M. Arlidge - Little Boy Blue

Which is why he put down the remote control without pressing it, reaching instead for the car keys. Then, winding down all four windows, he sat back in his seat and, closing his eyes, started up the engine.

She hurried along the street, taking care to avoid the fast-food wrappers, empty pint glasses and the occasional pool of vomit. It was Thursday night in Southampton and the drinkers were out in force.

The End of the Road was in the heart of Sussex Place and Helen pushed her way through the post-pub crowds to get to it. There was a long queue snaking from the entrance, but Helen bypassed this, heading straight for the bouncer and presenting him her warrant card.

Inside, the party was in full swing. The cavernous bar was a sea of peacock feathers, sequins and elaborate eye make-up – punters and staff alike dressing to impress. Sleekly dressed in her biking leathers, Helen fitted in pretty well, receiving several complimentary catcalls as she jostled to the bar. But she ignored them – something told her that speed was of the essence tonight.

She had to bellow to be heard at the bar. The bartender looked unimpressed by her enquiries but sloped off anyway. Cursing under her breath, Helen turned away to examine the scene. Her eye was immediately drawn to a poster for ‘Pandora’, frayed round the edges, but still in pride of place on the far wall. Helen drank in the face – even with the deep-gold eye shadow, and generously applied rouge there was a coldness to the face that was unnerving.

‘Can I help you?’

Helen turned to find a short, bald man looking at her across the bar. Craig Ogden owned The End of the Road and was clearly unnerved by the presence of a police officer in his bar on a busy Thursday night.

‘I need to speak to Samantha. You may also know her as Pandor-’

‘Both.’

‘She works here?’

‘She does the late shift. Can I ask what this is about?’

‘When are you expecting her?’ Helen replied, ignoring the question.

‘Well, she was due in at ten. But she called in sick.’

‘When?’

‘Just as we were opening,’ he replied, his frustration clear.

‘Where can I find her? Do you have an address?’

‘We did, but she moved a few weeks back. Hasn’t told us where she is now. She might be living in a skip for all I know. She’s not the type to encourage questions and God alone knows where she ends up at night…’

‘A phone number then?’

‘I can see if we have anything on file, but to be honest I inherited her from the last manager and the record keeping at this place has never bee-’

‘But she phoned you earlier,’ Helen insisted. ‘You must have her -’

‘Number withheld. Fuck knows why…’

‘What about friends then?’ Helen said, increasingly exasperated now. ‘Or colleagues? Is there anyone here who might know where I can find her?’

‘Ask around, by all means,’ Ogden replied, shrugging. ‘To be honest, I kept well clear of her. Sometimes you can just see it in the eyes, right?’

Ogden was in full flow now, but Helen was scarcely listening, turning to look at the hundreds of revellers who were packed into the club. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.

Helen ended the conversation and pushed through the crowds, keen to escape the din. She wanted to get back to Southampton Central, touch base with Sanderson and see if the team had made any progress. Helen had been in an optimistic frame of mind after her chat with Dennis, pleased to have a lead on the elusive Samantha at last. But now she was leaving The End of the Road empty-handed and frustrated, plagued by the feeling that Samantha was vanishing from their radar for a reason. She had vowed to get justice for Jake but she was still no closer to catching his killer.

A promising lead had just gone up in smoke.

The sweat was oozing down his forehead, creeping into his eyes. It was incredibly hot in the Zentai suit and his discomfort was increasing by the second. What had started out as a tantalizing, transgressive game was now becoming unpleasant and unnerving.

He shook his head to dislodge the sweat, but only succeeded in making himself feel dizzy. His heart was racing and the clinging material of the suit was making it hard to breathe. For a moment, he thought he might faint, something he’d never done before. That could be disastrous in a BDSM situation, so gathering himself he said:

‘Liberty.’

This was their safe word, but his voice was cracked and his resulting call weak. He wasn’t surprised she hadn’t heard it, so he said it again, louder this time.

‘Liberty.’

Still nothing. He knew she was still here – he could hear her moving. So why wasn’t she responding? It wasn’t done to tease someone in this situation. If you heard the word, you stopped everything.

‘Liberty,’ he screamed, fear suddenly getting the better of him.

He heard her moving towards him now and tears sprang to his eyes. He was still furious with her, but if she let him go now, then… He heard something tearing now. What was that? Was she cutting him out of this suit? Cutting his bonds? Then suddenly he felt something strike his face. He jumped, shocked by the impact, and too late realized what was happening. The tearing sound had been her ripping off some duct tape – tape which she had just stuck over his mouth.

‘Let me go.’

He bellowed the words, but the tape held, muting his cry.

‘I’d love to, sweetheart, but we’ve only just begun.’

The last word was said with such emphasis that for a second Max thought he was going to vomit. Fear now mastered him completely – he suddenly realized that he had made a terrible mistake in playing her games and that because of this misjudgement he was about to die.

Charlie stifled a yawn and looked at the clock. It was nearly midnight – she had another two hours before she was relieved. If Helen wanted to punish Charlie, she was doing a good job. Steve had complained about being dragooned into emergency childcare yet again and Charlie was irritated too – with Sanderson, with Helen, but mostly with herself. When had she become so brittle? She used to be the fun, cheeky officer who everyone got on with. Now she was exhausted, short-tempered and paranoid . She didn’t regret starting a family for one second, but there were a lot of hidden costs that nobody told you about and she was feeling those now.

Outside, the press pack’s enthusiasm was starting to wane. It was cold and a thin drizzle floated down the street, saturating all those still out and about. Most of the journalists had retreated to their vehicles, experience teaching them that you can catch your death on a night like this. Those that remained outside were swathed in thick North Face jackets, praying that the weather would clear. They would have gone home some time ago, but for the light that stole underneath the garage door. Somebody had turned it on a while back and, as the family car was stored in there, everyone present was expecting Jackson to make a break for it.

Charlie assumed it was Paul Jackson, as she’d seen his wife head upstairs a few hours ago. The gaggle of photographers that haunted the property was hoping to grab a through-the-window shot of him fleeing his home. There was something about the angle and context of those shots that always made the subject look guilty. Editors loved them, which is why people were prepared to brave the elements to get them.

Charlie flicked through the radio stations again. If Paul Jackson was smart, he’d turn the light off and head to bed. The best way to deal with journalists was to starve them of what they craved. By hanging about he was just raising their hopes. Finding little to divert her, Charlie switched off the radio and stole another look at the clock. Ten past midnight.