M. Arlidge - Little Boy Blue

‘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.