Little Boy Blue: DI Helen Grace 5 (A DI Helen Grace Thriller) (12 page)

From her viewpoint across the road, Charlie watched the horrible soap opera unfold. Charlie remained to be convinced that Paul Jackson was innocent, but she still felt for him and his family. Like her, they must have got up this morning with no inkling of what was about to befall them. They might even have been looking forward to the day. But in the time it takes the sun to rise and set again, secrets had been revealed, accusations made and a family’s happiness shattered.

Thanks to her job, Charlie came into contact with many unsavoury characters, but few were as unpleasant and pitiless as the journalists now camped outside the Jackson house. In time, they would drift away, as new developments emerged, but the next forty-eight hours would be Hell. The family could take legal steps to protect themselves from intrusion, but these things took time and in the interim press hounds, radio and TV journalists, bloggers and more would be beating a path to their door.

They would claim that they were only doing their job – ‘it’s a free country’ was the common refrain – but Charlie knew they enjoyed it. It was bullying pure and simple, the pack descending on whomsoever they deemed fair game. They would climb walls, scale lampposts, shout through letter boxes, bribe, threaten, cajole – all in
the hope of getting a few words with the accused or a photo of his weeping wife. Many people out there thought the same of coppers – that they were only on God’s earth to cause grief and upset – but in Charlie’s mind, at least, the two professions were very different indeed.

The biting wind whistled round Charlie and, cursing her luck, she retreated to her car. Helen had sent her here as a punishment, knowing full well it would be a wasted journey. It was easy enough to blend in with the journalists and gawpers, but with such a crowd outside what were the chances that Jackson would actually do anything incriminating? If he was smart, he would stay exactly where he was, until the interest in him waned.

Charlie had the disquieting feeling that Helen had turned against her. They had exchanged some harsh words earlier – words that had shaken Charlie to the core – and even though she knew she deserved to be sent to purdah for rowing with Sanderson, she never expected to be publicly dressed down like that. Helen’s behaviour was out of character – impulsive and erratic – and it unnerved her. Especially when she still felt she had so much to prove.

Charlie hoped her exile would be brief. She missed her family, hated the tedium of a stakeout and desperately wanted to be back in the heart of things. But this case was doing strange things to people – to Helen, Sanderson, even Charlie herself – and she wondered if she had permanently blotted her copybook with her boss. Truth be told, she had never felt so uncertain of her position as she did tonight.

‘I like the look of this one.’

Sanderson was hunched over her desk, running Helen through a print-out from the PNC database. The atmosphere was tense following the latter’s clash with Charlie, and Sanderson was working overtime to appear efficient, professional and productive. Like her rival, she still had a lot of ground to make up.

‘There’s a few on the list, but she seems the most likely, given Dennis’s description. Real name Michael Parker, now a mid-op transsexual, living as a woman. She’s used a number of different identities over the years …’

‘Sharon Greenwood,’ Helen replied, reading the details, ‘Beverley Booker and most recently
Samantha
Wilkes.’

‘Exactly. And look at her form. Affray, drugs, theft, obtaining money by deception, false imprisonment …’

‘What have we got on that last charge?’ Helen said.

‘Questioned, but never charged, about an incident with a Julian Bown, a married man she took back to her flat. Parker said their acts were consensual, Bown said they weren’t, wanted to press for GBH, but dropped it at the last minute.’

‘And obtaining money by deception?’

Sanderson leafed through her file to find the relevant page.

‘Credit card fraud,’ she said, looking up at Helen. The excitement that always comes with a new lead was rising inside her, but she hid it well. Best not to get ahead of herself when her boss’s mood was still so hard to read.

‘Dennis said Samantha never missed an Annual Ball, so it’s likely we can place her there …’ she continued.

‘Let’s check her out,’ Helen said decisively. ‘Does this Dennis know where to find her?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Then I’d better pay him a little visit. In the meantime, let’s contact gender reassignment clinics, starting in Southampton and rolling out from there. If Samantha’s a mid-operative transsexual, then she shouldn’t be too hard to track down. Also, can you locate Julian Bown? If he still lives locally, we need to talk to him.’

‘Sure thing, boss.’

‘Stay in touch. This is good work, Sanderson.’

‘Thank you.’

‘But that doesn’t excuse what happened this morning.’ Helen lowered her voice. ‘I’m sure you know that, so I won’t labour the point – except to say that I expect every member of my team to work
together
regardless of their rank, temperament or personal history. Is that clear?’

‘One hundred per cent.’

‘I’m very glad to hear it.’

Sanderson watched on as Helen scooped up her jacket and marched from the office, handing out a few last
tasks as she did so. As reprimands go, it had been brief and to the point – Sanderson knew she had escaped lightly. But there was still work to do. The decision to release Paul Jackson may have angered Charlie, but it also reflected badly on her. Helen clearly didn’t believe he was guilty and Sanderson’s call in arresting Jackson so publicly now looked very misguided.

Charlie had been right about her motivation. Sanderson
did
feel threatened by Charlie and the chance to grab some glory and emphasize her rival’s tardiness was too good an opportunity to miss. She had hoped it would play well for her, but in fact it had achieved the very opposite. But all was not lost and a new lead, and a possible breakthrough in the case, could change everything. She would do whatever was in her power to remedy the situation because through all the backstabbing, insecurity and confusion one thing remained true – she craved the good opinion of DI Grace.

Emilia Garanita hit the hands-free button and punched in the number. She was the last person in the office and this was her final duty on what had been a tiring, but satisfactory day. She always replied to phone and email messages before the day was out – it was one of the things she prided herself on as a journalist, one of the things that singled her out from her peers. Once she was done, she would head home, open a bottle of wine and read tonight’s edition.

It was an indulgence but she never got tired of seeing her words in print. It was just a provincial paper in some people’s eyes – but to Emilia it had always been more than that. It was a city paper – her city – and it still excited her to see her byline and photo at the top of the page.

Today’s spread was particularly good. Everyone knew that people in stressful, high-pressure jobs often had unusual ways of relieving the pressure, but, still, a respectable bank manager was an absolute gift. This story had all the best ingredients – murder, sex, betrayal – and was guaranteed to run and run. Not just because the killer was still at large, but also because the main suspect, Paul Jackson, was clearly leading a double life. He was happily married with two kids and, judging by the
look on his wife’s face, the revelation about his involvement in the Torture Rooms murder must have come as a complete shock to her, not to mention to their friends and neighbours.

It was the kind of story that would have people all over Southampton speculating about what
their
neighbours were up to after hours, so the
Evening News
had gone to town on it – Emilia once more enjoying a four-page spread all to herself. They’d mocked up an image of the crime scene, constructed a possible narrative of events and gone large on the views of a psychologist about the attraction of hardcore BDSM. The latter element had been part of their wide-ranging profile of Paul Jackson. They’d initially run shy of using his name, but once he was released on bail the gloves were off. Maybe he was guilty, maybe he wasn’t. In some ways it didn’t really matter – it was still great news, packed with secrets, lies and depravity.

The phone was still ringing, so Emilia clicked off and tried again. But she was growing tired now, so after another fifteen rings she hung up, heading for the exit. Whatever Max Paine wanted would have to keep for another day.

‘Always nice to see a fresh face,’ Max said as he straddled the chair and sat down to survey her. ‘I’ve not seen you before, have I?’

‘I’m just passing through.’

‘You seem very well kitted out for someone who’s in transit.’

‘Oh, don’t let this fool you, I’m very
green
really.’

Max Paine smiled. He loved the tease of this job and always responded to clients who were prepared to make their time together more than just a soulless exchange. They were the ones who became regulars, the ones with whom the job was always fun and never a chore.

‘Well, let me take you in hand,’ he suggested, walking over to her.

She was tall and thin with slicked black hair and striking eye make-up. It was a classic Berlin look and suited her down to the ground. Running his finger up her arm, he paused to knead the flesh beneath her shoulder blades. She exhaled happily, so he carried on running his hands down her back, sliding them round to the front. Continuing his progress, he ran them over her chest, before bringing them to rest on her crotch. The soft, pliable bulge that now began to harden to his touch revealed that this was going to be even more interesting than he’d imagined.

‘Aren’t you the girl that’s got everything?’ he said, rounding her to face her full on.

‘You better believe it’ was the impish reply.

Smiling, Max walked away, towards the locked cupboards at the back.

‘We have two hours ahead of us, so why don’t you choose your weapon?’

He opened the double doors of the wardrobe to reveal his arsenal of crops, whips, paddles, bats, maces and more. There was nothing he couldn’t provide for his clients, nothing he hadn’t tried.

‘You’re very sweet, but I wonder if we might use a couple of things
I’ve
brought along with me. I’ve never used them and I might need a little help.’

Without waiting for an answer, she now walked across to the drawstring bag she’d dropped by the door on arrival. Max watched, intrigued, as she drew a series of restraints and a large Zentai suit from within. The tight-fitting suit looked brand new, the spandex glistening in the beams of the ceiling spotlights.

‘I know we’ve only just met, but I’d like us to push things a little tonight. I want Edge Play. Can you stretch to that?’

Normally Max wouldn’t rush to do this on a first meeting, but she seemed to know what she was taking on, so, nodding, he moved forward to pick up the Zentai suit. But, as he did so, she laid a gloved hand on his arm.

‘The thing is, Max,’ she continued in a whisper, ‘I want
you
to be
my
bitch tonight. Are you willing to be my bitch?’

Max paused, turning to her. She was attractive and commanding and didn’t seem like a psychopath, but you could never be sure.

‘That’s a bit rich for a first date,’ he said. ‘Maybe when we know each other a little better.’

‘Pity, but have it your own way,’ she replied, putting the suit down. ‘These are troubled times. Everyone’s running scared at the moment, which is why I was willing to pay so much. But, as you say, another time –’

‘How much?’

Paine hated himself for asking, but he couldn’t resist. He hadn’t paid his rent in over three months and lived in daily fear of eviction.

‘Five hundred pounds if you’re a bad boy. A thousand if you’re a very bad boy.’

His client removed a wedge of twenty-pound notes and placed them on the table.

‘What do you say, Max? Can I tempt you?’

Max looked her up and down – there wasn’t much to her – then, shrugging his shoulders, he relented. Walking towards her, he smiled warmly and said:

‘I’m all yours.’

‘You can’t barge in here like this.’

‘I didn’t barge in anywhere, Dennis. I rang the doorbell and your mum let me in.’

The mention of his mother provoked a visible flinch. Dennis was pushing fifty, overweight and underemployed and clearly had mixed feelings about living at the family home. Geraldine Fitzgerald was a slim, punctilious septuagenarian, who could now be heard preparing tea in the kitchen. Helen imagined she would do it the proper way – warming the pot, using leaf tea – and wondered if her domestic regimen was as meticulous and old-fashioned. Did she still ask her adult son to tidy his room?

‘Haven’t you people done enough already?’

‘ “You people”?’

‘We don’t do anything illegal, we don’t do anything
wrong
. You’ve no right to send spies to our gatherings –’

‘Well, if people don’t talk to us, what can we do?’

Dennis eyeballed her, but said nothing.

‘Everyone in the BDSM community
says
they are shocked by Jake Elder’s murder,’ Helen told him. ‘Yet nobody has come forward to help us. Which makes me wonder how deep their concern is.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘Careful now, Dennis, mother might hear …’

Dennis shot her another venomous look, but said nothing. The sound of clinking crockery drifted in from the kitchen.

‘I think you’re rather more interested in protecting yourself. You can dress it up as suspicion of the police, but I think it’s more about keeping your little secret safe. Don’t get me wrong, I understand that and I have no desire to make your life difficult so –’

‘How did you find me?’ he interrupted.

‘The Brother
Hood
website. IP address of the site runner is registered to this address. Electoral register has a Geraldine and Dennis Fitzgerald living here. It took one of our data officers less than five minutes to locate you. Hardly a secret society.’

‘And are you harassing the others too?’

‘No, just you, Dennis. Because you have something I want.’

Helen took the photo of Michael Parker from her bag and handed it to him.

‘Do you recognize this person?’

Dennis took a cursory look at it, then handed it back.

‘Look at it, Dennis. Or I swear I’ll arrest you for obstructing police business.’

As Helen raised her voice, the clinking of crockery in the kitchen stopped. Helen could see small beads of sweat appearing on Dennis’s forehead.

‘We know he’s got form, Dennis. Was this the person who hurt you? Is this “Samantha”?’

Dennis said nothing, but Helen noted that his hand was shaking slightly as he held the photo.

‘If you’re worried for your safety –’

‘It’s not that –’

‘Or concerned about giving up a fellow member of your community, then I’m happy to make this an anonymous tipoff. But a young man has died here and we need to talk to anyone who might be connected.’

Dennis’s mother was on the move now, so he spoke quickly.

‘I don’t know where she lives. But, yes, it’s her.’

‘You never went to her flat, a place of work?’

‘She got in touch over the internet, we only ever met in neutral spaces. Clubs, hotel rooms –’

‘Come on, Dennis,’ Helen cajoled, ‘give me
something
here.’

‘But I do know that she sometimes performs at The End of the Road.’

Helen breathed out, relieved. The End of the Road was a gay bar in central Southampton that specialized in drag acts and cabaret.

‘She’s a performer?’

‘Sometimes she works behind the bar, other times she performs. Calls herself “Pandora” when she’s on stage. To be honest, I’ve avoided her since … you know … but she probably still works there.’

‘And do you think she could be responsible for Jake Elder’s death? Does she have it in her?’

Dennis thought for a moment then gave her back the photo.

‘Yes, I do.’

Nodding, Helen took the photo from him. Right
on cue, his mother appeared in the doorway. Thanking Dennis for his help and reassuring the curious Geraldine that there was nothing to worry about, Helen took her leave.

As she walked briskly to her bike, her eyes remained glued to the photo still in her hand.

Was this the face of their killer?