M. Arlidge - Little Boy Blue

‘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.

Charlie’s eyes were glued to the house. Paul Jackson had left the bank just as the sun was setting and Charlie had followed him. To her surprise, this proved far more difficult than usual – Jackson was on a bike, so she was constantly in danger of losing him in the busy city centre traffic. But something told Charlie it would be worth the effort, so she’d stuck with it, following him all the way home. They hadn’t had the results of his DNA sample back yet, but Jackson had lied to her – Charlie was sure of that – and he had clearly been rattled by her visit.

Charlie stifled a yawn and pulled the last Dorito from the bag. It was pushing midnight now – she had been here over four hours already – and so far she had little to show for her patience. Jackson had returned home, greeted his wife, then sat down to dinner in front of the TV. They had remained together until just after 10 p.m., when Jackson had taken himself off upstairs. No lights came on at the front of the house, so Charlie had decided to walk round the block. The houses round here had long gardens, and by clambering on to a bin in the adjacent street Charlie could see a light burning in a small room at the back of the house. Was it a study of some kind? Attic storage? What was he doing there?

Charlie lingered there for twenty minutes, but it was cold tonight and as the pubs began to empty, she’d abandoned her position and returned to the comparative warmth of her Renault Twingo. Minutes later, she’d been rewarded with the sight of Paul Jackson returning to the front room once more, kissing his wife goodnight as she headed off to bed. Jackson stayed where he was, watching the TV, but occasionally casting a glance upstairs.