Little Boy Blue: DI Helen Grace 5 (A DI Helen Grace Thriller) (4 page)

Helen walked back to her Kawasaki, lost in thought. Barring one occasion, she had only ever encountered Jake in his professional guise. They had met at his flat, where the lighting was dim and conversation kept to a minimum. Over time they had got to know each other better, but they were still playing roles during their sessions and Helen now realized how little she knew her friend. She had certainly never seen him as she had this morning – naked and unadorned, under the powerful glare of the mortuary lights.

She’d remembered that he had an eagle’s head tattooed on his neck, but had never asked him what it signified. She knew he didn’t speak to his parents, but had never asked who they were or where Jake was brought up. She knew he had an eye for the boys as well as the girls, but didn’t know which came first or whether he was looking for the same things as everyone else – commitment, security, a family. She wished now that she had asked more questions of someone she considered a true friend.

He had in the past thought of her as more than that. During the Ben Foster case, Jake had taken to following Helen, such was the level of his romantic obsession with her. She had put a stop to that, cutting off their
relationship for a while, and to her surprise it had worked. When they had last met, by chance in a city centre bar, he’d been seriously dating a guy he’d recently met. He seemed happy and together, so much so that when he texted Helen a few months later, asking if she wanted to resume their sessions, she’d been sorely tempted. In the end, caution had won out, however, and she’d made alternative arrangements, keen to avoid messy emotional entanglements. But she still often thought of him.

Could the boyfriend be involved? It would be interesting to find out the status of their relationship and whether he frequented the Torture Rooms too. Had their romance been one long seduction, building up to this savage murder? It was tempting to head round to Jake’s flat now, tear it apart in the hunt for concrete leads, but to do so without an official ID of the victim would be foolish in the extreme. It was agonizing to have to wait – it felt like she was deliberately letting his killer off the hook – but she knew Jake had been picked up for drugs offences previously and that, once his tissue samples had been processed, his identity would be swiftly established.

Then the investigation would begin in earnest. The thought cheered and chilled Helen in equal measure. She knew her team would leave no stone unturned in their hunt for Jake’s killer, but what might their interrogation of Jake’s life mean for her? Had he kept records of their meetings? Any tokens of her? Had she left her mark on him? It was over two years since she’d used his
services, but it was very possible that gaining justice for Jake would result in her exposure.

Part of her wanted to run from this, but her better part knew she had to run
towards
it. Whatever the possible consequences for her, she had to find his killer. She owed that – and a whole lot more – to her old friend. So climbing on to her bike, she fired up the engine and kicked away the brake. Her heart was thumping, she felt sick to her stomach, but there was no point delaying the inevitable, so, pulling back the throttle, she sped away from the mortuary in the direction of Southampton Central.

Detective Superintendent Jonathan Gardam stood by his office window, looking out at the world. It was not the finest view Southampton had to offer, but it afforded him a discreet vantage point on the station’s car park below.

Helen Grace had just arrived and was now dismounting her bike. She was a creature of habit, always choosing the same spot, always removing her helmet and leathers in the same precise order. Whether this was driven by logic or superstition, Gardam couldn’t tell. He knew that her passion for motorbikes was a legacy of her childhood – in one unguarded moment she had confessed to stealing mopeds as a teenager – but beyond that he knew little. The inner workings of her mind were as much a mystery to him as they always had been.

So he watched her from afar. He had a pretty good idea of her routine now – when she went to the gym, when she went running – and he timed his arrival at the station to coincide with hers. He would be stationed at his window by the time she walked away from her bike, running her fingers through her long hair to breathe new life into it after its temporary constraint. She was always so focused on the business in hand that she never looked up, never clocked his face at the window. He
often wondered how she would react if she did. Would she be alarmed to see him there or would she offer him a smile and carry on? He had pictured the situation many times and in his head it was always the latter.

She was later than usual today, following an early-morning trip to the mortuary. Gardam had had to delay his first meeting by half an hour, so he could be in place to receive her. It had put his PA in a mood, but it had been worth it – Helen looked particularly beguiling this morning. She was unfailingly attractive – he had always been captivated by her Amazonian figure, pale skin and fuck-you attitude – but as he’d got to know her better, he had seen a deeper beauty. There was a vulnerability there that was hidden from all except those closest to her. This fragile quality was very much in evidence today. Pale, distracted, deep in thought, his best DI looked utterly haunted.

Gardam pressed his fingers to the glass. As so often these days, he wanted to reach out and comfort her. But she remained beyond his reach. He hoped in time to change that, but for now all he could do was watch.

This was better than she could possibly have imagined. She had heard the stories about the Torture Rooms before of course, but had never had the inclination – or the bottle perhaps – to investigate further. Seeing the club now for the first time, she felt a surge of excitement – you couldn’t have dreamt up a better backdrop for a gruesome murder. The moral majority out there would hoover this up, scared and titillated in equal measure.

Emilia pulled out her Nikon and got to work, snapping the exotic instruments of torture and restraint. Her time here was limited and she knew she had to work fast. Gaining access had been harder than usual – the manager and most of the bartenders had gone to ground – so she’d had to track down the security company who usually provided the muscle on the doors. The first two guys she’d contacted had told her to sling her hook, but the third one was twice divorced, with a drinker’s thirst, and needed the money.

‘You can have twenty minutes, but that’s it. I need this job and I’m not going to get fired on your account.’

Emilia had agreed, knowing that once she was in there, she could push it to half an hour. Once people have your money in their pocket, they become a bit less grand.

Having photographed the dance floor area, she headed swiftly down the corridor to the crime scene. But it was taped up and the door firmly secured. So, feigning a weak bladder, Emilia scurried back down the corridor, making her way to the small box room at the back that served as the club’s office.

The room was nearly bare – a decrepit desk, a small filing cabinet and naked light bulb. Emilia got to work, but the drawers were empty, the files uninteresting, and there was little here to detain her. Emilia cursed – this visit wasn’t proving quite as fruitful as she’d hoped.

As she turned to leave, her attention was caught by the photos that decorated the walls of the poky office. They were of past events – balls, fashion shows, photo shoots – that had been held in the club. They were full of exotically dressed revellers and deserved her careful attention.

‘Gary, can you come in here a second?’ Emilia shouted.

Moments later, he entered the office, looking flustered and annoyed.

‘What you doing in here? I said front of house and the back corridor only.’

‘I got lost,’ Emilia said, smiling sweetly, ‘but now that I’m here, could you take a look at these?’

She gestured towards the photos on the wall. But her partner in crime was already backing off.

‘We’re already over time as it is.’

‘You saw the victim, right?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Either you did or you didn’t.’

‘His face was taped up, but I knew the fella from the
way he was dressed. Can’t tell you his name – we always used to call him “Twinkletoes” because of the gold boots he wore –’

‘Look at these photos then and tell me if you see him.’

‘No way. We need to be going –’

‘You’ve had good money out of me, now you have to earn it. I know Sean Blakeman’s mobile number,’ she continued, lying, ‘it would only take a minute for me to put you back on benefits.’

Grumbling, Gary pulled some reading glasses from his top pocket. Emilia suppressed a smile as he perched the owlish glasses on the fleshy folds of his red face. He really did make a comical sight.

‘There. That’s the fella.’

His finger was now pointing towards a figure on a podium who was dressed in gold lamé shorts and posing for the photographer. Emilia shot a look at the photo frame – ‘Annual Ball 2013’ – and moved in for a closer look. The man in the photo was half naked, muscular and seemingly having a very enjoyable time.

‘But I’ve no idea who he is and you won’t get anything more out of me today,’ the burly bouncer added.

‘No need,’ Emilia said, straightening up. ‘I know exactly who he is.’

Her guide was stupefied for a moment, before replying:

‘Who? Who is he?’

Emilia was already walking to the door, but turned now. Smiling coyly, she answered:

‘Read the paper tomorrow and you’ll find out.’

‘The victim’s name is Jake Elder.’

Helen’s voice held firm. It was the first time the full team had gathered together and she was determined not to reveal her distress to them, despite the emotions that churned inside her. She
had
to be strong.

‘Forty-one years of age, he’s been living in Southampton for the last fifteen years. His DNA matched samples taken following an arrest for possession of a Class B drug three years ago. He’s got a couple of other charges on his file – nothing major, but we should chase them down anyway. See if he owed anyone any money, whether he was consorting with known dealers. DC Lucas, can you coordinate that?’

‘Of course.’

‘His family have been informed and are on their way over from Taunton now. I’ll field them, but in the meantime I want us to climb inside our victim’s life. Did he have a boyfriend or girlfriend? Was he invited to last night’s ball by anyone? The victim had fresh saliva on his cheek – was it left there by a companion or by someone more casual? Also, it appears from his online activity that Elder was a professional dominator. Who did he meet? Who were his regular clients? Let’s interrogate his phone records, email, bank accounts, credit card statements …’

The team were busy scribbling down Helen’s instructions, so she paused now to gather herself. It was strange and unsettling to be talking about Jake as if he were a total stranger, to be deliberately withholding vital information from the team. Helen took a deep breath, before continuing:

‘Jake Elder lived his life online and via his phone – he is not your usual office worker. So check his web history, the chat rooms he used, his text messages, Snapchats, his Twitter followers …’

‘Do we think he was specifically targeted?’ DS Sanderson piped up.

‘Impossible to say, which is why we have to dig,’ Helen resumed evenly. ‘His killer may have a personal motive or Elder might just have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. There are numerous DNA traces at the scene of the crime – cigarette butts, items of clothing, discarded fetish gear. We’ll need to run them all down, but I’d like us also to pay particular attention to the equipment our killer employed. You can’t buy wet sheets and panic shears in your local Tesco’s – they are specialist equipment with only one purpose. So let’s contact local bondage retailers – I’d like a list of all outlets situated within a twenty-mile radius of Southampton. Many of these operations are online only, meaning you
have
to pay with a credit card. So let’s interrogate their transactions, find out who’s been buying this stuff. Edwards, are you good for this?’

‘It’s my natural home,’ the handsome young officer replied, earning a few wry smiles from the rest of the team.

‘Let’s also make ourselves visible in the immediate environs of the club,’ Helen carried on, ignoring Edwards’s joke. ‘People heading to the Torture Rooms presumably cab it, rather than taking the bus. Find out if the local cabbies saw anything. Our victim was probably killed sometime between midnight and one a.m. – we should follow up on anyone seen leaving the club around this time, particularly if they appeared distressed or agitated.’

‘Perhaps they stayed to party?’ Lucas interjected.

‘Possibly, but we’ve got a lot of lines to run and my instinct is that they would probably try to leave the scene before the body was discovered. But you’re right, we should rule nothing out.’

Helen paused, picking up a file from the desk. She was finally getting into her stride, but the most difficult part was yet to come.

‘Alongside this, I want us to look at mummification.’

A ripple of nervous laughter spread through the team.

‘Also known as total-enclosure fetishism. It’s at the extreme end of the S&M spectrum and involves somebody getting a sexual kick from being completely reliant on another for their liberty, their movement, even their life.’

Visions of Jake – bound and taped – punched through Helen’s mind. Flicking through her file to buy herself a moment, Helen swallowed and pressed on:

‘There are many different ways to do it – straitjackets, wet sheets, bandages, rubber strips – but one thing that’s
crucial to every method is
trust
. You have to trust the person doing it to you or you wouldn’t even start –’

‘So he
knew
his attacker?’ Charlie suggested.

‘It’s very possible. There are S&M groups who meet regularly to discuss, socialize and occasionally play. Their meets are called “Munches”. I want us to investigate them, see what we can dig up about the scene. Have there been similar incidents that we haven’t heard about? Is there anyone out there who is known for taking things too far? I don’t think a head-on attack is going to work, so I’ll be looking for a volunteer for undercover work.’

More nervous laughter, but as Lucas jokily tried to raise Edwards’s arm against his will, Sanderson stepped forward:

‘I’d like to take this, unless anyone objects?’ she said firmly, scanning the team for dissenters.

‘Thank you,’ Helen replied quickly. ‘Run down a list of forthcoming meets and then let’s discuss which ones to target.’

‘I’ll have it for you within the hour.’

‘Good.’

Helen paused, her ordeal nearly over, then said:

‘I don’t need to tell you how much coverage this murder is likely to get. So no talking out of school, no short cuts and any leads come
straight
to me. We do not rest until we have found Jake Elder’s killer, understood?’

The look on the faces of the team showed that they had got the message and they now hurried off to do her bidding. Helen was aware that her tone had been a little harsh, but she was not prepared to soft-soap anyone
while they still lacked any tangible leads. The investigation was starting to take shape now – the victim identified, multiple strands of enquiry set in motion – but there was one key element of this killing that remained as impenetrable and mysterious as ever.

The motive.