M. Arlidge - Little Boy Blue

‘Don’t tell me something’s happened to him?’ Samantha came back calmly.

‘Please answer the question. Was that you?’

Samantha sat back in her chair.

‘Yes.’

‘So you kept your appointment?’

Samantha nodded.

‘Did he beat you?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘So how did you get your bruises?’

For the first time, Samantha hesitated, her cockiness temporarily deserting her.

‘I forget.’

‘Not good enough.’

‘I honestly can’t remember. I was in a bit of a state last night.’

‘Why?’

‘None of your fucking business.’

It was aimed directly at Helen. She sidestepped it and continued:

‘Where were you between the hours of ten thirty p.m. and six thirty a.m. last night?’

‘At my flat.’

‘Can anyone verify that?’

‘No.’

‘How about Tuesday night? Cast your mind back three days – where were you then?’

‘Out.’

Helen said nothing. The silence sat heavy in the room.

‘I was at the ball, ok? It’s a very popular event.’

‘To be clear, you were at the Annual Ball at the Torture Rooms nightclub.’

‘The Torture Rooms nightclub – Jesus Christ, you sound like my grandmother.’

‘Yes or no?’

‘Yes.’

Helen scribbled a note to herself to call Meredith. If Samantha’s presence at the club that night could be confirmed, it would make a massive difference to their case. Otherwise they would always be open to the defence of false confession – a thorny problem in high-profile cases.

‘Did you encounter Jake Elder on Tuesday night?’

‘I saw him mooching about like a bear with a sore head. Poor boy looked like he needed cheering up.’

‘Did you talk to him? Interact with him?’

‘Did I… interact with him?’ Samantha replied, wrapping her mouth round the words. ‘Not that I recall, but then the night is a bit of a blur. As your colleague has probably told you, I have an issue with alcohol. I’d pay for the good stuff, but as it is…’

‘So nothing out of the ordinary happened that night?’

‘No. Same old, same old…’

‘Have you ever used wet sheets?’ Helen asked, changing tack sharply.

‘Of course.’

‘Other forms of restraints? Leather straps, hog ties -’

‘Who hasn’t?’

‘A witness – a cabbie – picked you up that night after the Annual Ball. Said you were in a terrible state. Angry, distressed, unpredictable. If it was such a mundane evening, why were you so affected by it?’

Samantha said nothing, but Helen could see her eyes narrowing.

‘What happened that night, Samantha?’

There was a long pause, as Samantha toyed with a broken nail. Then she leant forward, rewarding Helen with an ample view of her cleavage as she did so, before whispering:

‘That’s for me to know. And you to find out.’

Gardam leant against the two-way mirror, his eyes glued to the contest in front of him. In his younger days, he had loved the tussle of suspect and interviewer, revelling in the feints and parries, the carefully laid traps and elegant evasions, but he seldom got the chance to enjoy it now. His was a desk job, important but managerial, far from the front line, far from the fun. So he had to amuse himself vicariously, watching others do the job he once loved.

The experience was always sweeter when the interview took place under high pressure. The discovery of a second body and the ensuing media excitement had left no one in Southampton Central in any doubt about the need for a quick resolution to the case. Two men had been sadistically murdered, but worse still their initial suspect now languished in hospital, following a botched suicide attempt. Southampton was being made to look like a den of vice and its police force far from competent – Gardam had already had the police commissioner, the local MP and the Mayor on the phone, bending his ear about it.

His get-out-of-jail card in these situations was always Helen. She was an officer of such standing that nobody – least of all the local politicians, who liked to appear strong on law and order – could take serious issue with the way investigations were run. Yes, there were false starts and accidents, and you could never predict how people caught up in cases like these would react, but Helen’s track record at getting results in the big investigations was second to none.

Gardam had used her name many times to smooth ruffled feathers, assuring his critics that justice would prevail, and in his heart he did believe that this case would be no exception. But another part of him knew that it was already very different. He and Helen had worked together on complicated investigations before, but never as closely as this. Something profound had changed in their relationship.

Was he genuinely falling in love with her? He’d had office crushes before, but he’d never been tempted to act on them. This was something else. She had opened herself up to him . He had replayed their recent conversation over and over in his mind. Did she know how he felt about her? Was it even possible she knew that he watched her? He hoped not because that made her confession even more unprompted. She had bared her soul to him, revealing things she hadn’t confided to anyone else. He had the strong sense that she did this not just to unburden herself, but also to test him, to see how he would react. If he’d been obviously shocked or judgemental she might have backed off, but he had been accepting and encouraging, so she had elaborated, drawing him into her world. He hoped in time she would go further.

But that was for another day. Now there was work to be done. Still, it didn’t stop Gardam drinking in his subordinate now, noting the way she spoke, the way she held herself, the manner in which she teased and coaxed her suspect towards her traps. It was magical to watch and Gardam knew that his other duties would be neglected until she was done. While she was here, performing for him, the rest of the world could go hang.

‘So why do you do it?’

Samantha arched an eyebrow, but said nothing, examining her nails.

‘Is it about you? The victims? What is it about them that gets you riled?’

‘Why should I hate them ? They are nobodies.’

‘So maybe it’s about you, Michael.’

‘Don’t call me that.’

‘It’s your name, isn’t it? Michael James Parker.’ Helen pulled a couple more sheets of paper from her file. ‘Born just outside Portsmouth, second child of Anna and Nicholas Parker, brother to Leoni. Are your parents still alive?’

‘No, thank fuck.’

‘But Leoni is. She’s had to post bail for you on a number of occasions, hasn’t she?’

‘If you say so.’

‘I see you’ve got form for credit card fraud. Tell me about that.’

‘I was working at a café. Management took all the tips and I needed some money to survive -’

‘So you lifted customers’ credit cards and then what?’

‘I feathered my nest.’

‘Until you got caught.’

‘Precisely.’

‘Also charges of affray, assault… and false imprisonment.’

‘That was bullshit.’

‘Your victim didn’t think so.’

‘It was a game that went wrong.’

‘Went wrong how?’

‘I thought the guy had balls. Turned out he hadn’t.’

‘It’s never your fault, is it? Everything we’ve talked about so far -’

‘Why should it be my fault?’

Samantha snarled as she said it. Her female carapace was slipping now, her voice low and breathy, revealing a masculine side that was usually hidden from view.

‘Tell me, when did you realize that you wanted to be Samantha, rather than Michael?’ Helen said, changing tack once more.