michael Parker. The End of the Road has provided a mobile phone number, but it’s not currently in use. I want us to investigate when and where that phone last made calls. Also, we have three former addresses for her, all of which she’s spent time at within the last two years. We need to be knocking on doors, seeing if any neighbors or friends know where she might be now. Also, let’s talk again to people who were at the club, the taxi drivers who were working that night—let’s see if we can place her at the Torture Rooms. Any relevant info—good or bad—I want to hear about it straightaway.”
Helen was about to move on to allocating individual tasks, when she saw the custody sergeant approaching. Nodding to Sanderson to take over, Helen drew him aside. The look on his face suggested he had something important to tell her.
“Uniform were called to an unusual death this morning,” he said quietly. “We don’t have all the facts, but it appears the victim was suspended from the ceiling in some sort of all-in-one bodysuit.”
Helen’s heart sank, even as he said it. Gathering herself, she replied:
“Any marks on him, any signs of violence?”
“Not that I’m aware of. The boys are saying the place is in mint condition and that the whole thing looks kind of staged.”
Helen nodded, but her heart was beating fast.
“Do you have the address?”
The custody sergeant handed Helen a piece of paper, then withdrew. Helen was glad he’d done so, because as she looked at the address in her hand, she got a nasty shock. She had visited the address on only two occasions, but she knew exactly whom it belonged to. A man she loathed and hoped she’d never see again.
Max Paine.
64
What was wrong with her? She should be feeling relieved, elated, excited, but she felt none of these things. Her body ached, her brain throbbed—she was a mess.
Samantha lay on the bathroom floor, resting her forehead on the cold tiles. Returning to the flat last night, she had downed an entire bottle of vodka. Perhaps it was the adrenaline of the evening, or perhaps the vodka was just low-grade—either way, she’d brought it all back up again an hour later. She normally never vomited, but last night she couldn’t stop, gagging on the bitter bile that was all she had left at the end.
If she’d had the energy, she’d gladly have killed herself. Her life was an endless merry-go-round of high hopes and crushing disappointments—each one harder to stomach than the last. She knew she was a work in progress, but still … Why were the highs so high and the lows so low? Perhaps all those shrinks had been right after all. Perhaps she was a bad person.
Putting an unsteady hand on the sink, Samantha hauled herself upright. Turning on the tap, she cupped her hands together to collect the cold water and drank greedily from them. Then she threw the soothing water onto her face—she was burning up—and ran her wet fingers through her hair. A deep, sulfurous burp ensued and suddenly she was vomiting again, the water she’d just consumed disappearing down the plughole with obscene haste. It was as if the water couldn’t stomach her, rather than the other way around.
Samantha dropped back down to the floor, exhausted and defeated. There was no point fighting it now and she finally gave way to despair. It was cruel, but there was no point denying it. She had tried to embrace this world, but it always rejected her, raising the level of punishment each time. She was gone—dead behind the eyes now—and felt hollow, empty and utterly alone.
65
The SOCOs had already lowered the body to the ground and removed his clothing for further analysis. The victim now lay on the floor, naked save for a sterile sheet. It wasn’t much dignity, but it was the best that they could do in the circumstances.
Crouching down, Helen used the tip of her pen to lift a corner of the sheet. She knew what to expect, but still it was horrific to behold. In life, Paine had been a handsome man, but now his face was waxy and mottled—numerous burst blood vessels giving his expression an unpleasant patchwork quality. He looked like he had exploded from within.
Helen shuddered silently. She had disliked—no, she had despised—Max Paine. He was a violent misogynist who took pleasure in bullying and degrading women. She had used his services a couple of times and had had cause to regret her decision, escaping a dangerous situation only by fighting her way out of his clutches. But still she wouldn’t have wished this on him. This didn’t seem like a similar situation—this wasn’t a question of Paine overstepping the mark. This was a well-organized and premeditated attack on his life. This was an execution.
What connected Jake Elder and Max Paine? They were two very different characters who’d chosen the same profession. Helen knew both of them—one intimately, one in passing. Was that important? If so, it was hard to see why. Max Paine was hardly a friend of hers and as far as she was aware, the rest of the world wouldn’t miss him either. So what was the point of his death? Were he and Jake chosen specifically or had they just hooked up with the wrong client? It seemed increasingly likely that their attacker was from the BDSM community, but the motive was still unclear.
Dropping the sheet, Helen stood up. She would not mourn Paine, but his death was still distressing and alarming. If the two victims were connecte
d, then Helen was the obvious link. But if they weren’t, the outlook was even worse. Helen and her team had put so much work in trying to link their killer directly to Jake Elder, but maybe they had been barking up the wrong tree? Perhaps it was the act of murder, not the identity of the victim, that was driving the killer here.
If so, then there was no telling when he might stop. Killing was like a drug—the appetite becoming sharper and more urgent with each successive act. If their killer was getting off on his total control over his victims—and his seeming ability to strike without attracting attention—then what would possibly induce him to stop? Helen had a nasty feeling that he was just hitting his stride.
Having exchanged a few words with Meredith, Helen headed through the front door. Introspection and fear would get her nowhere. Their perpetrator had just raised the stakes significantly and she had to respond. It was time to summon what resolve she could if she was to stop him from killing again.
66
“If anyone asks, you say it’s a police incident and move them on. No exceptions.”
The constable guarding the entrance to the flat nodded solemnly. The PCs seldom said anything when Helen spoke to them. Was that out of respect? Or fear? Helen couldn’t tell.
“You’re not to move from here until you’re relieved. Somebody gained unauthorized access to the crime scene on Wednesday morning. If it happens again, I’ll be asking you for an explanation. This is off-limits.”
“What a pity. I skipped breakfast to get over here before the others.”
Helen knew that voice. Turning, she saw Emilia Garanita walking toward her.
“I was just talking about you,” Helen replied.
“All good, I hope?”
Helen didn’t dignify that with a response, instead turning and walking fast away from the flats toward her bike.
“I will find out, you know.”
“Find out what?” Emilia replied, as she hurried to keep up.
“Who your mole is. And when I do, I’ll have their badge and you up on a charge of bribing a public official.”
Emilia tut-tutted gently.
“Why do you always see the worst in people? I’m just a jobbing journalist, playing by the rules—”
“You’re a ghoul who trades in people’s misery,” Helen retorted.
“Come off it, Helen. I only report the facts. I can’t help what people read into that.”
Helen stopped in her tracks and turned to face Emilia.
“I saw the hatchet job you did on Paul Jackson. What was the headline? ‘The double life of the boardroom spanker’?”
“I don’t write the headlines—”
“Bullshit. It had your fingerprints all over it. You have no regard for the consequences of your irresponsible journalism.”
“Back up a little. I have a duty to the public—”
“You have a duty to be a human being.”
For a moment, Emilia looked stung, as if Helen’s accusations had finally landed. Then she seemed to relax again, a thin smile crawling over her face.
“Is there a reason why you’re getting so wound up about this particular case?”
Helen stared at Emilia scornfully, but said nothing.
“You haven’t been at any of the press conferences, so I haven’t been able to ask you about your personal reaction to Jake’s death.”
“I’ve got nothing to say about that.”
“But you were acquaintances. Friends even …”
Helen stared at Emilia but said nothing. She’d known this moment was coming—Emilia was not the type to forget a tasty bit of gossip or past arguments—but now that it was here, Helen still felt rattled. There was no point denying her connection with Jake, but this was not an avenue she wanted to go down. There was no telling where it might lead—blackmail? exposure?—and this time she had no weapon with which to squash the wily journalist.
“We were friends, but I hadn’t seen him for a couple of years and I’m treating this case as I would any other.”
“Please don’t lie to me, Helen,” Emilia replied. “You were very close to him—you must be in turmoil. I’m surprised they let you lead on this.”
“You’re way off the mark,” Helen lied.
“Am I? I spared you last time because you persuaded me that that was the right thing to do. But I’m seriously starting to question the wisdom of my decis—”
“You spared me?” Helen replied, incredulous. “You spared yourself. If you’d printed that stuff, I would have had you up on a charge of illegal surveillance. Don’t kid yourself that you’re a decent person, Emilia, because you’re not.”
“Fighting talk,” Emilia replied tersely, irked by this character assassination. “Let’s see where it gets you, shall we?”
Happy that she’d had the last word, Emilia turned and walked back in the direction of the flats. She had won the first battle. The question now was whether she would win the war.
67
Helen barely registered the other road users as she biked back to Southampton Central. She was riding slowly for once—she needed to buy herself time to think. This case was becoming ever more complicated, with no immediate or obvious solution in sight. What had started as a terrible personal tragedy had grown into something darker and Helen now faced a fight on two fronts—bringing in a devious and elusive serial killer, while fending off the very real threat of exposure.
Strange to say, the latter terrified Helen as much as the former. Privacy and discretion had always been her watchwords—it was the only way she knew—but now she was backed into an impossible corner. It would not be easy to spike Emilia’s guns, nor tell what she might do with the information she now held close. Emilia would know that any attempt at extortion would be rebuffed—Helen would rather sacrifice her career than be turned—so what other option did she have but to publish? A detailed and lengthy exposé, highlighting the terrible conflict of interest that Helen had swallowed in the interests of gaining justice? Helen could well imagine how that story would play with the top brass.
Helen knew that there was only one possible solution, but still she recoiled from it. She had never wanted anyone to know her properly, never wanted anyone to get close to her. Her life was like it was for a reason. But the cat was out of the bag now and the only remedy was to confess, before Emilia beat her to the punch. The thought made her feel sick—how could she even find the words to begin?—and there was no question of her opening herself up for general entertainment. No, if she did this, it would have to be targeted, controlled and brief. And it would have to be now—there was no telling what Emilia would do and Helen refused to be driven off this case by public outrage.
Leaving her bike in the Southampton Central car park, Helen stopped to look up at the windows above. There was no point putting it off.
It was time to talk to Gardam.
68
Charlie stared at the unshaven lump opposite her, trying to hide her distaste as he crammed a dripping fried-egg sandwich into his mouth. Chewing noisily, the middle-aged cabbie eventually looked up, catching her gaze.
“You having something?” he asked.
“I’ve already eaten,” Charlie replied, lying. She was trying to lose a bit of weight and the fare at the transport café didn’t fit the bill.
“Suit yourself,” the cabbie replied, taking a noisy slurp of his coffee, before popping a chipolata in his mouth. Charlie was paying for his breakfast this morning and he was clearly going to get the most out of her generosity.
“You spoke to one of my colleagues yesterday?”
The cabbie nodded.
“You told her you were working on Tuesday night?”
“I work every night, love. Don’t have a choice.”
Charlie smiled sympathetically.
“And you had an unusual pickup between the hours of midnight and one a.m.”
The cabbie shrugged. “You get all sorts doing a night shift. But this one was a bit odd.”
“Odd
how?”
“Well, it was a bloke for a start. I thought she … he was a bird at first. Long legs, long hair, nice clothes and that. But the voice was too low and he had an Adam’s apple, so …”
“So what specifically was odd?”
“You mean apart from that?” the cabbie replied, laughing.
“Come on, there are lots of gay pubs and cabaret bars in that area. You must see stuff like that all the time.”
“It was more the state of him,” he conceded.
“Go on.”
“I could hardly understand where he wanted to go at first. He was white as a sheet and he’d been crying. He was trying to suck it in, but his makeup was a horrible mess.” He laughed again. “I wasn’t going to let him in, but he gave me a twenty up front, so …”
“Where did you take him?”
“To an address in St. Denys—Newton Street. Only cost a tenner, but he didn’t care. Got straight out of the cab when we got there and didn’t look back. You ask me, he was about to puke. I don’t know what they take in these places but—”
“Can you describe him to me?”
The cabbie paused, then said:
“Tall, like I said. Thin, very thin. He was dressed in a kind of catsuit, so you could see there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. Hairless too—no stubble or anything.”
“Can you describe his face to me?”
“Dark eyes, no eyebrows except what was drawn on—”
“Anything on the sides of his face?”
“Yeah, now you mention it, he had a little scar on the right side of his face. Makeup couldn’t hide that.”
Charlie nodded, then pulled a photo from the file on her lap.
“Was this the person you picked up on Tuesday night?” she asked, offering the cabbie the photo. He took it between his greasy fingers, then after a moment’s consideration handed it back.
“Yeah, that’s him.”
Charlie took the photo and, having confirmed the address of the drop-off, thanked the cabbie and hurried on her way. Finally they had something to work with.
Little Boy Blue Page 13
