Little Boy Blue

by M. J. Arlidge

  “I know this is difficult for you,” Emilia continued, “but it’s really important. What did Jake tell you about the nature of their relationship?”

  “Not a lot—I had to prize it out of him.”

  “And?”

  “And it was complicated. At first, he denied he had feelings for this woman. Then he said he was over her, but I’m not sure that was true either. He used to follow her around at one time, after she’d dropped him—”

  “He stalked her?”

  “I didn’t say that. But he had issues … letting go.”

  “So what happened?”

  “She walloped him,” Simons said, smiling grimly.

  “She attacked him?”

  “He gave her a fright and got what was coming to him. She whacked him with her motorcycle helmet, I think, and he left her alone after that. He didn’t like telling me, of course, but I needed to know everything. For all the good it did me …”

  Emilia hesitated—scribbling down “motorcycle helmet”—then asked:

  “You mentioned that you saw them together once—Jake and this woman. Did you see her face?”

  “Only for a moment, but I was intrigued, so …”

  “Would you recognize her now?”

  “Why? Why are you asking me these questions?”

  “Look, David, I know this probably seems odd, but I’m trying to put together the fullest picture of Jake’s life that I can. For reasons that you’ll understand in time, I’m not convinced we can have confidence in the police investigation, and somebody needs to carry on the fight on Jake’s behalf.”

  Simons looked at her and then said:

  “Yes, I think I would.”

  Emilia delved into her bag. Pulling a photo from inside, she laid it on the table.

  “Is this her?”

  Simons leaned forward. Emilia watched him closely. She was trying to remain calm, but her heart was in her mouth. Finally, Simons looked up at her and said:

  “Yes, it is.”

  95

  Angelique lay on the bed, her eyes glued to the television. The news was on, leading with the latest developments in the Jake Elder case, and the early-evening audience was being treated to grabbed images of Michael Parker—“Samantha”—scurrying back to his flat while being harried by local journalists.

  Despite her height, Samantha looked so diminished, so pathetic, that it was a wonder the police ever had her in the frame. She was clearly a nasty piece of work, but did they really believe she had the organizational skills to pull off such an intricate double murder? Details of Paine’s death had seeped out online, triggering a wave of reaction on social media. Some commentators were sickened, others strangely impressed by the elaborate nature of the crime. But nobody had publicly pointed the finger at Samantha, despite the common practice these days of trial by innuendo. That should have told the police something—sometimes it pays to listen to the word on the street.

  As it was, they had accused two innocent people with predictable results. What would Samantha do now? She had always been wound tight—how would she react now to the shit storm that was coming her way? Huddling up inside her stale little flat with nobody to comfort her but her dollies? It wouldn’t be at all surprising if she went the same way as Paul Jackson, though something told Angelique that Samantha might be rather more effective at finishing the job.

  What were Grace and her team doing now? Now that they were back to square one? Did they still have faith in their leader? Would they trust her to get a result? Not knowing was tantalizing, but there was nothing to be done about it. The next few days would reveal everything and in the meantime there was nothing for Angelique to do but watch and wait.

  96

  “I want us to look again at the credit cards.”

  Helen had made Charlie jump when she appeared by her desk. However long you worked with her, you never got used to her stealth.

  “We’ve run them several times,” Charlie replied quickly. “Both credit card owners used many of the same stores and Internet sites, so the point of fraud is going to be hard to pin down. Look at the list—Amazon, Ticketmaster, Trainline, Sainsbury’s, Gumtree, iTunes, Pets at Home—”

  “Let’s come at it from another angle, then. If it’s Internet fraud, then it’s going to be virtually impossible to trace, so let’s focus on the retail outlets. We’ve been assuming that our killer has specifically cloned cards to facilitate these murders. But it’s more likely he was involved in petty crime first, only later graduating up to more serious offenses.”

  “So we want to look for seasoned credit card fraudsters—”

  “Exactly. Get on to the local outlets that the fraud victims used regularly. It would be easy enough for an employee to lift their details when ringing through a transaction, so let’s see if any employees—past or present—had form for credit card fraud. Don’t limit yourself to recent offenses—this kind of crime is a long time in the making.”

  “But if they’re on file, wouldn’t we have got a match to a DNA source at one of the crime sites?”

  “Not necessarily. It may be they were questioned but never charged. Or it may be that our killer is just too cautious. He didn’t even touch Paine, yet managed to kill him. The same may be true of Jake Elder.”

  Charlie nodded, but it was a depressing thought. Were they chasing shadows?

  “I originally thought forensics would be crucial, given the lack of credible witnesses,” Helen continued. “But now I don’t think we even have that luxury. So we’re looking for tiny mistakes, small pieces of the puzzle that put together—”

  “Lead us to our man. You should know, though, that even with just the retail outlets highlighted it’s a seriously long list—”

  “I know it’s a needle in a haystack—”

  “Look, I’m happy to do it—of course I am.”

  “Good. Thank you.”

  Helen turned to go, but Charlie had more to say.

  “Look, Helen, I know I said too much yesterday.”

  “It’s not your fault, Charlie. It’s mine.”

  “Whatever, I just wanted to let you know that I’m really sorry and that I’ll do whatever is necessary to help you break this case.”

  “Thank you.”

  Helen should’ve gone further, apologizing for her erratic behavior, but she didn’t really trust herself and something in Charlie’s demeanor meant it wasn’t necessary. The mark of a true friend.

  “Call me if you find anything,” Helen said, turning to leave.

  “Sure. Where are you going?”

  Helen paused in the doorway of the incident room and turned back to Charlie.

  “To climb inside the mind of a killer.”

  97

  Control. Sadism. Restraint. Victim. Dominator. Knowledge. Power.

  Anger. Disgust. Self-hatred. Pain.

  Helen scribbled fast, covering the whiteboard with her scrawl. She had commandeered one of the more remote interview suites, covering the table with files and dropping the blinds. She wanted to be alone with the perpetrator, testing her rudimentary profile of him again to see whether she’d missed anything obvious. She read through their behavioral indicators, probable motives, evidence analysis, trying to picture what went through their killer’s mind at the point of death.

  “Can I join you?”

  Surprised, Helen looked up to find Jonathan Gardam standing in the doorway.

  “Sorry—I was miles away. Come in.”

  Gardam pushed the door to and walked toward the board. He stood for a minute, taking in the words written on it.

  “How’s the profile coming on?”

  “Slowly. We haven’t got much to go on.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Really, it’s pretty basic …”

  “I’d like to help if I can. I was a decent DI once upon a time.”

  Helen hesitated. She preferred to do her soul-searching alone, but Gardam’s tone brooked no argument and perhaps she could make an excepti
on. She wasn’t getting very far by herself.

  “I think the key element is control. Control of himself, control of his victim, control of us. He’s a high-functioning individual with an inflated sense of his own importance, someone who feels the world doesn’t understand him. He wants to engage but will only do so on his terms, leaving statement killings for us to interpret.”

  “So he enjoys the game?”

  “Absolutely. I think he likes to tantalize, to tease, to play God.”

  “Is he likely to live alone, then? To have a home environment that he can control?”

  “Possibly, but he may have a partner, even a family. Maybe he controls them like he controls his victims or it may be that they dominate him.”

  Gardam nodded, taking this in.

  “Do we think his victims were targeted specifically?”

  “If they were, I would expect to see more signs of overt violence against them.”

  “So does he have something against people in the BDSM world?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Does he have a moral issue with S and M? Was he on the wrong end of a bad experience? Could some incident within the community have triggered this?”

  Helen considered this.

  “I don’t mean to pry,” Gardam ventured, “but you must have come across these kinds of people—what sort of world is it?”

  “It’s not as weird as you’d think,” Helen replied quickly. “People go into it for all sorts of reasons, but generally it’s professional, discreet and consensual.”

  “But there must be people who want to push it to the extreme …”

  “In private encounters, perhaps. Professional sessions have strict safety rules, which are religiously observed.”

  “So this guy has graduated beyond the entry level? He’s experienced?”

  “Judging by his knowledge and activities, I’d say he knows this world well. He doesn’t seem to want to be punished or exposed or abused—he wants to be the one with the upper hand. It is possible he comes from a place where he has no control, no sense of hope. He could be an abuse victim, someone trapped in an unhealthy relationship, someone saddled with emotional baggage that he can’t expiate any other way.”

  “Do any of those apply to you?”

  Helen stopped, surprised by the question.

  “Look, tell me to fuck off if you want to, but you’re our best asset in trying to understand this guy. I appreciate you don’t want to broadcast this side of your life to the team, but between us …”

  Helen stared at Gardam, then said:

  “I do it because it works.”

  “Because you feel … guilt?”

  “Guilt, regret, anger.”

  “And it works for you? It gives you reassurance, comfort …”

  “For a while.”

  “But then those feelings come back again?”

  Helen shrugged, but didn’t deny it.

  “Do you think those feelings will ever go away?” Gardam persisted.

  “I’m not sure. It sounds stupid … but sometimes I feel … that I’m stained. That I’m marked by what’s happened in the past …”

  “It’s a mark no one else can see.”

  “I can see it.”

  Gardam looked at her for a moment. He seemed to be struggling for the right words. Finally he said:

  “Do you really think you’re … cursed?”

  “That’s exactly how I feel.”

  “It doesn’t have to be that way, you know …”

  “Believe me, if I could find a path through this, I would.”

  “Then let me help you. You’ve taken the first steps by confiding in me. Don’t let this opportunity go to waste. Let me … help you.”

  He took a step forward, holding out his hand to her. The smile on his face was kindly but firm.

  “I know you’re lonely, Helen. I know you feel lost …”

  Helen took a step back, but still Gardam advanced.

  “And I hate to think of you alone in that flat, with all this going on.” He gestured at the board.

  “I’ll be fine. Look, I think it’s best that—”

  “You opened yourself up to me for a reason. So don’t be scared now.”

  He put his hand on Helen’s cheek.

  “This will be good for both of us.”

  Helen lifted her hand to remove his, but suddenly Gardam pulled her toward him. Now she felt his mouth on hers. She raised her hand to his chest to push him off, but he kept coming, his teeth biting down on her lower lip.

  Helen pulled away sharply. But his arms were still around her and as she tried to wriggle out of his grip, she collided with the table.

  “Don’t run from this, Helen,” Gardam chided, running his hand down her back and onto her buttocks.

  He moved toward her again, but this time Helen struck first, dragging her nails down the side of his face. Gardam recoiled in shock, giving Helen the opportunity she needed. She drove her knee hard into his groin—once, twice, three times.

  Gardam crumpled to the floor.

  Helen stepped over him, moving fast across the room. Reaching the doorway, she burst through it, leaving her boss lying on the floor, gagging quietly into the carpet. Helen didn’t look back once. Now she just wanted to be away.

  98

  The eyes of the world were on her now.

  Samantha hated mockery, hated attention, hated judgment. But she was getting all three in spades now. She’d pulled the curtains to, turned off her mobile, but still the intercom buzzed, buzzed, buzzed. She knew bugger all about electrics, so in the end she’d ripped it off the wall, hurling it at the door with a stream of invective. Shortly after, the handful of journalists who’d harried and jostled her on her way home had gained entry to the block. She could hardly call the police, and her useless landlord wasn’t answering his calls, so they were still at the door, calling, hammering, joking. To them this was all in a day’s work.

  She had stuck it for a while, ignoring their pleas for an interview, sitting in silence in the living room. But in the end it had got to her and she’d retreated to the back of the house. Cranking up the stereo, she’d treated them to a bit of Dark Metal. They would love it, of course—it would add “color” to their articles—but she didn’t care. She just wanted to block out the world for a while.

  The police had stolen most of her possessions, her clothes, even her babies. But they had missed a couple. A pair of dolls she’d picked up at a flea market and had called Duke and Duchess on account of their finery. They now resided in the corner of a bedside drawer, temporarily exiled there due to lack of space in the room. Samantha pulled them from their hiding place and laid them on the floor in front of her. They were all she had for company now, yet even they seemed to be looking at her oddly today, their dead, black eyes giving back nothing but suspicion and disappointment. She had seen that look a lot when she had been a kid.

  God, how she craved a drink, but there was no way she could head out to get one. She had gambled and lost, reveling in the attention the police gave her as she led them in a merry, pointless dance, only to be tossed aside once they realized she was lying through her teeth. All she’d wanted was a moment in the spotlight, but what a bitter harvest she’d reaped.

  She wanted company, but there was none to be had. She wanted sanctuary from the world, but even that seemed to have been taken away from her now. This dingy, rotting flat had been her haven for so long. But that was all over. Now it was just a home without a heart.

  99

  Sanderson finished her drink and considered the wisdom of having another. It was only a pint of weak lager—not exactly Oliver Reed standards—but still she hesitated. She’d known many a copper ruin a perfectly good career by slipping into bad habits. The Mermaid pub had been the location for several falls from grace over the years, hidden away in a backstreet close to Southampton Central.

  She should have been at a Spinning class, but somehow she couldn’t face all that shouting an
d positive energy tonight. The alternative was going back to her badly heated flat and empty fridge, so she’d retreated to the warmth of the pub instead, ignoring the occasional glances of the hopeful males at the bar, to enjoy an overpriced pint of continental beer.

  “Can I get you another?”

  Sanderson looked up to find Emilia Garanita standing over her.

  “I’m meeting someone here shortly, but I’ve got half an hour to kill. Judging by the looks you’re getting, you could use a chaperone.”

  Sanderson assumed she was lying, but didn’t immediately tell her to sling her hook. Garanita had been useful in the past and maybe some company was better than none. She would need to be on her guard, but what the heck?

  Minutes later, Emilia returned with two pints.

  “I would have thought you’d be burning the midnight oil.”

  “Taking a break. We’ve done as much as we can for tonight.”

  “I daresay.”

  Sanderson detected the note of sarcasm, but didn’t begrudge Emilia her skepticism. Sanderson had set several lines of inquiry in train, but she had little confidence that any of them would pay dividends in the short term. Furthermore, Helen seemed to have gone AWOL, underlining Sanderson’s sense that things were drifting. The investigation appeared to be stymied, morale fractured and her own career going nowhere. Her conflict with Charlie risked dividing the team and she still feared that her popular rival would be the natural winner.

  “So how are things going?” Emilia said brightly.

  “Do you mind if we don’t talk shop?”

  “By all means, but if there’s anything you want to tell me, off the record …”

  “I’m good.”

  “Well, let me help you, then. I know things aren’t going your way.”

  Sanderson looked up from her drink.

  “It must be tough now there are two DSs, especially as Brooks and Grace are so close. I’m not a betting woman, but when Grace eventually moves on, I’d say Brooks was favorite to take her place, wouldn’t you?”

  Sanderson stared at Emilia, but said nothing.

  “Must be galling being pushed out, which is why I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Look, things haven’t been easy—I’m sure you’ve heard the gossip—but I don’t do quid pro quos, Emilia. If you want to know more about the case, there’s a press conference starting in ten minutes at Southampton Central—”