M. Arlidge - Little Boy Blue

She had never been a good loser and perhaps it was payback time. Helen Grace had kept her on a short leash for a while, but the boot was on the other foot now. Had Grace confessed her knowledge of the victim to her team? Was that why she wasn’t present? Or had she kept her secret close? Emilia intended to find out. Journalists always love an exclusive and this story – ‘the copper and the bondage freak’ – was going to be the best scoop she’d ever had.

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.