M. Arlidge - Little Boy Blue

And there was Angelique, lying on the bed. She wasn’t moving, so checking the corners of the room, Helen moved forward. As she g0t closer, it became clear that Helen had come too late. Angelique lay there in her catsuit, her limbs tethered to the four corners of the bed with Japanese bondage cords. Her face was blue and as Helen now leant over she saw that the unfortunate dominatrix had a ball gag secured in her mouth. Worse still her entire head, from chin to crown, was covered in clingfilm.

Helen had been right all along. She had just walked into a trap.

‘Now tell me, what happened to your colleague? DC McAndrew, was it? I rather liked her.’

Sanderson smiled tightly, as Maurice Finnan presented her with a cup of tea and ushered her towards the living room.

‘On operational duties, I’m afraid.’

‘And now they’ve sent a sergeant along. I am going up in the world.’

It was said lightly, but Sanderson sensed the question behind Maurice’s joke. Clearly he was sharp as a tack beneath his cultivated eccentricity.

‘Nothing too exciting, I’m afraid. Just some follow-up work.’

Maurice sipped his tea and said nothing.

‘You very helpfully provided us with a list of vehicle registrations that you’ve seen near Jake Elder’s flat.’

‘I did.’

‘Would you mind if we went through a few of them with you now… ?’

Maurice was only too happy to help, so Sanderson crossed the room and sat down next to him. Maurice pulled his reading glasses from his top pocket and cast an eye over the list of registrations.

‘This one, DE59 VFB. A blue Transit. Can you remember the driver at all?’

Maurice thought for a second, then replied:

‘No, I’m afraid I can’t. Normally I’ve got a pretty good memory for these things, but…’

‘What about this one? BD05 TRD – a Corsa.’

‘Little fellow. Raincoat, with one of the little rucksack things for computers -’

‘Laptop bag.’

‘That’s it.’

‘And VF08 BHU. An Astra estate -’

‘Big guy, unshaven, a labourer or something like that.’

‘Very good and what about this one – LB52 WTC?’

‘Well, that was an unusual one – a motorbike.’

‘Right. And the driver?’

‘A woman. That’s what made her stand out. I didn’t think they were into that kind of thing.’

‘Could you describe her for me?’

Sanderson took down the particulars, barely believing what she was hearing. She hadn’t wanted to believe Emilia at first, telling her to take a running jump. But as the journalist had laid out the evidence in front of her, troubling questions had been raised in her mind. Garanita had photographic evidence going back several years that suggested Helen had used Jake Elder’s services and it appeared she knew Max Paine too. Why had she withheld this from her team? What did she have to hide? Sanderson’s head had been spinning by the end of their conversation and she had hurried here, hoping against hope that Maurice would contradict Emilia’s story, but he hadn’t. Quite the opposite. He had in fact just given her a perfect description of Helen Grace.

She’d called in sick, but actually had never felt better – her lie was simply designed to let her work at home in peace. In the past, when she was still learning the ropes, she’d come a cropper by being too open about her stories. Leads had been ‘borrowed’, witnesses snaffled, and suddenly her exclusives had become yesterday’s news. There was no way Emilia was making the same mistake again. Not with the story that was going to define her career.

It was clear from her chat with Sanderson that no suspicion had yet alighted on Helen Grace. The loyal DS was disbelieving at first, but over the course of their chat she could see a step change in her perception of her boss, but also in her view of Emilia. She sensed that Sanderson was dissatisfied professionally and she’d played on that – highlighting the opportunities Grace’s exposure might throw up, while also appealing to her sense of duty. One bad apple can make the whole force look bad, she’d said, somehow managing to keep a straight face as she did so.

Sanderson had bitten on it and run off to do her bidding, leaving Emilia free to write her copy. She had already drafted the leader page – a masterpiece of pithy exposé – and had the building blocks in place for pages two and three. What she needed now was some context.

People thought they knew Helen Grace, but she’d had such a rich and difficult life that it was a story that was always worth retelling. It was Emilia’s profile piece at the centre of the paper that would be the true heart of this story – after all, nobody had better access to or a deeper history with Grace than she did.

In the interests of fairness, Emilia had listed Grace’s many triumphs – the unmasking of Ella Matthews, her heroics in rescuing Ruby Sprackling, not to mention her apprehension of a pair of serial arsonists. Set against this was Grace’s propensity for violence – the fatal shooting of her own sister most notably – and her dark obsession with sado-masochism.

Like Emilia, Helen Grace was a woman with two faces. Looked at from one side, she was Southampton’s finest serving police officer. Looked at from another, she was a deeply troubled woman who seemed to curse everything and everyone she touched. Some, like her loyal comrade Charlie Brooks, survived the ordeal, but others were not so lucky. Mark Fuller had killed himself while in captivity, her nephew, Robert Stonehill, had had to flee after Helen exposed him, and at least three serving police officers – two of them at Detective Superintendent level – had had to resign after crossing swords with her. Disaster, death and violence seemed to stalk Helen wherever she went.

Her whole life seemed to have been a prelude to the events of the last few days. Jake Elder had been obsessed with her – he had stalked her and been assaulted as a result. Max Paine had also pushed his luck with her and, by the looks of the photo his widow had given Emilia, had been viciously attacked. Emilia had asked around and discovered Paine had a predilection for unwanted advances. Emilia could see the scene clearly – Paine trying it on and receiving a nasty beating for his pains. In their differing ways – one emotionally, one sexually – they had both tried to force themselves upon Helen Grace and paid a heavy price for their boldness.

How had this all come about? Had their paths crossed together by chance or was it by design? Had they threatened to expose Helen, as Emilia had previously, unless she played ball? Or had Helen’s anger been simmering for years, just awaiting a spark to ignite it?

Emilia had historic photos of Grace visiting Elder, plus a positive ID and testimony from David Simons confirming that they had a troubled relationship. She also had robust evidence from Dinah Carter and a decent ID – how many well-known female officers with a penchant for sado-masochism were there? Emilia had most of the answers now, but still this final piece of the puzzle eluded her.

Why had Helen Grace finally crossed the line? What had finally pushed her into becoming a murderer?

He didn’t have to wait long. The front door opened slowly and moments later she emerged, hurrying off down the street in the direction she’d come from. From his elevated position, she seemed so small, so vulnerable, that for a moment he almost felt sorry for her. But it was only a fleeting emotion – the rage that had sustained him for so long devouring this brief spasm of pity.

What was she thinking now? She had been at the scene for a short time, but had reaped a bitter harvest. By contrast, he had enjoyed himself enormously. This murder had been the most meaningful. And the most satisfying. Angelique had begged for mercy once she realized what was happening – as much as you can beg when you’ve got a plastic ball clamped into your mouth. But he had barely heard her as he went about his business – it was so much noise in the background. She was just an offering – an offering to lay at the feet of Helen Grace.