Little Boy Blue

by M. J. Arlidge

  “Samantha?”

  Her cry was once again lost in the audio barrage swirling round her. This was the third or fourth time she’d called her name now without response, so, summoning her courage, she pressed on. It was dark in the flat and the carpet was old and ruffled up in places, making it fertile ground for trips and slips. Charlie found a light switch on the wall to her right, but the low-energy lightbulb emitted only a weak, yellowing light that barely helped.

  Plowing on, Charlie came to a doorway. Cautiously, she poked her head inside to find a deserted kitchen. The fridge door hung open and a pile of dirty pots clogged the sink. It didn’t look as if the room had been used for some time. Directly opposite was another door, this time leading to a tiny, faded bathroom. Again it was deserted and the small room smelled so overpoweringly of vomit that Charlie beat a hasty retreat.

  Once more, Charlie hesitated. The source of the noise seemed to be farther down the corridor, which arced round to the left ahead, disappearing from view. This was the bowels of the flat—hidden from public view—and Charlie was suddenly nervous of what she might find there.

  Pulling her baton from its holster, she moved forward. There was not enough room in this place to extend it properly—you’d never get a proper swing—so she kept it short. Experience had taught her that this often worked best when it came to hand-to-hand combat in confined spaces.

  She made her way carefully down the corridor. The farther you got from the front door, the darker it became, and she had to feel her way round the corner. The floorboards creaked loudly beneath her feet, threatening to give way, so Charlie upped her pace, eventually coming to a door that hung ajar. A sliver of light crept from within, illuminating a faded poster of a topless model that hung on the exterior of the door. Any beauty or glamour the image might have once possessed was lost now under the welter of depraved graffiti that covered it.

  Taking a breath, Charlie grasped the handle and pushed the door open. This time the wave of sound knocked her back on her heels. It felt like she’d been struck, but gritting her teeth, she stepped forward. The sight that met her eyes took her breath away.

  The small room was in a terrible state of repair—bare boards, peeling plaster and exposed wiring hanging from the walls. There was no bed, little in the way of furniture—instead the room was piled from floor to ceiling with dolls. Barely an inch of space was visible beneath the avalanche of painted faces, frills and stuffed limbs. Charlie stood still—she felt as if dozens of lifeless eyes were now fixed on her, chiding her for her intrusion.

  Now the dolls were moving. Charlie took a step back, raising her baton in defense, flicking it out to its full length. The mound of dolls parted suddenly and from beneath them a figure emerged. It was Samantha, but not as Charlie had seen her before. She was naked now, her pale form decorated only by the livid bruises on her ribs and the smeared mascara that had dried in streams on her face. Her expression was lifeless, her eyes cold, and when she opened her mouth, Charlie could see that her teeth were yellow and brown. She looked the intruder up and down, then said:

  “I’ve been expecting you.”

  75

  We think we’re anonymous, but we never are. However we might try to protect ourselves, however smart we think we’ve been, it is impossible not to leave a footprint of some kind. Max Paine’s killer had left his or her mark in the corridor outside the flat and perhaps he or she had left a digital mark too.

  The latter was increasingly the case in police work, and DC McAndrew was no stranger to content warrants and cyberspace. Rolling her neck with a loud click, she returned her attention to the screens in front of her, making a mental note to go to her Pilates class later. Too much data sifting played havoc with your posture, and she could feel her back beginning to protest at her lack of activity.

  Click, click, click. McAndrew and the team were working on the supposition that Paine’s attacker had deliberately cleared the flat of electronic devices—anything that could send or receive messages. Such a tactic might work in the short term, but it was nothing more than a temporary fix. Paine hadn’t been very assiduous about backing up, but the apps, downloads and messages from his tablet and smartphone were synced to the cloud. McAndrew sifted through them now, searching for the important clue that seemed to have eluded them so far.

  She flicked quickly through the dating apps, before finding what she was really after. His e-diary. Scrolling straight to yesterday’s date, she took in his diary entries—a doctor’s appointment at eleven a.m., coffee with a friend at twelve p.m., a Tesco’s delivery at three p.m. After that came his work commitments—Paine was a nocturnal worker. A “Mike” at six thirty p.m., “Jeff” at eight p.m. and then the final appointment of the night at nine p.m. None of the names gave them much to go on—no surnames and the first names probably false—but the last meeting of the day was even more oblique. Just a time and next to it a single initial:

  “S.”

  76

  “If you want me, you’re going to have to come and get me.”

  Samantha remained stock-still, despite Charlie’s repeated demands for her to move. She lingered within the sanctuary of her strange doll cocoon and as neither of her hands was visible, Charlie had no intention of approaching her. Charlie had been stabbed, assaulted, even strangled in the line of duty and had no desire to risk another such attack.

  “That’s not going to happen and backup’s on its way,” Charlie barked, crossing the room quickly to switch off the deafening music.

  “Isn’t that what they always say, just before something bad happens?”

  “Threatening a police officer is a criminal offense,” Charlie growled back, irritated and angry.

  “I think I can wear it, sweetheart.”

  Charlie stared at her. She was treating this like a game. Was she just enjoying the moment or was there something else going on here?

  “Well, that’s all you’re wearing, Samantha, so why don’t you find yourself a robe? You’ve no idea what the sight of a naked woman will do to some of my uniformed colleagues.”

  “Especially one like me,” Parker responded, suddenly getting to her feet. The dolls fell away to reveal her full nakedness. She was utterly hairless and stick thin. With her toned body and full eye makeup, she could pass very convincingly for a woman, except for the bulky male genitalia between her legs. Charlie raised her eyes to hers and kept them there.

  “Could you grab something for me, honey?” Samantha nodded toward a large wardrobe in the corner of the room. “There’s a jumpsuit two hangers from the left that should fit the bill.”

  She ran her tongue over the last two words, amused by her little joke. The faint sound of sirens could be heard in the distance now, but this seemed to have no effect on Samantha. Her eyes were fixed on Charlie.

  Charlie edged toward the cupboard, not once breaking eye contact. Samantha seemed calm, relaxed even—it was hard to see where the danger might come from. Was it possible there was somebody actually in the cupboard? The thought was crazy, but taking two quick steps toward it, Charlie threw the wardrobe doors open.

  Nothing but a ragged collection of dresses and suits. Keeping one eye on Samantha, she reached for the second hanger from the left. A crimson jumpsuit hung on it and Charlie lifted it out. As she did so, the hook of the hanger snagged on the top of the hanging pole and Charlie had to turn briefly to free it. As she did so, she saw her go. Samantha sprang from her position in the middle of the room and sprinted through the open doorway. She had waited patiently, playing for time, but now she was making her bid for freedom.

  Charlie dropped the hanger and ran after her. Samantha made it through the door and tore off down the dark corridor, hurdling the detritus in her path. Charlie was only seconds behind her, busting a gut to keep up.

  Samantha raced to the bend in the corridor and took it hard, bouncing off the wall but keeping her balance. Charlie lunged at her, but in the darkness failed to see a discarded vodka bottle on the floor. Her
left foot went from under her, the bottle skidding away, and she hit the ground hard. Her momentum carried her forward and then she was scrabbling to her feet, ignoring the throbbing pain in her shoulder as she burst round the corner.

  Now it was a straight race. The long, creaking corridor ran all the way to the front door—to freedom. Samantha had a head start and looked odds-on to get there first, but Charlie knew she had to stop her. Redoubling her efforts, she surged forward. Samantha was only twenty feet from freedom now.

  Charlie had shut the front door behind her on entering and she was glad of it now. As Samantha approached the door, she was forced to slow down. And as she yanked the door open, Charlie saw her chance. Launching herself through the air, she cannoned into Samantha, slamming her naked body against the back of the door, before the pair of them fell to the floor in a heap. Dazed, Samantha tried to struggle to her feet, but the wind had been knocked out of her and within seconds, Charlie had her knee in the small of her back. Pulling her arms roughly behind her, she slapped on the cuffs and yanked Samantha to her feet.

  They stared at each other for a moment, breathless and bruised, before Charlie eventually said:

  “I think we’ve had enough fun and games for now. Let’s make you decent, shall we?”

  Samantha stared at her, shivering even as the sweat ran down her cheek, then suddenly spat hard in Charlie’s face.

  77

  “What in God’s name were you thinking?”

  Helen had sped to Ellesmere Heights as soon as she had got Sanderson’s call. Charlie had disobeyed a direct order by apprehending the suspect alone, so in spite of the presence of Sanderson, Lucas and numerous SOCOs, Helen didn’t hesitate in taking her to task.

  “You could have been killed or injured … You call, then you wait for backup—you always wait for backup.”

  “Like you do, you mean,” Charlie retaliated, wiping the last remnants of Parker’s saliva from her face.

  “Excuse me?” Helen countered, stunned by Charlie’s aggressive tone.

  “You’ve broken protocol on numerous occasions. And have you ever been pulled up on it?”

  Charlie would not normally have answered back, but she had just brought in the prime suspect and was not in the mood to be lectured.

  “Only in life-or-death situations and besides, it’s different for me. You have a family—”

  “So it’s one rule for you, one rule for everybody else.”

  “Why the hell are you doing this, Charlie?” Helen replied, beyond exasperated. “You’ve got nothing to prove to me, nothing to prove to yourself. There’s no need to keep putting yourself in danger like this.”

  “I didn’t know what she was doing in there,” Charlie countered. “I could have waited another five minutes, but what if she’d done something to herself? You can see what state she’s in—drunk, emotional, unpredictable—”

  “Come off it, Charlie. You’ve always been impulsive, but that’s not what this is. This is about you getting one over on Sanderson. This was her lead.”

  “So why didn’t she bring him in?” Charlie retorted, casting a quick glance at her rival, who loitered by the flat entrance nearby.

  “I told every member of the team to report back to me straightaway with any developments, but you deliberately kept this to yourself. You missed an important briefing, went off on your own. To prove what? That you’re willing to risk your life for your career? You’ve got to get a handle on this—it’s affecting your judgment, your ability to do the job—”

  “Well, that’s rich coming from you.”

  Helen looked ready to explode, but Charlie continued:

  “Ever since we found Jake Elder, you’ve been acting oddly.”

  “Don’t think our friendship gives you the right to talk to me like that. I am your superior officer,” Helen snapped back, anger flaring in her.

  “Then try acting like one,” Charlie interrupted. “You were in pieces after we found Elder and you’ve been aggressive, overemotional and unpredictable ever since. Take a look in the mirror, Helen. It’s not me that’s acting weirdly. It’s you.”

  Charlie turned and walked away toward her car. Helen’s first instinct was to go after her, but even as she took a step in her direction, she became aware of the large audience watching on. There was no question of continuing the argument now. Helen had already let herself down by rowing with another officer—the same crime she’d pulled Charlie and Sanderson up on only a day ago—and she risked losing all authority if she made their confrontation look personal.

  But in truth it was personal. Charlie had always been Helen’s closest friend and ally at Southampton Central, but now it looked very much like her old comrade had cut her off for good.

  78

  Are some wounds too deep to heal? Is damaged love ever beyond repair?

  Sally Jackson sat by her husband’s bedside, clinging doggedly to his hand. She’d kept a vigil here since he’d been released from ICU, hoping that her support and encouragement might speed his recovery. Hoping that the Paul she knew would come back to her.

  He was out of danger now, but he still found it hard to talk and was asleep for much of the time. Sally didn’t mind—she’d hated being excluded from the intensive care unit, powerless to influence events and ignorant of what was happening within. Here at least she could try to help. In Paul’s waking hours, she kept up a constant chatter, talking to him about mundane family matters as well as looking forward to things they might do with the boys once he was better.

  Sally had no idea if it was true or just wishful thinking. It was hard to imagine they could ever go back to the way things were given the trauma of the last forty-eight hours. He had been in such a dark place, so despairing, that he had tried to leave them. Perhaps in her position some people might have felt rejected, but she didn’t. She just felt guilt. Paul had asked for her help, for her understanding, and she had been too weak to give it to him. Paul had betrayed her—of course he had—but she had repaid him in kind and it made her feel dreadful.

  Her conversation had petered out a while ago now. Much as she tried to remain upbeat, it was hard not to be consumed by dark thoughts. She’d overheard the nurses gossiping about a second victim and she suspected they were wondering if her husband would be the third. None of it made any sense and it filled her with trepidation for the future. Yes, she was here, doing all the things she should do, but really what hope was there for the future when the fissure in their lives was so great?

  Wiping a tear away, Sally chided herself for being so morbid. There was no point looking too far ahead—she had to keep her mind anchored on the here and now. The rest—the future—was another world for them. She would remain here and do what was needed for Paul, for the twins. She would stay because she still cared deeply for her husband. She just didn’t know him anymore.

  79

  “This is your opportunity to tell us what happened. If I were you, I’d take it.”

  Samantha said nothing in response. She had seen the station doctor and was calmer now, though it was clear that she wasn’t comfortable in these surroundings. She fidgeted endlessly, shifting in her seat, tugging at her clothes, obsessing about the broken nails she’d suffered when being escorted to the station. On more than one occasion, she had asked for replacements, as well as foundation, lipstick, mascara, but Helen had refused her requests. They would be good bargaining chips in the hours to come.

  “What would you like to know, Helen? May I call you Helen?”

  “If you like.”

  Helen tried to keep the edge from her voice, but didn’t wholly succeed. She was still stewing on her argument with Charlie and was not in the mood to be teased or mocked. Charlie had never spoken to her that brutally before—such an open act of defiance threatened not only their relationship but also morale within the team. It was tempting to blame Charlie’s sudden and unexpected promotion for this problem, but actually Charlie was right. Helen had been behaving oddly—this case was messin
g with her head, making her act in ways that were both unprofessional and unkind.

  “And what should I call you?” she asked, trying to put these troubling thoughts from her mind.

  “My name is Samantha.”

  “Samantha Parker?”

  “Just Samantha.”

  Helen noted her aversion to her given surname—a small but telling sign. Opening her file, Helen digested the contents, taking a moment to compose herself. Her anger and discomfort still burned, but the details of the case, and the rhythm of questioning, were comforting and familiar. Helen hoped that slowly she would regain her equilibrium in the hushed confessional of the interview suite. She was leading it alone, which was unusual, but in the circumstances what choice did she have? To include either Charlie or Sanderson would seem like favoritism. Another rod for her own back, Helen thought to herself.

  “Samantha it is, then. But you’ve been known by other names, haven’t you?”

  “We all have many different personalities within us.”

  “And, of course, there’s your professional work as a drag act, which requires an alter ego?”

  “We’re called performance artistes and, yes, a little creativity is required.”

  “Would you say you’re well-known on the club scene?”

  “Pretty well.”

  “And in the wider BDSM community?”

  “It’s a larger world than you’d think and, yes, I play my part.”

  Helen nodded but said nothing, noting that Samantha was happy to be led toward an obvious trap.

  “So you’ve visited the Torture Rooms, then?”

  “On occasion.”

  “And you’ve run into Jake Elder during your time. If you need to refresh your memory, here’s a phot—”

  “I believe I’ve seen his face around,” Samantha said, without looking down at the photo. “At Munches, events and so forth.”