M. Arlidge - Little Boy Blue

‘I appreciate that -’

‘Do you? There are people out there who, for valid reasons, want to keep the different parts of their life separate, who’ve committed no offence -’

‘But Elder rejected him. Jackson told us as much. He wanted sex with him and he was rejected. He has a strong motive -’

‘So strong that two weeks prior to this murder, he ordered a collection of bondage items with which to commit the crime. This was not a crime of passion and you shouldn’t dress it up as one.’

‘You don’t know that for sure,’ Charlie threw back at her, her anger flaring now. ‘He could have bought those items discreetly, intending to use them recreationally, but on that particular night he was angry and rejected -’

‘Put him in the room then,’ Helen spat back, ‘put him at the crime scene and then we can have this conversation.’

The two women had now squared off against each other. Helen’s eyes flitted to her office window. She could tell the rest of the team were listening to their argument and she was keen to bring it to a conclusion.

‘I think we’re making a mistake,’ Charlie said defiantly.

‘Noted,’ Helen replied. ‘But ask yourself why you’re so hot on Jackson as a suspect. Could it be because you want to prove something to Sanderson?’

‘He was my collar and she brought him in.’

‘And now he’s “yours” again you want to see it through, one in the eye for your fellow DS.’

‘That’s not true. Yes, Sanderson was out of line -’

‘ I told her to bring him in – because you weren’t here.’

This time Charlie said nothing in response, stung by the implication.

‘You were late and I will not let anyone’s lack of professionalism hamper this investigation.’

‘That’s completely unfair,’ Charlie said, stunned by this personal attack. ‘I work harder than anyone else -’

‘It’s a statement of fact. You weren’t here when you should have been.’

Charlie stared at Helen, speechless.

‘But I’ll tell you what. As you’re so convinced Jackson is guilty, you can take the surveillance detail.’

‘Oh, come on, that’s a DC’s job at best -’

‘It’s yours now,’ Helen asserted.

Charlie opened her mouth to protest, but Helen continued:

‘Bring me evidence of his guilt. Show me I’m wrong and I’ll eat my words.’

She crossed the room and pointedly opened the door of her office.

‘But know one thing, Charlie. This case is not about you . You may think it is, but it’s not. It’s about an innocent man -’

Helen’s voice faltered as Jake’s lifeless corpse once more sprung to mind.

‘- an innocent man who deserves justice.’

‘Why are you being like this?’ Charlie said, emotion suddenly ambushing her .

‘Because it’s my job. You’d do well to remember yours.’

Helen stared at Charlie, challenging her to respond. But this time she didn’t. Instead, she turned and walked straight out of Helen’s office and towards the exit without saying a word to anyone. Helen retreated quickly to her desk, keen to busy herself with her case files. She could feel her face burning, as if she were the one in the wrong. She needed to regain her composure.

Silence reigned in the incident room beyond but Helen knew that that was just show. They were all trying very hard to look busy and engaged, but as Helen distractedly turned the pages of the case file in front of her, she knew instinctively that all eyes were on her. Everybody was watching her, but nobody was saying anything.

Max Paine flicked through the pages of the newspaper until he found what he was looking for. The Evening News was dominated by sensational reports of the Torture Rooms murder, but it was the centre spread he was after. There at the top-right-hand corner of the page was the journalist’s mug shot and direct line.

Emilia Garanita was no looker, given the extensive scarring on one of her cheeks, but she was a famous face in Southampton – with a number of high-profile exposés already to her name. She was happy to walk where angels fear to tread, going anywhere and talking to anyone who might provide her with a scoop. Paine hoped to use that to his advantage now.

He would meet with Garanita and tell her in confidence the information he was prepared to sell. He would then ask her to make him an offer. Under the pretext of thinking about it, he would then contact Grace and see what she was prepared to pay. To the winner, the spoils. He wasn’t on some moral crusade after all. He just wanted money.

He punched Garanita’s phone number into his mobile and turned away from the café counter – he didn’t want to be overheard. But the call didn’t connect, going straight to voicemail instead. He decided to be short and sweet.

‘My name is Max Paine. I have information about the Torture Rooms murder that you’ll want to hear. Call me on 07977 654878. I’ll be waiting.’

He rang off, pleased to have made the first move, but irritated not to have been able to speak to Garanita in person. Still, there was plenty of time for that. No point getting strung out this early in the game.

He finished his coffee, flicking carelessly through the rest of the paper, before heading on his way. It was getting late and he had work to do. He thought about taking the News with him, but he had Garanita’s number on his phone now, so tossing it casually on to the table, he left. The waitress swooped, scooping up his empty coffee cup, pausing momentarily to take in the front page of the abandoned paper. Something approaching sympathy now creased her features as Jake Elder’s smiling, happy face beamed out at her from beneath the screaming headline:

SOUTHAMPTON SEX MURDER.

They stood staring at each other, neither daring to speak.

The enormous relief Paul Jackson had felt on being told he was to be released swiftly turned to anxiety, when he realized what lay ahead. He didn’t trust himself to call Sally – he wasn’t even sure if she’d answer – so he’d texted her. His message was brief, saying simply that he was on his way home and would see her shortly. It was the kind of anodyne message he had sent a hundred times before. Now, however, it had a very different meaning.

He had hoped to avoid the press by sneaking out of the back exit of Southampton Central, but they were waiting for him there, as they were when he eventually pulled into his road. There was no question of heading in via the back door – the garden wall was too high to be scaled without a ladder – so getting out of the car he made a dash for the front gate. Immediately, he cannoned off one journalist, knocking over a photographer in the process. Nobody actually laid a hand on him but they all contrived to impede his progress. They wanted to provoke him, to get him to lash out, but he kept his head down until he reached the sanctuary of his front door.

His hand had been shaking when he’d put the key in the lock and the house seemed eerily empty when he finally succeeded in getting inside. The twins had been picked up by another school mum and were still blissfully unaware of what was happening. Sally, however, was waiting for him in the kitchen, seated at the table with her hands folded.

He was about to kiss her, then thought better of it. He pulled out a chair – the trailing leg made a sharp, squealing noise on the polished wooden floor – and sat down. He saw Sally flinch at the noise and looking at her he now realized that she was on the edge of tears. The sight made him feel sick. This was his fault. All this… hurt… was his fault.

‘I haven’t been able to go out,’ Sally said suddenly. ‘They’ve been ringing the doorbell, banging on the door. I pulled the phone out of the wall, but they got my mobile number from somewhere…’