M. Arlidge - Little Boy Blue

All eyes were on her. The team had gathered in the briefing room for the morning update, looking to Helen for guidance and inspiration. But she felt empty this morning – despite a few hours’ sleep she was still running on fumes – and had nothing new to give them. She had never been this deep into an investigation with so little to go on, and the morning papers – with their graphic accounts of Paul Jackson’s suicide bid – had done little to improve her mood. Everyone at Southampton Central, from her DCs right up to the Chief Super himself, had been rattled by this unexpected development.

‘The good news is that Paul Jackson is stable,’ Helen said, as she continued her briefing. ‘He’s still in ICU, but he’s conscious and the early signs are that there won’t be any permanent damage to his brain or lungs. He’s in a bad way, but the doctors are reassured that there’s no immediate danger to his life, which is in no small part thanks to the decisive intervention of DS Brooks.’

Charlie acknowledged the compliment with a brief nod, but kept her eyes fixed to the floor. Was this to avoid meeting Helen’s gaze or Sanderson’s? Helen hoped it was the latter – evidence perhaps that her DSs had decided against antagonizing each other further.

‘I know you were all shocked by last night’s events,’ Helen said, addressing the team once more. ‘But right now we have to keep our focus on the case. How are we doing on the Snapchatters?’

‘We’ve ruled out seventeen of the twenty now,’ Edwards informed them. ‘Nothing that links any of them to the club. Once we’ve run down the last three, we’ll widen our field – look at Elder’s emails, texts -’

‘We’ve also just heard that David Simons is in the country,’ DC Lucas interrupted gently. ‘The Border Agency confirmed he landed at Heathrow last night. We’ll get him in as soon as we can, but he’s not in any hurry to contact us.’

‘Keep on it. In the meantime, let’s focus our attentions on possible suspects within the BDSM community, specifically “Samantha”, formerly known as Michael Parker. The Edge of the Road has provided a mobile phone number, but it’s not currently in use. I want us to investigate when and where that phone last made calls. Also, we have three former addresses for her, all of which she’s spent time at within the last two years. We need to be knocking on doors, seeing if any neighbours or friends know where she might be now. Also, let’s talk again to people who were at the club, the taxi drivers who were working that night – let’s see if we can place her at the Torture Rooms. Any relevant info – good or bad – I want to hear about it straight away.’

Helen was about to move on to allocating individual tasks, when she saw the custody sergeant approaching. Nodding to Sanderson to take over, Helen drew him aside. The look on his face suggested he had something important to tell her.

‘Uniform were called to an unusual death this morning,’ he said quietly. ‘We don’t have all the facts, but it appears the victim was suspended from the ceiling in some sort of all-in-one body suit.’

Helen’s heart sank, even as he said it. Gathering herself, she replied:

‘Any marks on him, any signs of violence?’

‘Not that I’m aware of. The boys are saying the place is in mint condition and that the whole thing looks kind of staged.’

Helen nodded, but her heart was beating fast.

‘Do you have the address?’

The custody sergeant handed Helen a piece of paper, then withdrew. Helen was glad he’d done so, because as she looked at the address in her hand she got a nasty shock. She had only visited the address on two occasions but she knew exactly whom it belonged to. A man she loathed and hoped she’d never see again.

Max Paine.

What was wrong with her? She should be feeling relieved, elated, excited, but she felt none of these things. Her body ached, her brain throbbed – she was a mess.

Samantha lay on the bathroom floor, resting her forehead on the cold tiles. Returning to the flat last night, she had downed an entire bottle of vodka. Perhaps it was the adrenaline of the evening, perhaps the vodka was just low grade – either way she’d brought it all back up again an hour later. She normally never vomited but last night she couldn’t stop, gagging on the bitter bile that was all she had left at the end.

If she’d had the energy, she’d gladly have killed herself. Her life was an endless merry-go-round of high hopes and crushing disappointments – each one harder to stomach than the last. She knew she was a work in progress, but still… Why were the highs so high and lows so low? Perhaps all those shrinks had been right after all. Perhaps she was a bad person.

Putting an unsteady hand on the sink, Samantha hauled herself upright. Turning on the tap, she cupped her hands together to collect the cold water and drank greedily from them. Then she threw the soothing water on to her face – she was burning up – and ran her wet fingers through her hair. A deep, sulphurous burp ensued and suddenly she was vomiting again, the water she’d just consumed disappearing down the plughole with obscene haste. It was as if the water couldn’t stomach her, rather than the other way around.

Samantha dropped back down to the floor, exhausted and defeated. There was no point fighting it now and she finally gave way to despair. It was cruel but there was no point denying it. She had tried to embrace this world, but it always rejected her, raising the level of punishment each time. She was gone – dead behind the eyes now – and felt hollow, empty and utterly alone.

The SOCOs had already lowered the body to the ground and removed his clothing for further analysis. The victim now lay on the floor, naked save for a sterile sheet. It wasn’t much dignity, but it was the best that they could do in the circumstances.

Crouching down, Helen used the tip of her pen to lift a corner of the sheet. She knew what to expect, but still it was horrific to behold. In life, Paine had been a handsome man, but now his face was waxy and mottled – numerous burst blood vessels giving his expression an unpleasant patchwork quality. He looked like he had exploded from within.

Helen shuddered silently. She had disliked – no, she had despised – Max Paine. He was a violent misogynist who took pleasure in bullying and degrading women. She had used his services a couple of times and had had cause to regret her decision, only escaping a dangerous situation by fighting her way out of his clutches. But still she wouldn’t have wished this on him. This didn’t seem like a similar situation, this wasn’t a question of Paine overstepping the mark. This was a well-organized and premeditated attack on his life. This was an execution.

What connected Jake Elder and Max Paine? They were two very different characters who’d chosen the same profession. Helen knew both of them – one intimately, one in passing. Was that important? If so, it was hard to see why. Max Paine was hardly a friend of hers and as far as she was aware the rest of the world wouldn’t miss him either. So what was the point of his death? Were he and Jake chosen specifically or had they just hooked up with the wrong client? It seemed increasingly likely that their attacker was from the BDSM community, but the motive was still unclear.

Dropping the sheet, Helen stood up. She would not mourn Paine, but his death was still distressing and alarming. If the two victims were connected, then Helen was the obvious link. But if they weren’t, the outlook was even worse. Helen and her team had put so much work in trying to link their killer directly to Jake Elder, but maybe they had been barking up the wrong tree? Perhaps it was the act of murder, not the identity of the victim, which was driving the killer here.