M. Arlidge - Little Boy Blue

‘I never got near them.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know, you tell me. Maybe it just wasn’t my night.’

‘A handsome guy like you?’

‘There’s no accounting for taste,’ Jackson spat back sourly.

‘Are you sure Jake didn’t accept your invitation and take you backstairs?’

‘Look, I’ve told you what happened. If you don’t believe me…’

‘Do you like the rough stuff?’

‘Don’t answer that,’ his lawyer interjected.

‘For God’s sake, Paul, our guys are poring over the search history on your phone. We’re picking up your computers – from home and work. We are going to find out what you’ve been looking at, so do not hold out on me now.’

‘Yes, I like the hard stuff.’

‘Paul…’ his lawyer warned gently, but his client appeared not to hear him.

‘Have you ever watched Edge Play? Online or in the flesh?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you ever participated in Edge Play?’

‘Occasionally.’

‘Have you used wet sheets?’

‘Yes, I have, but that doesn’t mean -’

‘Doesn’t mean what?’

‘That I did anything to Jake.’

‘Why would it mean that? I haven’t mentioned wet sheets in connection with his death. Neither has the press, so how would you know that?’

‘I wouldn’t… I was just saying that…’

‘Did you kill him, Paul?’

‘No…’

‘Did you take him to one of the back rooms that night, tie him up -’

‘No, a hundred times no…’

‘Punish him as he deserved to be punished?’

‘I would never do that.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s not my thing.’

‘You’re contradicting yourself now, Paul. We’ve all just heard you say -’

‘I like the rough stuff, but -’

‘But what?’

‘But I’m always the bottom, ok, never the top,’ he finally said, glaring at Helen.

‘Sorry, I’m a bit -’ his lawyer began.

‘Bottom means the submissive, the top is the dominator,’ Helen interjected, keen to keep the focus on Jackson.

‘I… I don’t like to dominate.’ Jackson’s voice faltered. ‘I want to be humiliated, abused, degraded. That’s why… that’s why I could never do something like this.’

Jackson raised his gaze to meet Helen’s and she was surprised to see that tears were threatening.

‘Please believe me. I didn’t kill Jake Elder.’

‘Is he lying?’

Helen and Jonathan Gardam were huddled in the smokers’ yard, away from the prying ears of colleagues, lawyers and Gardam’s PA.

‘Hard to say for sure. He sounds genuine, but there’s a lot that links him to Elder, to the scene. Also, Lynn Picket banks with Santander – it would have been the easiest thing in the world for him to lift her card details off the system and use them for his own devices.’

‘Would he really shit on his own doorstep like that?’

‘How could you link him to it? Nearly a hundred people work in that bank, thousands more have access to their system.’

‘So what’s our next move?’

‘I’m going to go back to Meredith, see if we can link Jackson to the crime scene. They’ve got mountains of stuff – cigarettes, beer bottles, hair, spit, semen – if we can put him in the room, then we can prove he’s lying.’

‘And if we can’t? What does your instinct tell you?’

‘I don’t really believe in the copper’s gut,’ Helen replied, dropping her cigarette to the floor. Nicotine was doing nothing for her today, but that still didn’t stop her wanting another.

‘You must have a view though,’ Gardam persisted.

‘I’d be tempted to believe him, in the absence of evidence to the contrary.’

‘Why?’

‘He was in the right place at the right time but… he just doesn’t seem the type to me. This murder was unusual, elaborate and provocative. It’s a statement killing – whoever did this wants our attention. Maybe he’s a good actor, but my feeling is that Jackson doesn’t want the world to know that he likes men, likes S &M…’

Gardam nodded, even as his eye was caught by the discarded cigarette on the floor. A smudge of Helen’s lipstick was still visible on the tip.

‘He’s married, got twin boys,’ Helen continued. ‘He’s leading a double life and my instinct is that he wants to keep it that way.’

The irony of this comment wasn’t lost on Helen – this case just kept rebounding against her – and she toyed with her lighter to avoid looking directly at Gardam.

‘Do you want to hold him?’ Gardam said, interrupting Helen’s chain of thought.

‘I’m not inclined to. He’s not a flight risk – he’s too anchored in Southampton – and I don’t want to put too much pressure on him, in case we’re wrong. He seems pretty fragile to me.’

‘Well, I’ll back whatever you decide.’

‘Thank you.’

Gardam offered Helen another cigarette, which she took without hesitation.

‘I know they’re not good for you,’ he said, lighting Helen’s cigarette before fixing one for himself, ‘but I can’t do without them. I have to smoke them here as Jane thinks I’ve given up.’

Helen nodded, but didn’t play along. She’d never been comfortable with the way male colleagues deceived their wives, then enjoyed publicizing the fact.

There was a brief silence, then Gardam asked:

‘Are you ok, Helen?’

‘Sure. Why do you ask?’

‘You look very pale, that’s all. Is anything the matter?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Helen lied. ‘I’m always like this during a big investigation. I’m not a good sleeper at the best of times, so…’

‘I’m the same,’ Gardam replied. ‘Thank God for cigarettes, eh?’

‘Indeed.’

They smoked for a moment in silence. Then Helen said:

‘I’d better get back.’

Gardam nodded and Helen walked off, squeezing the last vestiges of nicotine from her dying cigarette as she did so. Gardam watched her cross the yard, his eyes never straying from her, until eventually she disappeared from view and he was left alone.

She looked in the mirror and saw darkness staring back.

It wasn’t the scratches on her arms or the faint shadow of bruising on her face. It was what she saw in her eyes that shocked her. Something dying, an emptiness taking hold. She had no idea how long she’d been sitting here, drinking herself in, but somehow she couldn’t find it in herself to move. The last couple of days had taken so much out of her.

Draining the last drops of her vodka, she reached for her mascara and resumed her preparations. For most of her life she had been friendless, but if there was a staple in her life – apart from self-abuse, drugs and the dolls of course – it was this. Her war paint had been part of her for as long as she could remember and she never felt whole without it. There was something soothing, exciting and empowering about the ritual of self-improvement and she loved the feeling of the brushes against her skin. She had always been into this kind of thing – her mother had once said she was very intuitive about ‘texture’. It was one of the few kind things she had ever said to her.

Putting the brushes down, she pulled the tub of hair gel towards her. Scooping up a large handful, she smeared it over her hair and scalp. She often wore her hair up – in a riotous, peacocking display – but not today. Running her hands over her crown, she worked hard to flatten her hair. She liked the severe, asexual look it gave her – she was determined that there would not be a hair out of place.

Satisfied, she rose and walked over to the wardrobe. This was the most painful part and best done quickly. Pulling the whalebone corset from the wardrobe, she stepped into it and raised it up and over her chest. Grasping the strings, she pulled as hard as she could. The corset gripped her ribcage, punching the air from her lungs. She gasped but didn’t relent, pulling still harder. She loved the feeling of breathlessness, of constriction, of pain. After thirty seconds, she finally relented, loosening the strings a notch and tying them in a neat bow. Surveying herself in the mirror, she was pleased by what she saw. She looked sleek, smooth, in control.