M. Arlidge - Little Boy Blue

Sanderson finished her drink and considered the wisdom of having another. It was only a pint of weak lager – not exactly Oliver Reed standards – but still she hesitated. She’d known many a copper ruin a perfectly good career by slipping into bad habits. The Mermaid pub had been the location for several falls from grace over the years, hidden away in a back street close to Southampton Central.

She should have been at a spinning class, but somehow she couldn’t face all that shouting and positive energy tonight. The alternative was going back to her badly heated flat and empty fridge, so she’d retreated to the warmth of the pub instead, ignoring the occasional glances of the hopeful males at the bar, to enjoy an overpriced pint of continental beer.

‘Can I get you another?’

Sanderson looked up to find Emilia Garanita standing over her.

‘I’m meeting someone here shortly, but I’ve got half an hour to kill. Judging by the looks you’re getting, you could use a chaperone.’

Sanderson assumed she was lying, but didn’t immediately tell her to sling her hook. Garanita had been useful in the past and maybe some company was better than none. She would need to be on her guard, but what the heck?

Minutes later, Emilia returned with two pints.

‘I would have thought you’d be burning the midnight oil.’

‘Taking a break. We’ve done as much as we can for tonight.’

‘I dare say.’

Sanderson detected the note of sarcasm, but didn’t begrudge Emilia her scepticism. Sanderson had set several lines of enquiry in train, but she had little confidence that any of them would pay dividends in the short term. Furthermore, Helen seemed to have gone AWOL, underlining Sanderson’s sense that things were drifting. The investigation appeared to be stymied, morale fractured and her own career going nowhere. Her conflict with Charlie risked dividing the team and she still feared that her popular rival would be the natural winner.

‘So how are things going?’ Emilia said brightly.

‘Do you mind if we don’t talk shop?’

‘By all means, but if there’s anything you want to tell me, off the record…’

‘I’m good.’

‘Well, let me help you then. I know things aren’t going your way.’

Sanderson looked up from her drink.

‘It must be tough now there are two DSs, especially as Brooks and Grace are so close. I’m not a betting woman, but when Grace eventually moves on, I’d say Brooks was favourite to take her place, wouldn’t you?’

Sanderson stared at Emilia, but said nothing.

‘Must be galling being pushed out, which is why I wanted to talk to you.’

‘Look, things haven’t been easy – I’m sure you’ve heard the gossip – but I don’t do quid pro quos, Emilia. If you want to know more about the case, there’s a press conference starting in ten minutes at Southampton Central -’

‘I’m not interested in that. The kind of questions I’ve got for you can’t be asked at a press conference.’

Sanderson looked at Emilia, intrigued now in spite of herself.

‘What I’m about to tell you is in confidence. I have important information regarding these murders.’

Emilia let her words settle, then continued:

‘If we act on this information, the implications for Hampshire Police will be profound, so I need to know I can trust you. Can I trust you, Joanne?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good.’

Emilia smiled and leant in close, dropping her voice to a whisper.

‘Because I’m about to make you an offer you won’t be able to refuse.’

And now Sanderson knew Emilia had been lying about meeting a friend. She had come here for her .

‘You’re going to have to handle it on your own.’

‘I can’t go out there without an SIO. I’m a bloody Media Liaison Officer.’

‘Then do your job – liaise with the media,’ Gardam replied curtly.

‘Not having DI Grace is one thing – I’m used to that – but I can’t go out there without you. They’ll smell a rat and call me on it.’

‘Then find Brooks or Sanderson.’

‘Believe me, I’ve tried. And next time – fyi – I would appreciate a call rather than an email. Bailing at the last minute is not on -’

‘But it’s happening, so get over it. This is not a fucking debate.’

DS Maddy Wicket looked sufficiently put out for Gardam now to soften his tone.

‘Look at me. I can’t face them like this.’

Maddy stared at the scratches on his right cheek.

‘What happened?’

‘Thought I’d go for a run to make a change from the police gym. Ran straight into a bloody branch and now I look like I’ve been mugged. Hardly the best advert for local policing.’

Maddy wanted to disagree but even she saw that Gardam was right.

‘We could cancel, if you want,’ Gardam suggested. ‘Unless you want to knock it back a couple of hours and try and raise Brooks in the meantime?’

Predictably Maddy now latched on to this. She loved nothing more than riding to the rescue and started to run through their options. Gardam nodded, but he was no longer listening. He was back in the interview suite with Helen.

She had come to him. She had worked him hard, appearing frosty and defensive at first, but that had all been part of her game. Slowly she had unpeeled herself and in the last few weeks she had come on to him directly. You don’t tell a man that kind of thing without expecting a reaction. It was an explicit invitation and when he acted on it, she’d attacked him.

Was she running scared? Was it because he was married? No, her reaction was far too aggressive to be explained like that. In other circumstances, he would have had her up on an assault charge, but he couldn’t do that here. Had she done this kind of thing before? He rather suspected she had. Her previous boss had been a woman but the one before that had been a man. He had left suddenly having crossed swords with her – had she tricked him in the same fashion?

She needed saving from herself – she wanted to be saved – and she’d led him to believe that he was the man to do so. He loved her pain, but wanted to purge her of it, to protect her from the darkness out there. He had always thought of her as an injured bird requiring warmth, comfort and love. But now he knew that Helen Grace was nothing more than a heartless prick tease.

Helen shut her front door, locking it behind her. Leaning against it, she closed her eyes and tried not to cry. She had left the station and headed straight home, driving too fast, barely registering the other drivers. Her head was pounding and she now pulled her cigarettes from her pocket, but they tumbled from her grasp. Her hands were shaking – she was still in shock.

She kept replaying the last couple of hours in her head, barely believing they were real. It was over twenty years since anyone had been sexually aggressive towards her and she would never have expected it to happen at Southampton Central. The station had been her sanctuary for so long, the place where she could be a normal, functioning human being – but Gardam had destroyed all that.

What the fuck was he thinking? She’d told him about herself in confidence and as a friend. She’d been worried about the impact of her past on the case, but that was it. She had never encouraged his interest in her. Quite the opposite: she had put his close attention down to him being a good manager, a front-line officer who knew what it was like to lead a major investigation. What signs had he picked up on to make him think that he could behave like that?

It was scarcely believable and she wanted to wish it all away, but she still had his skin under her nails and the scent of his aftershave on her face. She hurried to the bathroom and, pulling off her jacket and blouse, scooped handfuls of hot water over her face, neck and hands. Before long her hair was dripping, her make-up smeared, but she was clean.