M. Arlidge - Little Boy Blue

Charlie had been right about her motivation. Sanderson did feel threatened by Charlie and the chance to grab some glory and emphasize her rival’s tardiness was too good an opportunity to miss. She had hoped it would play well for her, but in fact it had achieved the very opposite. But all was not lost and a new lead, and a possible breakthrough in the case, could change everything. She would do whatever was in her power to remedy the situation because through all the backstabbing, insecurity and confusion one thing remained true – she craved the good opinion of DI Grace.

Emilia Garanita hit the hands-free button and punched in the number. She was the last person in the office and this was her final duty on what had been a tiring, but satisfactory day. She always replied to phone and email messages before the day was out – it was one of the things she prided herself on as a journalist, one of the things that singled her out from her peers. Once she was done, she would head home, open a bottle of wine and read tonight’s edition.

It was an indulgence but she never got tired of seeing her words in print. It was just a provincial paper in some people’s eyes – but to Emilia it had always been more than that. It was a city paper – her city – and it still excited her to see her byline and photo at the top of the page.

Today’s spread was particularly good. Everyone knew that people in stressful, high-pressure jobs often had unusual ways of relieving the pressure, but, still, a respectable bank manager was an absolute gift. This story had all the best ingredients – murder, sex, betrayal – and was guaranteed to run and run. Not just because the killer was still at large, but also because the main suspect, Paul Jackson, was clearly leading a double life. He was happily married with two kids and, judging by the look on his wife’s face, the revelation about his involvement in the Torture Rooms murder must have come as a complete shock to her, not to mention to their friends and neighbours.

It was the kind of story that would have people all over Southampton speculating about what their neighbours were up to after hours, so the Evening News had gone to town on it – Emilia once more enjoying a four-page spread all to herself. They’d mocked up an image of the crime scene, constructed a possible narrative of events and gone large on the views of a psychologist about the attraction of hardcore BDSM. The latter element had been part of their wide-ranging profile of Paul Jackson. They’d initially run shy of using his name, but once he was released on bail the gloves were off. Maybe he was guilty, maybe he wasn’t. In some ways it didn’t really matter – it was still great news, packed with secrets, lies and depravity.

The phone was still ringing, so Emilia clicked off and tried again. But she was growing tired now, so after another fifteen rings she hung up, heading for the exit. Whatever Max Paine wanted would have to keep for another day.

‘Always nice to see a fresh face,’ Max said as he straddled the chair and sat down to survey her. ‘I’ve not seen you before, have I?’

‘I’m just passing through.’

‘You seem very well kitted out for someone who’s in transit.’

‘Oh, don’t let this fool you, I’m very green really.’

Max Paine smiled. He loved the tease of this job and always responded to clients who were prepared to make their time together more than just a soulless exchange. They were the ones who became regulars, the ones with whom the job was always fun and never a chore.

‘Well, let me take you in hand,’ he suggested, walking over to her.

She was tall and thin with slicked black hair and striking eye make-up. It was a classic Berlin look and suited her down to the ground. Running his finger up her arm, he paused to knead the flesh beneath her shoulder blades. She exhaled happily, so he carried on running his hands down her back, sliding them round to the front. Continuing his progress, he ran them over her chest, before bringing them to rest on her crotch. The soft, pliable bulge that now began to harden to his touch revealed that this was going to be even more interesting than he’d imagined.

‘Aren’t you the girl that’s got everything?’ he said, rounding her to face her full on.

‘You better believe it’ was the impish reply.

Smiling, Max walked away, towards the locked cupboards at the back.

‘We have two hours ahead of us, so why don’t you choose your weapon?’

He opened the double doors of the wardrobe to reveal his arsenal of crops, whips, paddles, bats, maces and more. There was nothing he couldn’t provide for his clients, nothing he hadn’t tried.

‘You’re very sweet, but I wonder if we might use a couple of things I’ve brought along with me. I’ve never used them and I might need a little help.’

Without waiting for an answer, she now walked across to the drawstring bag she’d dropped by the door on arrival. Max watched, intrigued, as she drew a series of restraints and a large Zentai suit from within. The tight-fitting suit looked brand new, the spandex glistening in the beams of the ceiling spotlights.

‘I know we’ve only just met, but I’d like us to push things a little tonight. I want Edge Play. Can you stretch to that?’

Normally Max wouldn’t rush to do this on a first meeting, but she seemed to know what she was taking on, so, nodding, he moved forward to pick up the Zentai suit. But, as he did so, she laid a gloved hand on his arm.

‘The thing is, Max,’ she continued in a whisper, ‘I want you to be my bitch tonight. Are you willing to be my bitch?’

Max paused, turning to her. She was attractive and commanding and didn’t seem like a psychopath, but you could never be sure.

‘That’s a bit rich for a first date,’ he said. ‘Maybe when we know each other a little better.’

‘Pity, but have it your own way,’ she replied, putting the suit down. ‘These are troubled times. Everyone’s running scared at the moment, which is why I was willing to pay so much. But, as you say, another time -’

‘How much?’

Paine hated himself for asking, but he couldn’t resist. He hadn’t paid his rent in over three months and lived in daily fear of eviction.

‘Five hundred pounds if you’re a bad boy. A thousand if you’re a very bad boy.’

His client removed a wedge of twenty-pound notes and placed them on the table.

‘What do you say, Max? Can I tempt you?’

Max looked her up and down – there wasn’t much to her – then, shrugging his shoulders, he relented. Walking towards her, he smiled warmly and said:

‘I’m all yours.’

‘You can’t barge in here like this.’

‘I didn’t barge in anywhere, Dennis. I rang the doorbell and your mum let me in.’

The mention of his mother provoked a visible flinch. Dennis was pushing fifty, overweight and underemployed and clearly had mixed feelings about living at the family home. Geraldine Fitzgerald was a slim, punctilious septuagenarian, who could now be heard preparing tea in the kitchen. Helen imagined she would do it the proper way – warming the pot, using leaf tea – and wondered if her domestic regimen was as meticulous and old-fashioned. Did she still ask her adult son to tidy his room?

‘Haven’t you people done enough already?’

‘ “You people”?’

‘We don’t do anything illegal, we don’t do anything wrong . You’ve no right to send spies to our gatherings -’

‘Well, if people don’t talk to us, what can we do?’

Dennis eyeballed her, but said nothing.

‘Everyone in the BDSM community says they are shocked by Jake Elder’s murder,’ Helen told him. ‘Yet nobody has come forward to help us. Which makes me wonder how deep their concern is.’