Little Boy Blue: DI Helen Grace 5 (A DI Helen Grace Thriller) (11 page)

‘I’m going to release Paul Jackson.’

Helen had dragged the entire team into the briefing room. They looked shocked at the news – Charlie in particular – but Helen wasn’t in the mood for a discussion. Jackson might still have a role to play in the case, but in her mind at least he wasn’t the elusive, sadistic killer they were hunting. Crushing though it was to have to admit it, they were back to square one.

‘It’s only on bail and he’ll be under surveillance, but I want us to widen our search and consider other possibilities. We should assume for now that Jake Elder’s murder was
not
an opportunist act. The careful choice of venue, the credit card fraud, plus the tactics employed by the perpetrator to conceal the purchase of the items used suggests a high level of planning.’

‘Does that mean the perpetrator had a special grievance against Elder, that he’d been plotting his murder for some time?’ DC Reid offered.

‘Have we found anything in Elder’s communications or recent history to support that? Has he angered anybody recently?’ Helen responded.

‘Nothing on the drugs or money front,’ Lucas replied.

‘Nor in his private or professional life,’ Edwards said,
overlapping. ‘His life seems pretty … empty, to be honest.’

Helen felt a sharp stab of guilt but, swallowing it, pressed on.

‘In which case we have to consider the possibility that whoever did this has no personal animus against Elder.’

‘Perhaps it’s what he represents?’ DC Lucas said.

‘Could be a hate crime,’ Sanderson added, overlapping. ‘Anti-gay? Anti-BDSM?’

‘Maybe, but if so I’d have expected someone to have claimed responsibility for the murder,’ Helen replied. ‘Or posted some kind of justification for their actions. Let’s keep an eye on that – see if anyone surfaces in the next twenty-four hours.’

‘Maybe they just get off on the thrill of it,’ DC Edwards said. ‘The sense of control, playing God. Maybe whoever did this
enjoyed
watching Elder die –’

‘He’d be taking a chance when anyone could have walked in,’ Helen interrupted quickly, keen not to dwell on this thought.

‘Perhaps,’ Edwards countered, ‘but according to Blakeman there’s a kind of unwritten rule in that club. If the door’s closed, it means “do not disturb”.’

‘What about exposure?’ Sanderson now offered. ‘By killing him he’s revealing to the world what Elder really was. A dominator, a “pervert” …’

Helen nodded, suppressing her alarm. She had seen this kind of thing before in the Ella Matthews case, a young prostitute who’d killed her male clients to expose
them. Could this latest murder be a copycat killing of her awful crimes?

‘But that would suggest that the killer isn’t part of the BDSM scene,’ Charlie objected. ‘Which doesn’t hold water for me. I think our killer knew the club, knew the scene and was very deliberate in his choice of target.’

Sanderson said nothing. Nor did her colleagues. As Helen had predicted, everybody knew about their earlier row and they were keen to avoid getting involved.

‘In the absence of any specific pointers, we’ll have to keep an open mind on the perpetrator’s motivation,’ Helen said, shooting a warning look to both Sanderson and Charlie. ‘For now, let’s deal with what we
know
. Our killer was calm, methodical –’

‘Suggesting that he’s done this before?’ Reid offered.

‘Maybe. We should certainly consider the possibility that our killer has a criminal past. Let’s look for the obvious – hate crimes, false imprisonment – but I also want us to check out anyone who’s been convicted of credit card fraud in the last five years and cross-reference their names against those already on our list. How are we doing with our Snapchatters?’

‘Apart from Jackson, we’ve tracked down seven of the twenty – all of whom have alibis,’ Charlie replied.

‘Not good enough. That’s twelve possible suspects who like to conceal their identities and who have a strong personal link to the deceased. Chase them down
quickly
, please.’

Charlie nodded but said nothing, so Helen continued:

‘Edwards, I’d like you to do some further credit card digging for me. This is our killer’s only footprint so far. How did he get Lynn Picket’s card details? Check her friends, family, workmen who visited the house – anybody who could have gained access to her bag. Check where she shops, which internet sites she uses and ask the tech boys to investigate whether her card details could have been sold as part of a bundle on the internet or dark web. If our killer prefers anonymity, he may favour using a Tor browser.’

‘I’ll get them on to it straight away.’

‘I’ve also asked DS Sanderson to draw up a list of names from last night’s Munch. I’m sure word’s spread about our presence on the scene,’ Helen went on, ‘and it’s going to be hard for us to place someone else there, but we can at least follow up on the intel we
do
have.’

‘I’ll circulate the list to everyone,’ Sanderson added quickly. ‘Our main person of interest is “Samantha”, a mid-op transsexual – male to female – who indulges in extreme BDSM and has a history of assault, ABH and so on.’

‘Finally, I’m going to ask DC McAndrew to keep us all up to date with any forensic developments,’ Helen concluded. ‘In the absence of any other direct DNA sources on the victim’s body, we’ll need to interrogate the other traces found in the room and its environs. If there’s a match to someone with a criminal past – however trivial – we need to know about it.’

There was a silence in the room as everyone looked to Helen once more.

‘Well, don’t just stand there,’ she barked at them. ‘There’s a killer out there and he’s laughing at us.’

And with that she turned, heading for the sanctuary of her office.

Helen pushed the door to and tossed her jacket on to the sofa. She felt drained and dispirited, her high hopes of the morning dashed. She needed time and space to gather her thoughts – gather herself – but she had only just made it back to her desk when she heard Charlie’s angry voice:

‘You could have spoken to me first …’

Helen turned to see Charlie shutting the door behind her. Helen stared at her, then at the door, irritated by this act of insubordination. She was not in the mood to be crossed today.

‘I wasn’t under the impression I had to run my decisions past you,’ Helen replied, just about holding her anger in check.

‘Jackson is a good suspect.’

‘I agree, but you were in that interview room. Do you think he’s guilty?’

‘It’s too early to say. We have to go at him again.’

‘He’s being released as we speak.’

‘Why, for God’s sake? We’ve interviewed him
once
. We can hold him for at least another forty-eight hours –’

‘Because if he is an innocent man, I don’t intend to ruin his life completely. He has already been the subject of some pretty vile speculation in the press –’

‘I appreciate that –’

‘Do you? There are people out there who, for valid reasons, want to keep the different parts of their life separate, who’ve committed no offence –’

‘But Elder rejected him. Jackson told us as much. He wanted sex with him and he was rejected. He has a strong motive –’

‘So strong that two weeks prior to this murder, he ordered a collection of bondage items with which to commit the crime. This was
not
a crime of passion and you shouldn’t dress it up as one.’

‘You don’t know that for sure,’ Charlie threw back at her, her anger flaring now. ‘He could have bought those items discreetly, intending to use them recreationally, but on that particular night he was angry and rejected –’

‘Put him in the room then,’ Helen spat back, ‘put him at the crime scene and then we can have this conversation.’

The two women had now squared off against each other. Helen’s eyes flitted to her office window. She could tell the rest of the team were listening to their argument and she was keen to bring it to a conclusion.

‘I think we’re making a mistake,’ Charlie said defiantly.

‘Noted,’ Helen replied. ‘But ask yourself why you’re so hot on Jackson as a suspect. Could it be because you want to prove something to Sanderson?’

‘He was my collar and she brought him in.’

‘And now he’s “yours” again you want to see it through, one in the eye for your fellow DS.’

‘That’s not true. Yes, Sanderson was out of line –’

‘
I
told her to bring him in – because you weren’t here.’

This time Charlie said nothing in response, stung by the implication.

‘You were late and I will not let anyone’s lack of professionalism hamper this investigation.’

‘That’s completely unfair,’ Charlie said, stunned by this personal attack. ‘I work harder than anyone else –’

‘It’s a statement of fact. You weren’t here when you should have been.’

Charlie stared at Helen, speechless.

‘But I’ll tell you what. As you’re so convinced Jackson is guilty,
you
can take the surveillance detail.’

‘Oh, come on, that’s a DC’s job at best –’

‘It’s yours now,’ Helen asserted.

Charlie opened her mouth to protest, but Helen continued:

‘Bring me evidence of his guilt. Show me I’m wrong and I’ll eat my words.’

She crossed the room and pointedly opened the door of her office.

‘But know one thing, Charlie. This case is not about
you
. You may think it is, but it’s not. It’s about an innocent man –’

Helen’s voice faltered as Jake’s lifeless corpse once more sprung to mind.

‘– an innocent man who deserves justice.’

‘Why are you being like this?’ Charlie said, emotion suddenly ambushing
her
.

‘Because it’s my job. You’d do well to remember yours.’

Helen stared at Charlie, challenging her to respond.
But this time she didn’t. Instead, she turned and walked straight out of Helen’s office and towards the exit without saying a word to anyone. Helen retreated quickly to her desk, keen to busy herself with her case files. She could feel her face burning, as if she were the one in the wrong. She
needed
to regain her composure.

Silence reigned in the incident room beyond but Helen knew that that was just show. They were all trying very hard to look busy and engaged, but as Helen distractedly turned the pages of the case file in front of her, she knew instinctively that all eyes were on her. Everybody was watching her, but nobody was saying anything.

Max Paine flicked through the pages of the newspaper until he found what he was looking for. The
Evening News
was dominated by sensational reports of the Torture Rooms murder, but it was the centre spread he was after. There at the top-right-hand corner of the page was the journalist’s mug shot and direct line.

Emilia Garanita was no looker, given the extensive scarring on one of her cheeks, but she was a famous face in Southampton – with a number of high-profile exposés already to her name. She was happy to walk where angels fear to tread, going anywhere and talking to anyone who might provide her with a scoop. Paine hoped to use that to his advantage now.

He would meet with Garanita and tell her in confidence the information he was prepared to sell. He would then ask her to make him an offer. Under the pretext of thinking about it, he would then contact Grace and see what
she
was prepared to pay. To the winner, the spoils. He wasn’t on some moral crusade after all. He just wanted money.

He punched Garanita’s phone number into his mobile and turned away from the café counter – he didn’t want to be overheard. But the call didn’t connect, going straight to voicemail instead. He decided to be short and sweet.

‘My name is Max Paine. I have information about the Torture Rooms murder that you’ll want to hear. Call me on 07977 654878. I’ll be waiting.’

He rang off, pleased to have made the first move, but irritated not to have been able to speak to Garanita in person. Still, there was plenty of time for that. No point getting strung out this early in the game.

He finished his coffee, flicking carelessly through the rest of the paper, before heading on his way. It was getting late and he had work to do. He thought about taking the
News
with him, but he had Garanita’s number on his phone now, so tossing it casually on to the table, he left. The waitress swooped, scooping up his empty coffee cup, pausing momentarily to take in the front page of the abandoned paper. Something approaching sympathy now creased her features as Jake Elder’s smiling, happy face beamed out at her from beneath the screaming headline:

SOUTHAMPTON SEX MURDER.

They stood staring at each other, neither daring to speak.

The enormous relief Paul Jackson had felt on being told he was to be released swiftly turned to anxiety, when he realized what lay ahead. He didn’t trust himself to call Sally – he wasn’t even sure if she’d answer – so he’d texted her. His message was brief, saying simply that he was on his way home and would see her shortly. It was the kind of anodyne message he had sent a hundred times before. Now, however, it had a very different meaning.

He had hoped to avoid the press by sneaking out of the back exit of Southampton Central, but they were waiting for him there, as they were when he eventually pulled into his road. There was no question of heading in via the back door – the garden wall was too high to be scaled without a ladder – so getting out of the car he made a dash for the front gate. Immediately, he cannoned off one journalist, knocking over a photographer in the process. Nobody actually laid a hand on him but they all contrived to impede his progress. They wanted to provoke him, to get him to lash out, but he kept his head down until he reached the sanctuary of his front door.

His hand had been shaking when he’d put the key in the lock and the house seemed eerily empty when he finally succeeded in getting inside. The twins had been picked up by another school mum and were still blissfully unaware of what was happening. Sally, however, was waiting for him in the kitchen, seated at the table with her hands folded.

He was about to kiss her, then thought better of it. He pulled out a chair – the trailing leg made a sharp, squealing noise on the polished wooden floor – and sat down. He saw Sally flinch at the noise and looking at her he now realized that she was on the edge of tears. The sight made him feel sick. This was his fault. All this … hurt … was his fault.

‘I haven’t been able to go out,’ Sally said suddenly. ‘They’ve been ringing the doorbell, banging on the door. I pulled the phone out of the wall, but they got my mobile number from somewhere …’

‘I’m so sorry, Sally. I never wanted any of this …’

‘Please tell me it’s a mistake,’ she replied quickly, her voice wobbling. ‘I heard the headlines, I know what this is …’

‘Of course it’s a mistake, my darling. I’m not a violent man. I would never hurt somebody like that.’

‘And the rest of it?’

Paul was suddenly unable to look at her.

‘That place. Where this man died …’

She didn’t elaborate further, but the unspoken question was clear.

‘Yes. I went there.’

‘How many times?’

Paul said nothing in response.

‘How many times have you been there? And please don’t lie to me, Paul.’

‘Six, maybe seven times.’

‘What did you do there?’

For a moment, Paul was tempted to lie, to soften the blow. He could start by saying he went to drink, dance … But in the end, he simply said:

‘I went there to meet men.’

Sally nodded slightly, then rose from the table. Paul rose too, moving towards her, but she held up a hand to fend him off. Turning, she walked from the room without looking back, running up the stairs to her bedroom. Paul heard the bedroom door slam shut and moments later the sound of her crying.

He walked over to the window, pulling the curtains round to block out the press photographers who were straining to see in from their vantage points on the wall opposite. It was a pointless gesture – it was too late to protect his family. He had never hated himself so much as he did in that moment. He hadn’t heard his wife cry in years and now in one awful day he had destroyed her happiness, her peace of mind and her faith in him.

His very public arrest would cause her embarrassment both at home and at work. The revelation that he was bisexual would hurt her deeply too. But perhaps they could have worked through those things – for the boys’
sake – were it not for the fact that he had betrayed her. He had lied to her night after night, as he slept with casual pick-ups. It was this that would damn him ultimately and he knew that Sally would never forgive him. Nor, if he was honest, would he.