Little Boy Blue: DI Helen Grace 5 (A DI Helen Grace Thriller) (13 page)

‘There, that didn’t hurt now, did it?’

Her voice was soft, but had an edge. Max could tell she was excited by what they’d done. And what was still to come.

He had stripped for her – much to her evident pleasure – then slipped on the Zentai suit that she’d brought with her. It was a snug fit – she was clearly far more experienced than she let on – and it covered him from head to toe. Max hadn’t done much Zentai before, the oriental stuff wasn’t really his bag, but he liked the way he looked. He was like a kind of depraved Spiderman, every inch of him covered in black spandex.

It was an odd thing to be inside. You could still hear, but the sound was muffled, you could still see, but everything was a little darker. You felt different, not like yourself, the strangeness of the situation underlined for Max by the fact that he was the one taking the beating, rather than handing it out. This was not the norm and given recent events he had been tempted to refuse. But she seemed in control of herself and the blows she was giving him were mild. Besides, he wasn’t inclined to believe the fevered tabloid speculation about there being a killer at large in their community. He wouldn’t be at all
surprised if Jake Elder’s death turned out to be an accident with the press turning it into something it wasn’t.

Max suddenly realized that she had stopped. He was still bent over the wooden horse and, straightening up, he saw that she had retreated to her little bag of tricks once more.

‘Hog ties,’ she said, holding up the leather and chain contraption triumphantly. ‘I think we’ve both had enough of the nursery slopes, don’t you?’

Max crossed the room to where she was now pointing.

‘No more talking from now on. Just do as I say,’ she ordered.

Max nodded, enjoying the game.

‘Get down on your knees. Good, now arms behind your back.’

Max did as he was told. He felt her secure his ankles in the leather restraints then, pulling his arms sharply down and back until his fingers were almost touching the upturned soles of his feet, she secured those too. All four restraints – two wrists, two ankles – were joined by a series of short, metal chains, making it virtually impossible for him to move.

He was on his knees now and utterly at her mercy. His mouth was dry and he could feel his heart beating fast. She’d said she was into Edge Play – he suspected he was about to find out exactly what her version of that was. He heard her move towards him and seconds later she lowered herself to his level. Her cheek brushed against his and he couldn’t conceal his growing excitement when she finally whispered:

‘Let the games begin.’

Paul Jackson stepped into the garage and closed the connecting door firmly behind him. He had tried to talk to Sally three times now. The first couple of times she’d just shut the bedroom door on him, but on the third she’d finally found her voice – telling him to pack his bags and go.

He hadn’t been expecting that. He had thought she would let him stay, as they tried to work out what to do next. He’d wrongly assumed that that was partly why the boys were being looked after elsewhere – to give them time to talk.

But she didn’t want him in the house. In fact she barely seemed able or willing to look at him. The last twenty-four hours had been beyond awful but this was the straw that finally broke the camel’s back and he’d sobbed as he’d begged for her forgiveness. He
loved
her – in spite of everything he’d done, he loved her now more than ever.

But she was deaf to his pleas, refusing to engage with him. And though the thought of facing the assembled journalists filled him with dread, he had eventually complied, pulling the small suitcase from the shelf in the wardrobe and throwing a few odds and ends into it. He never went away, never travelled for his work and it all
seemed like a ghastly pantomime as he tossed his socks, shirts and toiletries into the suitcase, heading off on a journey that he had no desire to make.

Zapping the car open, he raised the boot and dropped the suitcase inside. It fell with a dull thud, the sound echoing off the brickwork that surrounded him. They’d only had the garage done a few months ago. It was supposed to be his space. What a pointless waste of money it seemed now.

He climbed into the driver’s seat and picked up the remote control for the garage doors. Was this it then? His departure from the family home? Inside was nothing but desolation and despair. And outside? A mass of prurient journalists, idlers and neighbours keen to enjoy his disgrace, not to mention two innocent boys who would never look at their dad in the same way again. It was hideous to contemplate.

Which is why he put down the remote control without pressing it, reaching instead for the car keys. Then, winding down all four windows, he sat back in his seat and, closing his eyes, started up the engine.

She hurried along the street, taking care to avoid the fast-food wrappers, empty pint glasses and the occasional pool of vomit. It was Thursday night in Southampton and the drinkers were out in force.

The End of the Road was in the heart of Sussex Place and Helen pushed her way through the post-pub crowds to get to it. There was a long queue snaking from the entrance, but Helen bypassed this, heading straight for the bouncer and presenting him her warrant card.

Inside, the party was in full swing. The cavernous bar was a sea of peacock feathers, sequins and elaborate eye make-up – punters and staff alike dressing to impress. Sleekly dressed in her biking leathers, Helen fitted in pretty well, receiving several complimentary catcalls as she jostled to the bar. But she ignored them – something told her that speed was of the essence tonight.

She had to bellow to be heard at the bar. The bartender looked unimpressed by her enquiries but sloped off anyway. Cursing under her breath, Helen turned away to examine the scene. Her eye was immediately drawn to a poster for ‘Pandora’, frayed round the edges, but still in pride of place on the far wall. Helen drank in the face – even with the deep-gold eye shadow, and
generously applied rouge there was a coldness to the face that was unnerving.

‘Can I help you?’

Helen turned to find a short, bald man looking at her across the bar. Craig Ogden owned The End of the Road and was clearly unnerved by the presence of a police officer in his bar on a busy Thursday night.

‘I need to speak to Samantha. You may also know her as Pandor—’

‘Both.’

‘She works here?’

‘She does the late shift. Can I ask what this is about?’

‘When are you expecting her?’ Helen replied, ignoring the question.

‘Well, she was due in at ten. But she called in sick.’

‘When?’

‘Just as we were opening,’ he replied, his frustration clear.

‘Where can I find her? Do you have an address?’

‘We did, but she moved a few weeks back. Hasn’t told us where she is now. She might be living in a skip for all I know. She’s not the type to encourage questions and God alone knows where she ends up at night …’

‘A phone number then?’

‘I can see if we have anything on file, but to be honest I inherited her from the last manager and the record keeping at this place has never bee—’

‘But she phoned you earlier,’ Helen insisted. ‘You must have her –’

‘Number withheld. Fuck knows why …’

‘What about friends then?’ Helen said, increasingly exasperated now. ‘Or colleagues? Is there anyone here who might know where I can find her?’

‘Ask around, by all means,’ Ogden replied, shrugging. ‘To be honest, I kept well clear of her. Sometimes you can just see it in the eyes, right?’

Ogden was in full flow now, but Helen was scarcely listening, turning to look at the hundreds of revellers who were packed into the club. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.

Helen ended the conversation and pushed through the crowds, keen to escape the din. She wanted to get back to Southampton Central, touch base with Sanderson and see if the team had made any progress. Helen had been in an optimistic frame of mind after her chat with Dennis, pleased to have a lead on the elusive Samantha at last. But now she was leaving The End of the Road empty-handed and frustrated, plagued by the feeling that Samantha was vanishing from their radar for a reason. She had vowed to get justice for Jake but she was still no closer to catching his killer.

A promising lead had just gone up in smoke.

The sweat was oozing down his forehead, creeping into his eyes. It was incredibly hot in the Zentai suit and his discomfort was increasing by the second. What had started out as a tantalizing, transgressive game was now becoming unpleasant and unnerving.

He shook his head to dislodge the sweat, but only succeeded in making himself feel dizzy. His heart was racing and the clinging material of the suit was making it hard to breathe. For a moment, he thought he might faint, something he’d never done before. That could be disastrous in a BDSM situation, so gathering himself he said:

‘Liberty.’

This was their safe word, but his voice was cracked and his resulting call weak. He wasn’t surprised she hadn’t heard it, so he said it again, louder this time.

‘Liberty.’

Still nothing. He knew she was still here – he could hear her moving. So why wasn’t she responding? It wasn’t done to tease someone in this situation. If you heard the word, you stopped everything.

‘Liberty,’ he screamed, fear suddenly getting the better of him.

He heard her moving towards him now and tears
sprang to his eyes. He was still furious with her, but if she let him go now, then … He heard something tearing now. What was that? Was she cutting him out of this suit? Cutting his bonds? Then suddenly he felt something strike his face. He jumped, shocked by the impact, and too late realized what was happening. The tearing sound had been her ripping off some duct tape – tape which she had just stuck over his mouth.

‘Let me go.’

He bellowed the words, but the tape held, muting his cry.

‘I’d love to, sweetheart, but we’ve only just begun.’

The last word was said with such emphasis that for a second Max thought he was going to vomit. Fear now mastered him completely – he suddenly realized that he had made a terrible mistake in playing her games and that because of this misjudgement he was about to die.

Charlie stifled a yawn and looked at the clock. It was nearly midnight – she had another two hours before she was relieved. If Helen wanted to punish Charlie, she was doing a good job. Steve had complained about being dragooned into emergency childcare yet again and Charlie was irritated too – with Sanderson, with Helen, but mostly with herself. When had she become so brittle? She used to be the fun, cheeky officer who everyone got on with. Now she was exhausted, short-tempered and
paranoid
. She didn’t regret starting a family for one second, but there were a lot of hidden costs that nobody told you about and she was feeling those now.

Outside, the press pack’s enthusiasm was starting to wane. It was cold and a thin drizzle floated down the street, saturating all those still out and about. Most of the journalists had retreated to their vehicles, experience teaching them that you can catch your death on a night like this. Those that remained outside were swathed in thick North Face jackets, praying that the weather would clear. They would have gone home some time ago, but for the light that stole underneath the garage door. Somebody had turned it on a while back and, as the family car was stored in there, everyone present was expecting Jackson to make a break for it.

Charlie assumed it was Paul Jackson, as she’d seen his wife head upstairs a few hours ago. The gaggle of photographers that haunted the property was hoping to grab a through-the-window shot of him fleeing his home. There was something about the angle and context of those shots that always made the subject look guilty. Editors loved them, which is why people were prepared to brave the elements to get them.

Charlie flicked through the radio stations again. If Paul Jackson was smart, he’d turn the light off and head to bed. The best way to deal with journalists was to starve them of what they craved. By hanging about he was just raising their hopes. Finding little to divert her, Charlie switched off the radio and stole another look at the clock. Ten past midnight.

Had Paul Jackson been banished to the garage? Surely not. There were plenty of bedrooms in the house, so even if his wife didn’t want anything to do with him … Charlie looked over at the garage again. Paul Jackson’s sons were elsewhere and his wife had stormed off upstairs, meaning he was in the garage alone. And had been for thirty minutes or more.

Charlie now found herself opening the door and stepping out into the rain. It settled on her face, gentle and cold, but she didn’t bother pulling her hood up as she marched towards the garage. If she was wrong, then she wouldn’t mind getting a little wet. But if she was right …

She walked straight up to the metal garage door and put her ear to it. A motorbike roared past in the road and a couple of news hacks now shouted at her, ribbing her
for doing their job for them. She waved at them to shut up but it made no difference. Furious, Charlie dropped to all fours, her knees soaking up the moisture from the ground. She placed her ear at the bottom of the metal door, where the narrowest chink allowed a little light to escape. She was listening for the sound of the engine, but it wasn’t the noise that struck her first. It was the smell.

Now Charlie was on her feet, yanking at the garage handle. But it was locked from the inside and refused to budge. She re-doubled her efforts, but still nothing.

‘Get over here now,’ she roared at the startled photographers.

The look on her face made them comply.

‘Get that open now.’

As they grappled with the door, Charlie raced up the steps. She rang the doorbell once, twice, three times, then opened the letterbox and yelled through it. There was no time for hesitation, no time for caution. This was a matter of life and death.