Little Boy Blue

by M. J. Arlidge

  “I’m not interested in that. The kind of questions I’ve got for you can’t be asked at a press conference.”

  Sanderson looked at Emilia, intrigued now in spite of herself.

  “What I’m about to tell you is in confidence. I have important information regarding these murders.”

  Emilia let her words settle, then continued:

  “If we act on this information, the implications for Hampshire Police will be profound, so I need to know I can trust you. Can I trust you, Joanne?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good.”

  Emilia smiled and leaned in close, dropping her voice to a whisper.

  “Because I’m about to make you an offer you won’t be able to refuse.”

  And now Sanderson knew Emilia had been lying about meeting a friend. She had come here for her.

  100

  “You’re going to have to handle it on your own.”

  “I can’t go out there without an SIO. I’m a bloody Media Liaison officer.”

  “Then do your job—liaise with the media,” Gardam replied curtly.

  “Not having DI Grace is one thing—I’m used to that—but I can’t go out there without you. They’ll smell a rat and call me on it.”

  “Then find Brooks or Sanderson.”

  “Believe me, I’ve tried. And next time—FYI—I would appreciate a call rather than an e-mail. Bailing at the last minute is not on—”

  “But it’s happening, so get over it. This is not a fucking debate.”

  DS Maddy Wicket looked sufficiently put out for Gardam now to soften his tone.

  “Look at me. I can’t face them like this.”

  Maddy stared at the scratches on his right cheek.

  “What happened?”

  “Thought I’d go for a run to make a change from the police gym. Ran straight into a bloody branch and now I look like I’ve been mugged. Hardly the best advert for local policing.”

  Maddy wanted to disagree, but even she saw that Gardam was right.

  “We could cancel, if you want,” Gardam suggested. “Unless you want to knock it back a couple of hours and try to raise Brooks in the meantime?”

  Predictably Maddy now latched on to this. She loved nothing more than riding to the rescue and started to run through their options. Gardam nodded, but he was no longer listening. He was back in the interview suite with Helen.

  She had come to him. She had worked him hard, appearing frosty and defensive at first, but that had all been part of her game. Slowly she had unpeeled herself and in the last few weeks she had come on to him directly. You don’t tell a man that kind of thing without expecting a reaction. It was an explicit invitation and when he acted on it, she’d attacked him.

  Was she running scared? Was it because he was married? No, her reaction was far too aggressive to be explained like that. In other circumstances, he would have had her up on an assault charge, but he couldn’t do that here. Had she done this kind of thing before? He rather suspected she had. Her previous boss had been a woman, but the one before that had been a man. He had left suddenly, having crossed swords with her—had she tricked him in the same fashion?

  She needed saving from herself—she wanted to be saved—and she’d led him to believe that he was the man to do so. He loved her pain, but wanted to purge her of it, to protect her from the darkness out there. He had always thought of her as an injured bird requiring warmth, comfort and love. But now he knew that Helen Grace was nothing more than a heartless prick tease.

  101

  Helen shut her front door, locking it behind her. Leaning against it, she closed her eyes and tried not to cry. She had left the station and headed straight home, driving too fast, barely registering the other drivers. Her head was pounding and she now pulled her cigarettes from her pocket, but they tumbled from her grasp. Her hands were shaking—she was still in shock.

  She kept replaying the last couple of hours in her head. It was over twenty years since anyone had been sexually aggressive toward her, and she would never have expected it to happen at Southampton Central. The station had been her sanctuary for so long, the place where she could be a normal, functioning human being—but Gardam had destroyed all that.

  What the fuck was he thinking? She’d told him about herself in confidence and as a friend. She’d been worried about the impact of her past on the case, but that was it. She had never encouraged his interest in her. Quite the opposite: she had put his close attention down to him being a good manager, a frontline officer who knew what it was like to lead a major investigation. What signs had he picked up on to make him think that he could behave like that?

  It was scarcely believable and she wanted to wish it all away, but she still had his skin under her nails and the scent of his aftershave on her face. She hurried to the bathroom and, pulling off her jacket and blouse, scooped handfuls of hot water over her face, neck and hands. Before long her hair was dripping, her makeup smeared, but she was clean.

  Toweling dry her hair, she looked at herself in the mirror. What should she do now? Should she report him? What he’d done was totally unacceptable, but he hadn’t harmed her and if he contested her account of what happened, how on earth could she prove that she was telling the truth? It would be his word against hers.

  She should report him. She had to report him. But the thought made her sick to the stomach and besides, she might very well come off worse—Gardam had friends in high places. There’d be no question of carrying on with the investigation, of getting justice for Jake. But could she really go back to work as if nothing had happened and report to Gardam in the usual way? She now knew what he thought of her and it was impossible to stop thinking about it.

  Buzz.

  The noise had been somewhere on the periphery of her consciousness, but now she heard it clearly.

  Buzz.

  There it was again. It was coming from somewhere within the flat. Scenting danger, Helen drew her baton and extended it, creeping forward toward the source of the noise.

  Buzz.

  It was coming from the kitchen. What the hell was it?

  Buzz.

  Losing patience, Helen now stepped quickly inside. There was no one in the kitchen, but the sight that greeted her still stopped her in her tracks. Her private phone was sitting in the middle of the kitchen table. The mobile that she had dropped down a drain three days ago. It was powered up and now buzzing in receipt of a text message.

  Helen inspected the room. Who had put it there? Were they still in the flat? The kitchen window was secured, but what about the living room? The bedroom? Baton raised, Helen charged from the kitchen, checking the windows, the cupboards, under the bed. Her heart was beating fast, but there was no sign of an intruder. She was alone.

  Who had seen her drop the phone? Who had returned it to her? Why had they brought it back?

  Helen walked quickly into the kitchen. Pulling a tea towel from the hooks, she covered her hand and carefully picked the phone up. Through the cotton fabric, she pressed Read. The message sprang up—it was from Angelique and it was short and sweet:

  We need to meet.

  102

  Helen parked her bike three blocks away, then began to walk hurriedly toward Angelique’s flat. The sun had set now and Helen stuck close to the wall, avoiding the sodium glow of the streetlights. She had no idea what she was walking into, but she didn’t want to announce her arrival.

  Had Angelique followed her that night? Seen her drop the phone down the drain? If so, why had she fished it out and how had she gained access to her flat? Helen’s cleaner had been in today—it was possible she’d forgotten to lock the door properly, but she was usually very scrupulous about security. Had Angelique got a key somehow?

  It made little sense, but the shadow of a memory now rose in her mind. Helen remembered looking through the list of names drawn up by Sanderson, detailing people who’d attended her Munch or who were regular visitors there. There was an Angelique on that list somew
here—Helen was sure of that—but she’d thought little of it at the time. Sanderson hadn’t met her, they had nothing specific on her and there was no guarantee it was even the same person. But she had been on the list—she was part of the community. It was very possible she was a size six shoe and from memory she did like to wear boots. Did she know Paine? Had she frequented the Torture Rooms? And if she was responsible for these crimes, what was driving her?

  The chief question in Helen’s mind was why she had gone to such lengths to summon her. If she wanted to be anonymous or discreet, there would have been easier, less sinister ways to do so. So what was this, then? Some kind of power game? A signal that she was in control?

  Helen paused at the top of Angelique’s street. It was near the docks and largely made up of converted warehouses and a few specialist shops—most of which never seemed to be open. There didn’t appear to be any CCTV on the street, so Helen moved quickly forward, walking down the opposite side of the road to get a better look at Angelique’s building.

  It was plumb in the middle of the quiet street, backing onto another large set of flats. There appeared to be no back entrance, nor any fire escape either. Her only means of entry was through the front door. This made Helen nervous, but it had one advantage. There were two other sex workers operating from the flats, which meant that the front door was often in use, especially after dark. Helen crossed the road, taking up a position a few yards away from the front door, shielded by a couple of large municipal bins.

  Helen breathed out, trying to calm her racing heart. Was she foolish to come here? She had no choice, really—she had to find out why Angelique was playing games with her—but it didn’t make her any less apprehensive. This was not her turf, nor was she arriving under circumstances of her own choosing. She was dancing on the end of somebody else’s line.

  A noise made her look up—a man with an overcoat and a briefcase was hurrying away from the flats. Helen gave him a couple of seconds’ start, then emerged from her hiding place—to see the heavy front door swinging to a close. Darting forward, she grabbed at the handle, arresting its progress just in time.

  Moving inside, she eased the door shut, then looked up the stairwell. There was no one in sight and all was quiet, so Helen walked quickly but quietly up the stairs. Soon she was on the third floor, outside Angelique’s flat. Now she didn’t hesitate, pulling a credit card from her jacket pocket. If the deadlock was on, she would get nowhere. But if it wasn’t …

  She eased the card through the gap between the door and the frame and, moving it upward, felt for the latch. The card hit metal, and having gained traction, Helen kneaded it back and forth, maneuvering the metal tongue out of its mooring. She increased the pressure of her body on the door and moments later it opened with a gentle sigh.

  Helen stepped inside and listened. A distant beat drifted down from above—someone upstairs had the music ramped up—but there was little sound in this flat. Nor was there any light—the whole place stood in utter darkness. Silently slipping her baton from her pocket, she extended it and took a step forward.

  The floorboard creaked under her weight, so Helen took a step back. Changing her route, she now clung to the wall, moving faster and with less clamor. The flat was a small one-bed affair and wouldn’t take long to scout. Helen was suddenly keen to have this over with—it occurred to her that perhaps the place was so quiet because there was no one here. Wouldn’t that be rich if she was creeping around an empty flat, braced for an attack that was never going to come?

  She had reached the kitchen and darted her head in. But it was deserted. She moved forward now into the living room, ducking low to avoid any possible attack. Whatever misgivings, there was no point taking unnecessary chances. But this room too was deserted. She could see through the open door opposite that the bathroom was empty as well, which just left the bedroom.

  Helen padded toward the door, which hung ajar. Perhaps the place was unoccupied? Perhaps Angelique was waiting until Helen was inside before following her in? She shot a look over her shoulder, but all was still, so, using the point of her baton, she pushed the door open.

  Still nothing. So Helen cautiously took a step forward. The curtains were closed and it was dimly lit, but something made Helen hesitate on the threshold. Something—or someone—was in here. They had the advantage, but Helen suddenly flicked the light on to level the playing field.

  And there was Angelique, lying on the bed. She wasn’t moving, so, checking the corners of the room, Helen moved forward. As she got closer, it became clear that Helen had come too late. Angelique lay there in her catsuit, her limbs tethered to the four corners of the bed with Japanese bondage cords. Her face was blue and as Helen now leaned over, she saw that the unfortunate dominatrix had a ball gag secured in her mouth. Worse still, her entire head, from chin to crown, was covered in cling film.

  Helen had been right all along. She had just walked into a trap.

  103

  “Now tell me, what happened to your colleague? DC McAndrew, was it? I rather liked her.”

  Sanderson smiled tightly, as Maurice Finnan presented her with a cup of tea and ushered her toward the living room.

  “On operational duties, I’m afraid.”

  “And now they’ve sent a sergeant along. I am going up in the world.”

  It was said lightly, but Sanderson sensed the question behind Maurice’s joke. Clearly he was sharp as a tack beneath his cultivated eccentricity.

  “Nothing too exciting, I’m afraid. Just some follow-up work.”

  Maurice sipped his tea and said nothing.

  “You very helpfully provided us with a list of vehicle registrations that you’ve seen near Jake Elder’s flat.”

  “I did.”

  “Would you mind if we went through a few of them with you now … ?”

  Maurice was only too happy to help, so Sanderson crossed the room and sat down next to him. Maurice pulled his reading glasses from his top pocket and cast an eye over the list of registrations.

  “This one, DE59 VFB. A blue Transit. Can you remember the driver at all?”

  Maurice thought for a second, then replied:

  “No, I’m afraid I can’t. Normally I’ve got a pretty good memory for these things, but …”

  “What about this one? BD05 TRD—a Corsa.”

  “Little fellow. Raincoat, with one of the little rucksack things for computers—”

  “Laptop bag.”

  “That’s it.”

  “And VF08 BHU. An Astra estate—”

  “Big guy, unshaven, a laborer or something like that.”

  “Very good, and what about this one—LB52 WTC?”

  “Well, that was an unusual one—a motorbike.”

  “Right. And the driver?”

  “A woman. That’s what made her stand out. I didn’t think they were into that kind of thing.”

  “Could you describe her for me?”

  Sanderson took down the particulars, barely believing what she was hearing. She hadn’t wanted to believe Emilia at first, telling her to take a running jump. But as the journalist had laid out the evidence in front of her, troubling questions had been raised in her mind. Garanita had photographic evidence going back several years that suggested Helen had used Jake Elder’s services and it appeared she knew Max Paine too. Why had she withheld this from her team? What did she have to hide? Sanderson’s head had been spinning by the end of their conversation and she had hurried here, hoping against hope that Maurice would contradict Emilia’s story, but he hadn’t. Quite the opposite. He had in fact just given her a perfect description of Helen Grace.

  104

  She’d called in sick, but actually had never felt better—her lie was simply designed to let her work at home in peace. In the past, when she was still learning the ropes, she’d come a cropper by being too open about her stories. Leads had been “borrowed,” witnesses snaffled, and suddenly her exclusives had become yesterday’s news. There was no way Emilia was m
aking the same mistake again. Not with the story that was going to define her career.

  It was clear from her chat with Sanderson that no suspicion had yet alighted on Helen Grace. The loyal DS was disbelieving at first, but over the course of their chat she could see a step change in her perception of her boss, but also in her view of Emilia. The journalist sensed that Sanderson was dissatisfied professionally and she’d played on that—highlighting the opportunities Grace’s exposure might throw up, while also appealing to her sense of duty. “One bad apple can make the whole force look bad,” she’d said, somehow managing to keep a straight face as she did so.

  Sanderson had bitten on it and run off to do her bidding, leaving Emilia free to write her copy. She had already drafted the leader page—a masterpiece of pithy exposé—and had the building blocks in place for pages two and three. What she needed now was some context.

  People thought they knew Helen Grace, but she’d had such a rich and difficult life that it was a story that was always worth retelling. It was Emilia’s profile piece at the center of the paper that would be the true heart of this story—after all, nobody had better access to or a deeper history with Grace than she did.

  In the interest of fairness, Emilia had listed Grace’s many triumphs—the unmasking of Ella Matthews, her heroics in rescuing Ruby Sprackling, not to mention her apprehension of a pair of serial arsonists. Set against this was Grace’s propensity for violence—the fatal shooting of her own sister most notably—and her dark obsession with sadomasochism.

  Like Emilia, Helen Grace was a woman with two faces. Looked at from one side, she was Southampton’s finest serving police officer. Looked at from another, she was a deeply troubled woman who seemed to curse everything and everyone she touched. Some, like her loyal comrade Charlie Brooks, survived the ordeal, but others were not so lucky. Mark Fuller had killed himself while in captivity, her nephew, Robert Stonehill, had had to flee after Helen exposed him, and at least three serving police officers—two of them at detective superintendent level—had had to resign after crossing swords with her. Disaster, death and violence seemed to stalk Helen wherever she went.