Little Boy Blue: DI Helen Grace 5 (A DI Helen Grace Thriller) (6 page)

Helen sped through the city streets, pleased to be away from the station. She found the incident room claustrophobic and unnerving – photos of a happy, carefree Jake staring down at her from the murder board – and there was little point being there just now. Charlie was chasing down Jake’s clients, McAndrew was leading the house-to-house calls, and until something concrete turned up she was better used elsewhere.

As she slid past the stationary traffic, Helen felt her mood rise. Perhaps it was the fresh air, or the satisfaction that riding her bike always gave her, or maybe it was just that she was finally
doing
something. Her interview with Jake’s parents had yielded nothing, so it was good to be on the road at last, taking the lead.

Jim Grieves was still poring over Jake’s body, just as Sanderson, Charlie and the team were trying to climb inside his life. The items used to imprison and kill Jake, however, were only just being examined – Meredith and her team having recently returned from the crime scene – which is why Helen’s first port of call was the Police Laboratory at Woolston.

Meredith ushered Helen into the viewing area. Lying on the table in front of them were the wet sheets, the loose
reel of silver duct tape and the leather restraints – their killer’s weapons of choice.

‘Preliminary testing on the victim’s clothing and the bondage items has shown up only one source of DNA – the victim’s. We’ll run them again, but I wouldn’t bank on anything more on that front.’

Helen nodded, disappointed but not surprised.

‘As for the rest of it, there’s nothing particularly unusual about these items. The duct tape can be bought from any hardware store and though the wet sheets and restraints are specialist gear, they’re the standard size, colour and design. They were probably bought off the shelf, rather than custom made.’

‘Had they been used before? Was this gear the perpetrator already owned?’

‘Probably not, given the lack of DNA traces. Plus, look at this.’

Meredith reached forward and picked up the leather straps, holding them up to the light. Intrigued, Helen leant in closer.

‘The hole which the buckle prong penetrated to secure the victim has been punched through cleanly. You can see the light through it.’

‘But the others haven’t,’ Helen replied, running a gloved finger over the sequence of closed holes. ‘Which suggests that last night was the first time these straps had been used.’

‘Your killer could have used them before perhaps, practised at home –’

‘But he’d have to have known exactly which hole he’d
use. And unless he correctly guessed the diameter of the victim’s ankle and the chair leg then –’

‘Exactly, so let’s assume they’re brand new. That might narrow the field down a little?’ Meredith offered hopefully.

Thanking her, Helen pulled her mobile from her pocket and headed on her way, speed-dialling Edwards back at base.

By the time she left the building, he’d already pinged her his list of local bondage outlets. And by the time she was on her bike, they’d divided up the list – split four ways between Edwards, Helen and a couple of broad-minded DCs.

It was time to take a walk on the wild side.

Sanderson sat perfectly still, as the brush caressed her cheek. As soon as Helen had asked her to lead the undercover work, her mind had been turning on how best to ingratiate herself into a scene that was utterly alien to her. She was a conventional, middle-of-the-road girl and now she wondered if she was a little bit ‘vanilla’ for the role. She was no prude, but humiliation, submission, restraint and punishment had never been part of her personal lexicon and she knew she would be on a steep learning curve. She had spent most of the day studying the scene, picking out the latest trends in the fetish world, while creating a new identity and personal history to carry into the operation.

She’d already coloured her hair and purchased the necessary bondage gear and now her good friend Hannah P. was applying the finishing touches to her face. Face painting and body art seemed to be a big part of the ‘peacocking’ that characterized a world fuelled by fantasy and role-playing. If she was honest with herself, it made her feel more relaxed, concealing her true identity beneath brightly coloured paint. If she could forget herself, she could more easily become her alter ego. And that was crucial for the task that lay ahead.

It was not just that she wanted to appear convincing
to elicit information from those attending the ‘Munch’ this evening. It was also a question of safety. Their perpetrator had already proven to be without mercy or scruple, proficient and artful in taking another’s life. Sanderson was not easily scared, she could handle herself, but she knew she was out of her comfort zone here. This was the sharp end of the job.

Hannah had finished her work and now presented Sanderson with a mirror. Her older, more bohemian twin stared back at her. It was a good look and would serve her well tonight. Now was not a time for trepidation. If she could fashion a break in the case, it would play well with Helen. She’d always looked up to her superior, admiring her dedication, professionalism and bravery, and had felt well placed to be her deputy. Now, though, there was competition and if she was honest she feared that the personal connection between Helen and Charlie would hold her back. The only way to counter this was to prove to her boss that she was first among equals, the officer best suited to be her deputy. Which was why tonight was so important.

Thanking Hannah P. once more, Sanderson swept up her phone and keys, before sliding her baton carefully into her suit. She was ready and there was no point putting it off. It was now or never.

Paul Jackson was between meetings and resentful of Charlie’s intrusion. He was a manager at the Shirley branch of Santander – a position of some responsibility – and was clearly embarrassed by her presence. His eyes kept flicking to the clock and his answers – when they came – were brief.

‘So just to confirm, that phone number – 07768 057374 – belongs to you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you had your phone with you last night?’

‘I think so.’

‘Can I ask where you were? Between the hours of ten p.m. and two a.m.?’

There was a moment’s pause, before Jackson responded:

‘I went for a drink after work. Watched the football. Then went home.’

‘Oh, right, who was playing?’

Another slight hesitation, then:

‘Saints versus Watford. Easy win.’

‘And which pub was this?’

‘The Saracen’s Head, near the hospital.’

‘Bit out of your way, isn’t it?’

‘There are pubs closer to the office, but the beer’s better there, so …’

‘And you went with colleagues?’

‘No, I went by myself.’

‘Right,’ Charlie replied, making a note on her pad. ‘And what time would you say you got home?’

‘A little after midnight, I think.’

‘That’s pretty late for a school night, isn’t it?’ Charlie replied, smiling.

For the first time, Jackson seemed lost for words.

‘Is it usual for you to be out that late?’ she continued.

‘Not really, but it’s not one of those pubs where they kick you out after last orders.’

‘Lock in, was it?’

‘Something like that.’

‘I didn’t realize they did those on Tuesday nights.’

She smiled once more, but Jackson only gave her a tight grimace. He was nervous and uncomfortable and his answers were a little too stiff for Charlie’s liking. There could be a perfectly innocent explanation – most people tensed up as soon as they saw a warrant card – but Charlie suspected that was not the case here. Fortunately there was one surefire way to find out.

‘Your phone number has come up in our investigation into the death of Jake Elder. His body was found in the early hours of this morning at a nightclub in Banister Park. You probably heard the headlines on the radio.’

Jackson nodded, but said nothing.

‘A series of messages were sent to Mr Elder from your phone. Snapchat messages organizing appointments with him –’

‘I didn’t send any messages.’

‘So you don’t know Mr Elder?’

Jackson shook his head.

‘Have you ever visited the Torture Rooms?’

‘No,’ Jackson replied quickly. ‘I’d never even heard of them until this morning.’

‘And you’ve never used Mr Elder’s services?’

‘Of course not.’

‘No contact with him whatsoever?’

‘No.’

‘Ok then, I know you’re a busy man, so I’ll get out of your hair …’

Charlie could see the relief on Jackson’s face.

‘But, before I do, I would be grateful if you’d consent to provide a DNA sample. Just so we can strike your name off our list.’

‘Clearly my phone has been cloned or someone at your end has cocked up. As I’ve said, I didn’t know the guy, I’ve never met him –’

‘I know this seems intrusive, but as we’ve established that you were out last night and were in the vicinity of the club in question, we’ll need to eliminate you from our enquiries and, believe me, this is the quickest way to do that.’

‘I’m not sure. I’m already late for my next meet—’

‘It is your right to refuse, but we could later compel you to provide one. So what do you say? I’ve got a swab here. It will only take a few hours to process and that will be that. All being well, I’ll never darken your door again.’

Keeping up her breezy patter, Charlie pulled the swab
tube from her bag. Jackson stared at her, saying nothing. Before, he looked angry, now he just looked empty. He seemed determined to resist, to try and pretend this wasn’t happening, but Charlie had done this many times before and knew that insistent good humour often overcomes the fiercest of objections. If you give them nothing to argue with, they have nowhere to run.

Which is why, despite his unmistakable hostility, Paul Jackson now opened his mouth. Slipping the swab in, Charlie extracted the necessary skin cells and sealed them in the clear plastic tube.

‘That’s me done. Thank you for your time,’ she said, shaking Paul Jackson’s hand and heading for the door.

Moments later, Charlie was out of the foyer and walking fast away from the building. As she went, she chanced a look back. Her suspicions had been raised by her interview and she wasn’t surprised by what she now saw.

Paul Jackson staring right back at her through the window.

‘I’m not a snooper, but when it’s paraded under your nose, what can you do?’

DC McAndrew sighed inwardly, but smiled as she took the cup of tea being offered to her. She had been knocking on doors all afternoon, working her way up and down Jake Elder’s street. Elder was not a man who got involved in community events and he was seldom seen by other homeowners during the day. So far she had amassed precious little information about Elder or his activities. Now she expected she was about to get rather too much.

She was seated in Maurice Finnan’s front room. His wife had passed away some years back but the ‘good room’ was still spick and span, in keeping with the standards the dear departed Geraldine had laid down. Pristine sofas, startling white lace, a faux Persian rug – the whole room had the air of a museum piece. It was the sort of set-up that made the naturally clumsy McAndrew nervous. A tea spillage here might herald the apocalypse.

‘They were coming and going all hours and they weren’t social calls, if you get my drift,’ he insinuated knowingly.

‘I see. Anyone in particular catch your eye?’

‘Not really,’ he replied. ‘They don’t come dressed up, you know? They’re just ordinary-looking people – probably lawyers, accountants and the like. I imagine that kind of thing always attracts people with a guilty conscience.’

He winked at McAndrew, clearly pleased to have a young female to perform to. McAndrew sensed that Maurice was probably lonely and reminded herself not to judge him too harshly.

‘Ever see Mr Elder with any boyfriends? Girlfriends?’

‘Confused, was he?’ Maurice retorted. ‘Not really. There was a fella a few months back – tall chap, with short, chestnut hair, barrel-chested – but he didn’t last long. Funny thing is I seldom saw
him
– this Jake, I mean – just his visitors going in and out. Quiet as you like during the day, but as soon as darkness fell you’d see them traipsing up to his front door. Three, four, sometimes more in a night. Say what you like about him, he was a hard worker.’

McAndrew smiled and this time it was genuine – despite his curtain twitching, verbosity and fastidiousness, Maurice had a nice sense of humour.

‘I never worked out exactly what he did for them, though if you’re as old as me you can hazard a guess. It was all very discreet, but they always came and went on the hour, see? Doesn’t take much imagination, does it?’

McAndrew was about to butt in, but Maurice beat her to the punch once more.

‘Each to their own, that’s always been my motto. But we’ve all got to live around here, haven’t we? Kids,
pensioners, mums and dads. And you don’t know who a place like that will attract. Then there’s the house prices. Soon as it becomes common knowledge that you’ve got a brothel next door – Sorry, love, am I boring you?’

McAndrew realized her gaze had drifted out of the window towards Jake’s flat. Snapping out of it, she turned to Maurice once more.

‘Not at all.’

‘You’re very sweet, but you’re not a good liar and I know you’re busy. Now I did jot down a few number plates in case the police should ever get around to doing anything about it, let me see if I can find them …’

He hurried over to the dresser. McAndrew thanked him, grateful that her time here hadn’t been completely wasted. It was tough doing door-to-doors – ‘hit-and-hopes’ – when you knew the real police work was going on elsewhere.

‘Right, let’s start at the beginning – this was from March 2013,’ Maurice said cheerfully, seating himself and opening his large notebook at the first page.

McAndrew sighed again. Perhaps Maurice had important information for the investigation. Perhaps he didn’t. Either way, one thing was clear – she was going to be here for a long, long time.