M. Arlidge - Little Boy Blue

If so, then there was no telling when he might stop. Killing was like a drug – the appetite becoming sharper and more urgent with each successive act. If their killer was getting off on his total control over his victims – and his seeming ability to strike without attracting attention – then what would possibly induce him to stop? Helen had a nasty feeling that he was just hitting his stride.

Having exchanged a few words with Meredith, Helen headed through the front door. Introspection and fear would get her nowhere. Their perpetrator had just raised the stakes significantly and she had to respond. It was time to summon what resolve she could if she was to stop him from killing again.

‘If anyone asks, you say it’s a police incident and move them on. No exceptions.’

The constable guarding the entrance to the flat nodded solemnly. They seldom said anything when Helen spoke to them. Was that out of respect? Or fear? Helen couldn’t tell.

‘You’re not to move from here until you’re relieved. Somebody gained unauthorized access to the crime scene on Wednesday morning. If it happens again, I’ll be asking you for an explanation. This is off limits.’

‘What a pity. I skipped breakfast to get over here before the others.’

Helen knew that voice. Turning, she saw Emilia Garanita walking towards her.

‘I was just talking about you,’ Helen replied.

‘All good, I hope?’

Helen didn’t dignify that with a response, instead turning and walking fast away from the flats towards her bike.

‘I will find out, you know.’

‘Find out what?’ Emilia replied, as she hurried to keep up.

‘Who your mole is. And when I do, I’ll have their badge and you up on a charge of bribing a public official.’

Emilia tut-tutted gently.

‘Why do you always see the worst in people? I’m just a jobbing journalist, playing by the rules -’

‘You’re a ghoul who trades in people’s misery,’ Helen retorted.

‘Come off it, Helen. I only report the facts, I can’t help what people read into that.’

Helen stopped in her tracks and turned to face Emilia.

‘I saw the hatchet job you did on Paul Jackson. What was the headline? “The double life of the boardroom spanker”? ’

‘I don’t write the headlines -’

‘Bullshit. It had your fingerprints all over it. You have no regard for the consequences of your irresponsible journalism.’

‘Back up a little, I have a duty to the public -’

‘You have a duty to be a human being.’

For a moment, Emilia looked stung, as if Helen’s accusations had finally landed. Then she seemed to relax again, a thin smile crawling over her face.

‘Is there a reason why you’re getting so wound up about this particular case?’

Helen stared at Emilia scornfully, but said nothing.

‘You haven’t been at any of the press conferences, so I haven’t been able to ask you about your personal reaction to Jake’s death.’

‘I’ve got nothing to say about that.’

‘But you were acquaintances. Friends even…’

Helen stared at Emilia, but said nothing. She’d known this moment was coming – Emilia was not the type to forget a tasty bit of gossip or past arguments – but now it was here, Helen still felt rattled. There was no point denying her connection with Jake, but this was not an avenue she wanted to go down. There was no telling where it might lead – blackmail? Exposure? – and this time she had no weapon with which to squash the wily journalist.

‘We were friends, but I hadn’t seen him for a couple of years and I’m treating this case as I would any other.’

‘Please don’t lie to me, Helen,’ Emilia replied. ‘You were very close to him, you must be in turmoil. I’m surprised they let you lead on this.’

‘You’re way off the mark,’ Helen lied.

‘Am I? I spared you last time because you persuaded me that that was the right thing to do. But I’m seriously starting to question the wisdom of my decis-’

‘You spared me?’ Helen replied, incredulous. ‘You spared yourself. If you’d printed that stuff I would have had you up on a charge of illegal surveillance. Don’t kid yourself that you’re a decent person, Emilia, because you’re not.’

‘Fighting talk,’ Emilia replied tersely, irked by this character assassination. ‘Let’s see where it gets you, shall we?’

Happy that she’d had the last word, Emilia turned and walked back in the direction of the flats. She had won the first battle. The question now was whether she would win the war.

Helen barely registered the other road users as she biked back to Southampton Central. She was riding slowly for once – she needed to buy herself time to think. This case was becoming ever more complicated, with no immediate or obvious solution in sight. What had started as a terrible personal tragedy had grown into something darker and Helen now faced a fight on two fronts – bringing in a devious and elusive serial killer, while fending off the very real threat of exposure.

Strange to say, the latter terrified Helen as much as the former. Privacy and discretion had always been her watchwords – it was the only way she knew – but now she was backed into an impossible corner. It would not be easy to spike Emilia’s guns, nor tell what she might do with the information she now held close. Emilia would know that any attempt at extortion would be rebuffed – Helen would rather sacrifice her career than be turned – so what other option did she have but to publish? A detailed and lengthy exposé, highlighting the terrible conflict of interest that Helen had swallowed in the interests of gaining justice? Helen could well imagine how that story would play with the top brass.

Helen knew that there was only one possible solution, but still she recoiled from it. She had never wanted anyone to know her properly, never wanted anyone to get close to her. Her life was like it was for a reason. But the cat was out of the bag now and the only remedy was to confess, before Emilia beat her to the punch. The thought made her feel sick – how could she even find the words to begin? – and there was no question of her opening herself up for general entertainment. No, if she did this it would have to be targeted, controlled and brief. And it would have to be now – there was no telling what Emilia would do and Helen refused to be driven off this case by public outrage.

Leaving her bike in the Southampton Central car park, Helen stopped to look up at the windows above. There was no point putting it off.

It was time to talk to Gardam.

Charlie stared at the unshaven lump opposite her, trying to hide her distaste as he crammed a dripping fried egg sandwich into his mouth. Chewing noisily, the middle-aged cabbie eventually looked up, catching her gaze.

‘You having something?’ he asked.

‘I’ve already eaten,’ Charlie replied, lying. She was trying to lose a bit of weight and the fare at the transport café didn’t fit the bill.

‘Suit yourself,’ the cabbie replied, taking a noisy slurp of his coffee, before popping a chipolata in his mouth. Charlie was paying for his breakfast this morning and he was clearly going to get the most out of her generosity.

‘You spoke to one of my colleagues yesterday?’

The cabbie nodded.

‘You told her you were working on Tuesday night?’

‘I work every night, love. Don’t have a choice.’

Charlie smiled sympathetically.

‘And you had an unusual pick-up between the hours of midnight and one a.m.’

The cabbie shrugged. ‘You get all sorts doing a night shift. But this one was a bit odd.’