M. Arlidge: Little Boy Blue

The minutes crawled by. What was he up to so late at night? Who was he with? On numerous occasions during the last few days, she’d resolved to have it out with him. But she could never find the right words and, besides, what if she was wrong? Perhaps Paul was planning a surprise for her? Wouldn’t he be devastated to be accused of betraying her?

The truth was that Sally was scared. One question can unravel a life. So though she lay awake, groping for the correct way to bring it up, she knew that she would never ask the question. Not because she didn’t want to know. But because of what she might find out if she did.

It was nearly 2 a.m. and the seventh floor was as quiet as the grave. DS Charlie Brooks stifled a yawn, as she leafed through the cold-case files on her desk. She was exhausted – the twin pressures of her recent promotion and motherhood taking their toll – but she was determined to give these cases the attention they deserved. They were unsolved murders going back ten, fifteen years – cases that were colder than cold – but the victims were all someone’s daughter, mother, father or son and those left behind craved answers as keenly now as they did at the time of their bereavement. There was so much going on during the daily grind that it was only at night, when peace finally descended at Southampton Central, that Charlie could get to grips with them. This was just one of the extra duties required of her now that she’d made the leap from Detective Constable to Detective Sergeant and she was determined not to be found wanting.

She had Helen Grace to thank for her elevation. Although Helen already had DS Sanderson to act as her deputy, she’d demanded that Charlie be promoted, following her good work on the Ethan Harris case. Helen had met resistance from those who worried that the chain of command would be compromised, but in the end Helen had got her way, convincing enough of the people who mattered that Charlie deserved promotion.

DC Charlie Brooks had thus become DS Charlene Brooks. Nobody called her that of course – she would always be Charlie to everyone at Southampton Central – but it still felt good when she heard her full name read out at the investiture ceremony. Helen was on hand that day, giving Charlie a discreet wink as she walked back to her place among the other deserving officers, trying to suppress a broad grin from breaking out over her face.

Afterwards she’d wanted to take Helen out, to say thank you to her personally, but Helen wouldn’t have it – ushering her instead to the Crown and Two Chairmen for the traditional ‘wetting’ of the new sergeant’s head. Was this to avoid any charges of favouritism, or simply because she wasn’t comfortable accepting Charlie’s thanks? It was hard to say and in any event the booze-up that followed had been a good one. The whole team had turned up and everyone, with the possible exception of Sanderson, had gone out of their way to tell Charlie how pleased they were. Given the dark days she’d endured getting to this point, Charlie had been profoundly grateful for the vote of confidence they’d given her that night.

Charlie was so wrapped up in her recollections – dim memories of a very drunken, late-night karaoke session with DC McAndrew now surfacing – that she jumped when she looked up to see the duty sergeant standing over her.

‘Sorry, miles away,’ she apologized, turning to face him.

‘Justice never sleeps, eh?’ he replied with his trademark wink. ‘This just came in. Thought you’d want to see it straight away.’

The piece of paper he handed her was scant on details – a suspected murder with no victim ID and no named witness – but there was something that immediately leapt out at her. Listed at the top of the incident sheet was the address – one she’d never been to, but which was notorious in Southampton.

The Torture Rooms.

Helen walked towards the chaos. The club had been packed to the rafters and the partygoers now spilled on to the street, ushered there by the harassed bouncers. It was an arresting sight – a dozen police officers in their high-visibility jackets drowning in a sea of PVC, chainmail and naked flesh. In different circumstances it would have made Helen smile, but the fear and shock on the faces of those present banished any such thoughts. Many of the clubbers lingered outside despite the management’s attempts to move them on, clinging to each other as they speculated about the night’s events.

Flashing her warrant card, Helen pushed through the throng towards the entrance. The uniformed officer gave her an awkward nod, embarrassed to be found standing guard over a notorious S &M club, then heaved open the vast leather doors that kept its members in and the world’s prying eyes out. Helen had never visited the Torture Rooms, and as she stepped across the threshold, she was immediately struck by the gaping staircase that descended in front of her. Deep crimson from floor to ceiling, flanked by walls studded with ingenious instruments of torture, it looked like the entrance to Hell.

Helen descended quickly, clinging to the rail to avoid slipping on the stairs that were uneven, sticky and cast in shadow. The club was comprised of a series of brick-arched vaults and Helen made her way to the largest of them now. An hour or two earlier, this had been a scene of wild abandon, but it was deserted now, save for Charlie, DC McAndrew and a number of junior officers. Only the smell lingered: sweat, spilled lager, perfume and more besides – a sweet, pungent cocktail that was at odds with the lifeless feel of the club.

‘Sorry to have called you so late. Or early. I’m not sure which it is.’

Charlie had spotted Helen and was walking towards her.

‘No problem,’ Helen replied warmly. ‘What have we got?’

‘Lover boy over there found the body,’ Charlie answered.

She indicated a pale, blond youth who was giving his statement to McAndrew. The police blanket he’d been given couldn’t completely conceal his skimpy LAPD outfit and he tugged nervously at it now, seemingly embarrassed by the presence of genuine police officers.

‘He and a friend were looking for somewhere to be intimate. They barged into one of the back rooms and found our victim. We’ve separated the pair of them but their accounts tally. They swear blind they didn’t go into the room – Meredith’s taken samples from them to check.’

‘Good. Any sign of the manager?’

‘DC Edwards is in the back office with Mr Blakeman now.’

‘Ok. Let’s do this then, shall we?’

Charlie gestured Helen towards the back of the club and they walked in that direction.

‘Any witnesses?’ Helen asked.

‘We’ve no shortage of people who want to talk, but I wouldn’t call them witnesses. It was dark, noisy and crowded. Half the punters were in costumes or masks. We’ll be lucky to get anything useful and no one is saying they saw anything “unusual”. According to the bouncers, a few punters scarpered as soon as the police turned up. We’ve asked Blakeman for a full list of their members, so we can try and track them down but -’

‘They’re unlikely to have used their real names,’ Helen interjected. ‘And I can’t see them willingly coming forward to help us. Keep on it anyway, you never know.’

Charlie nodded, but Helen could tell her mind was also turning on the peculiar complications a case such as this might offer. Given the paucity of eyewitnesses, they would probably have to rely heavily on forensic evidence, CCTV and the post mortem results if they were to make any tangible progress.

Upping her pace, Helen now found herself in the company of scene-of-crime officers. They had reached the murder scene. Slipping sterile coverings on to her shoes, Helen nodded to Charlie and, bracing herself, stepped into the room beyond.