M. Arlidge - Little Boy Blue

‘Mr Jackson has confirmed that he didn’t know Mr Elder and can’t account for the DNA samples we found on the victim’s face.’

Spitz looked relieved that no serious damage had been done.

‘I’d now like to ask your client about his phone history. I’m showing Mr Jackson a black iPhone. Can you confirm that this is yours?’

Jackson nodded.

‘For the tape, please, Mr Jackson.’

‘Yes.’

‘When we spoke yesterday,’ Charlie interjected, ‘you said that you’d never contacted Mr Elder via email, message, phone -’

‘Correct.’

‘Yet dozens of Snapchat messages were sent from this device to Mr Elder. I have the dates of some of them here’ – Charlie pulled a sheet of paper from her file – ‘August the tenth, August the fourteenth, September the first, September the sixth, September the fourteenth. The list goes on.’

‘I didn’t send them. The phone must have been cloned or something -’

‘It’s curious though that the gap in messages in the second half of August coincides with the dates that you and your wife were on holiday in Santorini. The data roaming charges on your account give us a pretty good picture of your movements and, of course, we’re double-checking this with Sally as we speak.’

For the first time since they’d started, Helen saw Jackson react. Clearly he was not keen on his wife being dragged into this.

‘Furthermore, we’ve had a chance to look at some of the other messages and texts you sent from this phone. And it’s interesting that the same grammatical tics that we see in your texts also crop up in the Snapchat messages that Mr Elder received. You always seem to leave a gap between a word and a question mark, for example, and you’re pretty scrupulous about using commas. Not everyone is as fastidious in their messaging these days.’

It was said with a smile, but provoked a blank response from Jackson.

‘This is all circumstantial,’ Spitz butted in. ‘Do you have any actual evidence against my client?’

‘Apart from the DNA evidence, you mean?’ Helen rejoined. ‘I should point out that no other DNA was found on the victim, hence our interest in talking to your client.’

Helen let that settle before continuing.

‘I’d like now to move on to your movements on the night of the fourteenth. You told my colleague that you left work at seven p.m. and went for a drink at the Saracen’s Head.’

Jackson said nothing. He appeared to be waiting for Helen’s next move before committing himself.

‘That’s strange, because your phone was transmitting in the Banister Park area of the city – very near to the Torture Rooms – at around eight p.m. that night and again at just after twelve thirty a.m. the following morning. I’m assuming that in the interim you were in the basement club and thus out of reception?’

‘I don’t know anything about the Torture Rooms or Banister Park. Somebody’s obviously messed up -’

‘Yet another mistake, you do seem to be unlucky…’

‘I went to the Saracen’s Head, I watched the game, had a few drinks -’

‘Why the Saracen’s Head, out of interest? You work in Lansdowne Hill, you live in Freemantle. Going to a pub near the hospital seems an excessive diversion.’

‘For God’s sake, I like the beer there, so -’

‘What beer do they serve?’

‘Shepherd Neame, I think… Adnams, a couple of local brews.’

‘Actually they haven’t served Shepherd Neame in over two years,’ Charlie interjected. ‘I went there yesterday afternoon, spoke to the bar staff. Nobody remembers seeing you there on Tuesday night. In fact, I couldn’t find a single person to back up your version of events.’

Spitz looked at his client, hoping for more defiance, but none was forthcoming. Helen took over, adopting a more emollient tone.

‘I know you’re in a fix here, Paul. You’re thinking of Sally, of the twins, of what this will do to them. But lying won’t help. We have firm evidence you knew Jake and were active on the S &M scene. Your phone places you near the scene of the crime, yours is the only DNA on the body and I have no doubt that one of those present at the Torture Rooms will positively ID you as having been there that night. So let’s start again, shall we?’

Helen looked Jackson straight in the eye.

‘Tell me what really happened on Tuesday night.’

She didn’t see her coming until it was too late.

Sally Jackson had been in the midst of a particularly difficult conversation when the call came. Paul’s PA had seized the nettle, ringing Sally to tell her that her husband had been arrested and taken to Southampton Central. She’d been irritated when the phone rang – she worked at a local Family Centre and was busy explaining to an irate dad why his meetings with his estranged children had to be supervised. These discussions required finesse and patience, not interruptions, so she was tempted not to answer. But when the phone kept ringing, her curiosity was aroused.

She didn’t know what to say at first, other than to check that it wasn’t a joke and that she was sure . But the tone of Sandra Allen’s voice – tight, sombre, with a hint of embarrassment – convinced Sally that she was. What do you do in these situations? Sally had extricated herself from her work, claiming a migraine, and hurried to her car. But once inside she just sat there, trying to process what was happening. Why hadn’t Paul contacted her? Terrified, she’d considered calling a lawyer friend, then, discarding that option, decided to go to her sister’s. In the end, she’d done neither, driving home instead. It was like she was on auto-pilot, heading to the place she felt safest.

‘Mrs Jackson?’

She had just stepped out of the car when the woman approached. She was curious to look at – beautiful from one angle, but scarred on the other – and the situation was made stranger still by the look of concern on her face. How did she know so soon? Who was she?

‘I’m Emilia Garanita from the Evening News . I understand you’ve had a terrible shock.’

She was so blind-sided by the woman’s sudden approach – had she been lying in wait for her? – that initially Sally was struck dumb.

‘There’s no way you can be alone at a time like this, so why don’t I sit with you until someone else comes?’

Sally was surprised to see that the woman had taken her arm and was now guiding her towards her own front door.

‘Your hands are shaking, poor thing. Give me your keys and I’ll do the honours. Then we can have a nice cup of tea.’

She stood there smiling, her hand outstretched for the keys. She seemed so confident of what she was doing that Sally now found herself rummaging for her keys. As she pulled them out, however, she spotted her key ring. On it was a small picture of her, Paul and the twins, taken about six months ago, at the top of Scafell Pike. They were all smiling – tired but exhilarated by their triumph in reaching the summit.

‘I’m sorry, who did you say you were again?’ she said, keeping the keys gripped tight in her hand.

‘I’m from the Southampton Evening News ,’ the woman replied, her smile tightening a touch. ‘I know you must be wondering what to do for the best and I’d like to help. Within the hour, you’re going to have reporters, TV journalists and God knows who else camped on your doorstep. I can deal with them. Let me do that for you,’ she said, casting an eye across the street as a van pulled up near by, ‘or, believe you me, it’s going to be a free-for-all. And nobody – least of all you – wants that.’

‘I don’t even know you.’

‘Here’s my ID,’ she replied, thrusting a laminated press card into Sally’s hand. ‘You can call the office if you like. It’s now or never, Sally.’