M. Arlidge - Little Boy Blue

‘I’m so sorry, Sally. I never wanted any of this…’

‘Please tell me it’s a mistake,’ she replied quickly, her voice wobbling. ‘I heard the headlines, I know what this is…’

‘Of course it’s a mistake, my darling. I’m not a violent man. I would never hurt somebody like that.’

‘And the rest of it?’

Paul was suddenly unable to look at her.

‘That place. Where this man died…’

She didn’t elaborate further, but the unspoken question was clear.

‘Yes. I went there.’

‘How many times?’

Paul said nothing in response.

‘How many times have you been there? And please don’t lie to me, Paul.’

‘Six, maybe seven times.’

‘What did you do there?’

For a moment, Paul was tempted to lie, to soften the blow. He could start by saying he went to drink, dance… But in the end, he simply said:

‘I went there to meet men.’

Sally nodded slightly, then rose from the table. Paul rose too, moving towards her, but she held up a hand to fend him off. Turning, she walked from the room without looking back, running up the stairs to her bedroom. Paul heard the bedroom door slam shut and moments later the sound of her crying.

He walked over to the window, pulling the curtains round to block out the press photographers who were straining to see in from their vantage points on the wall opposite. It was a pointless gesture – it was too late to protect his family. He had never hated himself so much as he did in that moment. He hadn’t heard his wife cry in years and now in one awful day he had destroyed her happiness, her peace of mind and her faith in him.

His very public arrest would cause her embarrassment both at home and at work. The revelation that he was bisexual would hurt her deeply too. But perhaps they could have worked through those things – for the boys’ sake – were it not for the fact that he had betrayed her. He had lied to her night after night, as he slept with casual pick-ups. It was this that would damn him ultimately and he knew that Sally would never forgive him. Nor, if he was honest, would he.

From her viewpoint across the road, Charlie watched the horrible soap opera unfold. Charlie remained to be convinced that Paul Jackson was innocent, but she still felt for him and his family. Like her, they must have got up this morning with no inkling of what was about to befall them. They might even have been looking forward to the day. But in the time it takes the sun to rise and set again, secrets had been revealed, accusations made and a family’s happiness shattered.

Thanks to her job, Charlie came into contact with many unsavoury characters, but few were as unpleasant and pitiless as the journalists now camped outside the Jackson house. In time, they would drift away, as new developments emerged, but the next forty-eight hours would be Hell. The family could take legal steps to protect themselves from intrusion, but these things took time and in the interim press hounds, radio and TV journalists, bloggers and more would be beating a path to their door.

They would claim that they were only doing their job – ‘it’s a free country’ was the common refrain – but Charlie knew they enjoyed it. It was bullying pure and simple, the pack descending on whomsoever they deemed fair game. They would climb walls, scale lampposts, shout through letter boxes, bribe, threaten, cajole – all in the hope of getting a few words with the accused or a photo of his weeping wife. Many people out there thought the same of coppers – that they were only on God’s earth to cause grief and upset – but in Charlie’s mind, at least, the two professions were very different indeed.

The biting wind whistled round Charlie and, cursing her luck, she retreated to her car. Helen had sent her here as a punishment, knowing full well it would be a wasted journey. It was easy enough to blend in with the journalists and gawpers, but with such a crowd outside what were the chances that Jackson would actually do anything incriminating? If he was smart, he would stay exactly where he was, until the interest in him waned.

Charlie had the disquieting feeling that Helen had turned against her. They had exchanged some harsh words earlier – words that had shaken Charlie to the core – and even though she knew she deserved to be sent to purdah for rowing with Sanderson, she never expected to be publicly dressed down like that. Helen’s behaviour was out of character – impulsive and erratic – and it unnerved her. Especially when she still felt she had so much to prove.

Charlie hoped her exile would be brief. She missed her family, hated the tedium of a stakeout and desperately wanted to be back in the heart of things. But this case was doing strange things to people – to Helen, Sanderson, even Charlie herself – and she wondered if she had permanently blotted her copybook with her boss. Truth be told, she had never felt so uncertain of her position as she did tonight.

‘I like the look of this one.’

Sanderson was hunched over her desk, running Helen through a print-out from the PNC database. The atmosphere was tense following the latter’s clash with Charlie, and Sanderson was working overtime to appear efficient, professional and productive. Like her rival, she still had a lot of ground to make up.

‘There’s a few on the list, but she seems the most likely, given Dennis’s description. Real name Michael Parker, now a mid-op transsexual, living as a woman. She’s used a number of different identities over the years…’

‘Sharon Greenwood,’ Helen replied, reading the details, ‘Beverley Booker and most recently Samantha Wilkes.’

‘Exactly. And look at her form. Affray, drugs, theft, obtaining money by deception, false imprisonment…’

‘What have we got on that last charge?’ Helen said.

‘Questioned, but never charged, about an incident with a Julian Bown, a married man she took back to her flat. Parker said their acts were consensual, Bown said they weren’t, wanted to press for GBH, but dropped it at the last minute.’

‘And obtaining money by deception?’

Sanderson leafed through her file to find the relevant page.

‘Credit card fraud,’ she said, looking up at Helen. The excitement that always comes with a new lead was rising inside her, but she hid it well. Best not to get ahead of herself when her boss’s mood was still so hard to read.

‘Dennis said Samantha never missed an Annual Ball, so it’s likely we can place her there…’ she continued.

‘Let’s check her out,’ Helen said decisively. ‘Does this Dennis know where to find her?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Then I’d better pay him a little visit. In the meantime, let’s contact gender reassignment clinics, starting in Southampton and rolling out from there. If Samantha’s a mid-operative transsexual, then she shouldn’t be too hard to track down. Also, can you locate Julian Bown? If he still lives locally, we need to talk to him.’

‘Sure thing, boss.’

‘Stay in touch. This is good work, Sanderson.’

‘Thank you.’

‘But that doesn’t excuse what happened this morning.’ Helen lowered her voice. ‘I’m sure you know that, so I won’t labour the point – except to say that I expect every member of my team to work together regardless of their rank, temperament or personal history. Is that clear?’

‘One hundred per cent.’

‘I’m very glad to hear it.’

Sanderson watched on as Helen scooped up her jacket and marched from the office, handing out a few last tasks as she did so. As reprimands go, it had been brief and to the point – Sanderson knew she had escaped lightly. But there was still work to do. The decision to release Paul Jackson may have angered Charlie, but it also reflected badly on her. Helen clearly didn’t believe he was guilty and Sanderson’s call in arresting Jackson so publicly now looked very misguided.