Little Boy Blue: DI Helen Grace 5 (A DI Helen Grace Thriller) (7 page)

‘Don’t tell me. Let me guess. I’ve got a talent for these things.’

Helen said nothing. She had just spent a dispiriting couple of hours trawling industrial estates and wasn’t in the mood for games. Two of the businesses on her section of the list had gone into liquidation, another had refused to talk without a lawyer and two more were dead ends, with nothing in their recent transactions that fitted the bill.

‘I look at you and I see … nipple clamps, bondage mitts and perhaps a cock cage for that special someone in your life,’ the bearded man drawled.

‘Well, feast your eyes on this,’ Helen replied, flipping open her warrant card. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’

‘You’ll get nothing out of me without a warrant.’

They were seated on cardboard boxes in the back office. In truth it was little more than a storeroom, but Steven Fincher clearly felt it was his turf and was determined to press home the advantage.

‘If that’s the way you want to play it, that’s fine,’ Helen replied. ‘But your lack of cooperation suggests to me that you have something to hide.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘And any formal investigation of your affairs would necessarily be quite wide-ranging. I take it you’re up to date with your tax returns, national insurance and so on …’

Fincher’s eyes narrowed, but he kept his counsel.

‘So perhaps it would be easier all round, if you just do as I ask. Do you have an up-to-date list of recent transactions?’

‘Of course. This is a legitimate business.’

‘I’m very glad to hear it. And I take it you sell these items: wet sheets, leather restraints, duct tape?’

‘Of course.’

‘Have you sold any of those items within the last three months? Either individually or as a package?’

Grumbling, Fincher opened a nearby box file and pulled a tea-stained ledger from it. Helen watched him closely as he ran his finger down the columns. Edwards hadn’t had any joy in his search; neither had the other DCs – they were fast running out of options here.

‘This
might
be it,’ Fincher said cautiously.

‘Go on.’

‘Three wet sheets, blue, two tan leather restraints with gold buckles and a roll of silver duct tape.’

Helen nodded, concealing the excitement rising within her. She had been deliberately vague in her description of the items so far, but Fincher had just described the murder weapons in perfect detail.

‘Were they bought in store?’

‘No, delivery.’

‘Do
you know the name of the courier company who delivered them?’

‘Course I bloody do. It was me.’

‘So you saw him?’ Helen said quickly. ‘The person you delivered them to?’

‘No. The house was derelict. But it was definitely the right address and the order form had instructions to post through the letter box if no one was at home. I never heard any more about it, so I assumed everything was ok …’

‘How did he pay for them?’ Helen asked further, her tone hard with disappointment.

‘Credit card.’

‘And do you still have those details?’

‘Sure,’ Fincher replied, rummaging around in another box file. ‘I’ve got the card number, the cardholder’s name and’ – he pulled a transaction receipt from the box with a flourish – ‘I’ve got his home address too.’

‘Who is this? What do you want?’

Emilia suppressed a smile. It was still early in Los Angeles and David Simons sounded bleary and half awake. His cracked voice and faltering speech suggested that he’d probably been out half the night. That wasn’t ideal – he might still be drunk or high and was more liable to get emotional – but the key thing was to get to him before the police did. They would have been trying to contact him, but they were spread thin over what was already shaping up to be a major investigation. Simons was a freelance cameraman, whose website had all the relevant contact details, and she’d had his mobile number on repeat dial since early afternoon. It had been going to voicemail for hours, but finally he had turned his phone on and she had struck gold.

‘My name is Emilia Garanita. I’m a journalist.’

‘Is this about the film? You need to talk to someone in the publici—’

‘No, it’s about Jake Elder. I was wondering if you’d heard the news?’

Silence on the end. Emilia could picture the groggy Simons sitting up in bed, trying to process what he’d just heard.

‘What news?’ Simons eventually said.

‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this … but Jake was killed last night.’

‘I don’t understand. Is this a joke?’

‘It’s a lot to take in and you have my sincere condolences. I know you and he were very close.’

Another long silence. Simons’s breathing was short and erratic.

‘Killed how?’

‘He was murdered. At a nightclub called the Torture Rooms in Southampton. Do you know it?’

The first teaser question to see if he was going to lie to her.

‘Yes, I know it. But I still don’t understand. Was he involved in some kind of fight?’

‘No, nothing like that.’

‘Was it an accident? Did something go wrong?’

Even with the line as echoing as this was, Emilia heard the wobble in David Simons’s voice.

‘It looks like he was murdered. And, like everybody else, we’re just trying to work out why. Can I ask when you last saw him?’

‘Jesus … I … this is hard to take in.’

‘I know and I’m sorry to be the bearer of such dreadful news. But I thought you’d want to know straight away.’

‘Why? Who are you?’

‘I work for a newspaper here, but I also knew Jake. Given how close you were to him, I thought you’d want to be told.’

Another long silence.

‘Now I’m sure you’ll want to get back here, but that’ll probably mean you missing out on some work, not to mention the cost of the flight from LA, so I was going to suggest that we pick up your expenses.’

‘I’m not sure …’

‘And all I’d want in return is ten minutes of your time now. What do you say?’

The deal was already done – she could sense he wanted to talk, wanted to find out more about what had happened to his ex. Emilia made all the right noises, adopting a consoling tone and offering her condolences, all the while revelling in the doublespeak of it all. She said she was sorry to be the bearer of bad news but the truth was very different.

There was something exhilarating about being the harbinger of death.

‘I haven’t seen your face before.’

The man, dressed from head to toe in black leather, gripped Sanderson’s chin, turning her head this way now that to admire her painted face.

‘I’m new to town.’

‘And what do we call you, new-to-town?’

‘Rose.’

‘A rose with thorns, no doubt. Come this way, I’ll introduce you to the others …’

The burly man led Sanderson down a long corridor. The light sockets hung down from the ceiling without bulbs and only a couple of weak wall lights rescued the pair of them from total darkness. Sanderson was pleased to feel the hard steel of her baton on her flank, as they walked further and further away from the light.

They soon reached another door. Her companion – who’d introduced himself as Dennis – knocked on it and moments later a hatch in the door slid open.

‘Fresh meat,’ Dennis said, a thin grin on his face. Moments later, the door swung open and they hurried inside. Sanderson wondered if her mobile phone would work in here, especially as they now seemed to be heading down to some kind of basement, but she didn’t dare look at her phone. Dennis’s eyes were glued to her.

The Munch convened minutes later. Fifteen committed sado-masochists, hunched round in a circle, enjoying the subversion and secrecy of their gathering. Normally they would have been discussing best erotic practice and comparing case notes, but today there was only one topic of conversation. Less than twenty-four hours had elapsed since Jake’s death but it had sent shock waves through the community.

Dennis sat Sanderson next to him, acting as her friend and sponsor, despite having only ‘known’ her for a few minutes. She had contacted him via a website – ‘The Brother
Hood
’ – and after a few exploratory messages he’d sent her a curt email including an address and time. She’d turned up five minutes early – time enough to check that her backup team was in place – then rang the bell for admission. Dennis had stuck close to her the whole time and Sanderson wondered if he did this to all new members or whether there was something special about her.

‘Bloke I know from Bevois Mount had a similar thing happen to him,’ a guy who appeared to be dressed as a satyr was saying. ‘Took a bloke home he hardly knew. The guy taped him up and robbed him blind.’

‘There was a girl I knew – right vicious little bitch she was,’ added his female neighbour, covered head to toe in PVC, apart from webbing at the crotch. ‘Used to advertise for partners, but as soon as they turned up, her boyfriend and his mates set on them. Beat a couple of people half to death.’

‘One person you don’t want to mess with is my ex,’
said another, to general agreement. ‘You get him on the wrong night, he’d kill you as soon as look at you. If he wasn’t doing a two-stretch, I’d have said this was him.’

‘This is different though, right?’ Sanderson piped up, dismissing all these suggestions out of hand. ‘I think it was a hate crime.’

‘No,’ Dennis countered quickly, ‘if it was a hate crime they’d have been more explicit. They’d be all over social media now talking about poofs, freaks –’

‘What then?’ Sanderson countered.

‘This is someone
within
the community, someone who’s into Edge Play.’

The thought was clearly not a welcome one and an angry debate now ensued. Sanderson said very little, glad of the cover the argument gave her. She knew Edge Play was at the extreme end of the BDSM spectrum, pushing the supplicant almost to the brink of death by starving them of oxygen, but she knew little more than that and was not keen to be drawn into the discussion.

‘Do you have anyone in mind?’ Sanderson butted in. ‘You seem to know a lot about it.’

The comment was directed at Dennis with just enough mischief in her tone to provoke a response.

‘Well,
I
was at home,’ Dennis replied, pretending to bridle at the insinuation. ‘My mother had had a funny turn, so you can count me out.’

There followed a few minutes’ discussion about the welfare of Dennis’s mother. Sanderson hid her frustration as best she could, waiting for a chance to steer the conversation back to where she needed it to be.

‘Well, I won’t be taking any risks until I know what’s going on,’ she said, as the conversation once more hit a lull.

‘Like the rough stuff, do you, honey?’ chipped in the PVC enthusiast.

‘Not as much as Dennis, here,’ she said leadingly, raising another half-smile from her new friend. ‘Come on, you know the scene. Help a girl out who’s new to town. I don’t want to run into trouble the first time I hit the scene proper.’

Dennis thought about it for a moment, then said:

‘There was one person. Everyone likes to push things a bit, but this one was cruel. Proper messed up, in and out of therapy, drugs, pills, didn’t know if it was Christmas or Tuesday half the time. I’ve only ever been scared once in my life … and that was it.’

‘Who was it?’ Sanderson replied, keeping her voice neutral. ‘Don’t tease us, Dennis.’

He looked straight at her, then at the assembled throng, then back to Sanderson again.

‘I’d love to share, but I’d need to trust you a little better first. And trust has to be
earnt
, doesn’t it, Rosie?’ he said, as fourteen pairs of eyes turned towards Sanderson. ‘So why don’t you tell us your story?’

‘I show you mine, if you show me yours?’

‘Something like that. And why not start from the very beginning,’ he continued, reclining in his seat. ‘I want to know
all
about you.’

Helen stood on the doorstep, pulling her coat around her in an attempt to keep warm. The sun had dropped from the sky and the air temperature had dipped sharply. Helen could see her breath dance in front of her, as she pressed the doorbell for a third time.

The credit card used to purchase Jake’s instruments of torture belonged to Lynn Picket, a single mum living in a council house in Totton. The first couple of rings had gone unanswered, but Helen could now hear someone coming to the door and braced herself for what was to come.

‘Do I look like I use that kind of stuff?’

Helen was now in Lynn’s living room, balancing on the edge of a sofa that had seen better days. It was clearly not the best time to have called round – Lynn had three children, all of whom appeared to be in varying stages of outrage, distress or meltdown – but Helen was not going to be put off by this or Lynn’s blustering response. She knew bondage practitioners came in all shapes and sizes.

‘Well, I don’t,’ sniffed Lynn. ‘I don’t have the time and I don’t have the money.’

‘Do you have a computer, Lynn?’

‘No, I bloody don’t.’

‘Tablet?’

‘I’ve got a Chrome book that the kids use. If you want to take a look at it, be my guest. But all they use it for is watching CBeebies. There’s nothing like
this
on it,’ she said, looking at the list of S&M purchases Helen had given her.

‘What about a smartphone?’

‘Course, who doesn’t? Knock yourself out.’

She tossed Helen her phone. It was badly dented and the screen was cracked.

‘So you’re sure you didn’t purchase these items?’

‘I know what I have and haven’t bought. Besides, I don’t even know what half these things are. What’s a wet sheet for God’s sake? It sounds like something I’d use to wipe my little girl’s bum …’

‘Does anyone else have access to your credit card?’ Helen interrupted. ‘Boyfriends, family, friends …’

‘No, I wouldn’t let it out of my sight. And I certainly wouldn’t trust a fella with it.’

‘Do you shop online?’

‘Yes, I do, but not on sites like that and if you don’t believe me you can see my statements. I’ve got them going back three, four years, maybe more.’

She bustled out of the room to get them, leaving Helen alone. Helen flicked through her phone search history, but in truth she was going through the motions. She believed Lynn. Which meant that someone had cloned her credit card.

It was an alarming thought, suggesting a level of
criminal sophistication that Helen hadn’t been expecting. Their killer was clearly no amateur – he was methodical, tech savvy and adept at covering his tracks. Which made Helen wonder what his game plan was exactly – and what this elusive killer might do next.