M. Arlidge - Little Boy Blue

The squeal of brakes snapped Charlie out of her thoughts. Moments later, she heard the front door open. Shaking hands with the agitated caretaker, she ushered him upstairs until they were once more outside flat 15. The caretaker seemed to hesitate – as if tacitly asking Charlie if she was sure she wanted to do this – but Charlie wasn’t in a mood to be put off.

‘Open it, please.’

He turned the key in the lock and the door slid open.

‘Do you want me to stay?’ he asked half hopefully.

‘You can wait outside. I’ll call you if I need you.’

Grumbling, he complied. As he traipsed down the steps, Charlie didn’t hesitate. Pulling her mobile from her pocket, she called base to request backup, then stepped confidently into the gloomy flat.

‘This is him at Thomas’s birthday party.’

Helen was sitting with Dinah Carter in her dingy living room, turning the pages of the family photo album. To Helen’s surprise, Paine seemed to have had a strong relationship with his son – but this had been cut short. Thomas’s dad was now on a metal slab across town, in the tender care of Jim Grieves.

‘When did you last see Max?’

‘Maxwell,’ Dinah corrected her, ‘he was always Maxwell to us.’

‘Of course,’ Helen replied, noting the hostility to Max’s professional name. ‘When did you last see him, Dinah?’

‘Two weeks ago. He came round to take Thomas to football practice.’

There were no tears yet, just blank shock. Dinah was still trying to grapple with what she’d been told. The grief would come later.

‘How did he seem?’

‘Fine.’

‘And did you speak to him at all after this?’

‘We exchanged texts. Making arrangements and so on, but that was it.’

‘When was the last time you received a text from him?’

Dinah was already scrolling through her phone.

‘Sunday night.’

Helen read the message, which was everyday, anodyne, then said:

‘And you’ve been separated for how long?’

‘Separated for seven years, divorced for five.’

‘And can you tell me why your marriage broke up?’

‘Different lifestyles.’

‘Can I ask what you mean by that?’

‘Really? You have to ask?’ she replied tersely.

‘His choice of work.’

Dinah nodded.

‘He wasn’t working as a dominator when you met him?’

‘No, he wasn’t. He was a labourer, for God’s sake. I’m not saying he was an angel. Neither of us were. I was open to stuff, we had a good sex life, but then he started watching a lot of porn, more and more BDSM stuff. He wanted me to go along to meets and stuff and I went to a couple out of loyalty, but I’ve never been comfortable… doing that sort of stuff in public. And once I was pregnant that was it. I called time on it and asked him to do likewise.’

‘But he didn’t?’

‘He said he tried, but he didn’t really. He was hooked. Said it was part of who he was. I don’t think it was at all. In fact it changed him, I always said.’

‘In what way?’

‘He was always very generous, very kind and he loved being a dad. But he started staying out all hours, lying about where he’d been. I loved him, but I didn’t love that side of him and in the end it all became too much.’

‘Was it you who ended the relationship?’

‘Yes. He got a flat and not long after that changed his name and…’

Helen nodded. It was clear that Dinah hated her ex-husband’s alter ego, feeling perhaps that the name change was a rejection of her, of his past.

‘Did you ever see his flat?’

‘No, I wouldn’t go round there and I wouldn’t let Thomas either.’

‘Did you ever come into contact with any of his clients? Anyone he worked with?’

‘No,’ Dinah replied impatiently. ‘I wanted nothing to do with it. Because that wasn’t him. Our Maxwell bought me flowers every Friday, took Thomas to the Saints, saved up to take us away on holiday. Whatever else came after, that was the real Maxwell. The man we both loved.’

Helen nodded, her gaze falling on the photo album that lay open in front of her. Looking at the photos of a smiling Maxwell, laughing and joking with his son, Helen reflected on how often people surprise you. She had been guilty of writing Paine off as a violent misogynist, but he was clearly capable of love, tenderness and devotion. Maybe it was impossible to know somebody else in this life. Perhaps it was only in death that one’s true self was revealed.

‘Samantha?’

The music was deafening, drowning out Charlie’s voice. Outside the flat, it had been unpleasant and jarring, within the flat it was horrendous – the insistent, high-pitched computer beat and thumping bass arrowing straight through her. Charlie’s first instinct on entering had been to turn back – her head throbbed and she felt unsteady on her feet, the vibrations crawling up through her bones, but she was here for a reason and was determined to see it through.

‘SAMANTHA?’

Her cry was once again lost in the audio barrage swirling round her. This was the third or fourth time she’d called her name now without response, so summoning her courage she pressed on. It was dark in the flat and the carpet was old and ruffled up in places, making it fertile ground for trips and slips. Charlie found a light switch on the wall to her right, but the low-energy light bulb emitted only a weak, yellowing light that barely helped.

Ploughing on, Charlie came to a doorway. Cautiously, she poked her head inside to find a deserted kitchen. The fridge door hung open and a pile of dirty pots clogged the sink. It didn’t look as if the room had been used for some time. Directly opposite was another door, this time leading to a tiny, faded bathroom. Again it was deserted and the small room smelt so overpoweringly of vomit that Charlie beat a hasty retreat.

Once more, Charlie hesitated. The source of the noise seemed to be further down the corridor, which arced round to the left ahead, disappearing from view. This was the bowels of the flat – hidden from public view – and Charlie was suddenly nervous of what she might find there.

Pulling her baton from its holster, she moved forward. There was not enough room in this place to extend it properly, you’d never get a proper swing, so she kept it short. Experience had taught her that this often worked best when it came to hand-to-hand combat in confined spaces.

She made her way carefully down the corridor. The further you got from the front door, the darker it became and she had to feel her way round the corner. The floorboards creaked loudly beneath her feet, threatening to give way, so Charlie upped her pace, eventually coming to a door that hung ajar. A sliver of light crept from within, illuminating a faded poster of a topless model that hung on the exterior of the door. Any beauty or glamour the image might have once possessed was lost now under the welter of depraved graffiti which covered it.

Taking a breath, Charlie grasped the handle and pushed the door open. This time the wave of sound knocked her back on her heels. It felt like she’d been struck, but gritting her teeth she stepped forward. The sight that met her eyes took her breath away.

The small room was in a terrible state of repair – bare boards, peeling plaster and exposed wiring hanging from the walls. There was no bed, no furniture – instead the room was piled high from floor to ceiling with dolls. Barely an inch of space was visible beneath the avalanche of painted faces, frills and stuffed limbs. Charlie stood still – she felt as if dozens of lifeless eyes were now fixed on her, chiding her for her intrusion.

Now the dolls were moving. Charlie took a step back, raising her baton in defence, flicking it out to its full length. The mound of dolls parted suddenly and from beneath them a figure emerged. It was Samantha but not as Charlie had seen her before. She was naked now, her pale form decorated only by the livid bruises on her ribs and the smeared mascara that had dried in streams on her face. Her expression was lifeless, her eyes cold and when she opened her mouth, Charlie could see that her teeth were yellow and brown. She looked the intruder up and down, then said: