M. Arlidge - Little Boy Blue

Helen had almost reached the end of the road now. Had she left her bike out of sight to avoid drawing attention to herself? If so, she was wasting her time. This was about her – this had always been about her.

Suddenly she slipped from view, disappearing around the corner and away from him. But their meeting was not far away now.

You can run, Helen. But you can’t hide.

The Incident Room was deserted. Sanderson had left it until late to return to base, hoping that the rest of the team would have called it a day, given that there were no breaking leads. As she teased the handle of the main door, she was pleased to find it locked – she didn’t want to have to explain her presence here. Letting herself in quickly, she secured the door behind her. She couldn’t risk being disturbed, given what she was about to do.

Picking her way through the desks, she made her way to Helen’s office. Her boss always operated an open-door policy and never bothered locking her office. Helen liked to be one of the foot soldiers and was at pains not to erect false barriers between her and the team. This was useful now, as Sanderson walked into her office unimpeded, but it made her betrayal all the worse. Whatever she thought of Helen now, she had always been an inspirational figure in Sanderson’s life.

Crossing to the desk, she opened one drawer, then another. But it was as she opened the bottom drawer that she found what she was after. Helen had long straight hair and always kept a hairbrush in her office, in case she suddenly found herself facing top brass or, worse, the press. Slipping on latex gloves, Sanderson picked up the brush and carefully extracted three hairs from the bristles. Dropping the hairs into a small evidence bag, she sealed her haul and placing the brush back in the drawer, pushed it firmly to.

Twenty minutes later, she was buzzing herself into the Police Scientific Services building. It was a short hop up to the lab on the third floor, where she found Meredith Walker waiting for her.

‘This had better be good,’ Meredith said on seeing her. ‘I’m missing First Dates to be here.’

‘New lead in the Elder case. DNA source. We need it done -’

‘Asap, I know.’

The forensics officer turned to begin her work.

‘Oh and Meredith…’

She turned to look at Sanderson once more, intrigued by her serious tone.

‘It’s for my eyes only.’

They ate in silence. Jane was well tuned to his moods and could tell when Jonathan had had a bad day at work. Her default tactic in those situations was not to probe or hassle him; instead she would hand him a glass of cold white wine and get on with the business of cooking their dinner.

She had cooked one of his favourites – linguini alle vongole – but he could barely taste it tonight. He was on auto-pilot, twirling the pasta slowly round his fork then lifting it to his mouth, barely conscious of what he was eating. He didn’t care a jot for the consequences of his actions today – he felt confident he could ride out any formal complaint Helen might make. It was the betrayal that burnt. He had wanted her like he hadn’t wanted any woman for years and she had pushed him away. Why had she toyed with him if she wasn’t interested?

Gardam finished eating and pushed his bowl away. Looking up, he caught Jane staring at him. She’d obviously been concerned when he returned home with two deep scratches on his cheek, but seemed to accept his story of a jogging accident. Now, though, Gardam wondered if she was having her doubts. The scratches were long, straight and clean. Would you expect that type of injury from a low-hanging branch? The question was whether she would respond to these doubts, asking him outright. He wanted her to ask. He would tell her that he hadn’t slept with another woman, but he wanted to. He would tell Jane that he found her predictable, bourgeois and anodyne – both in the bedroom and out. He would tell her that their marriage was comfortable and routine, characterized by his career ambition and her appetite for a nice, middle-class lifestyle, but that when you boiled things down, when you got down to primal needs and desires, she meant little to him. Helen was the woman who occupied his thoughts now. Despite her savage rejection, she remained there still – in his brain, in his gut, but worst of all in his heart.

It was nearly midnight and the air was biting cold. Helen walked briskly through the trees, working her way to the deepest part of the wood. She had come this route many times during her runs and knew it like the back of her hand. She was following a path that few knew of, which gave her some comfort, some respite from the paranoia now gripping her. Here at least she would be safe.

Angelique had been left for her to discover. This was a new phase in a game that was clearly directed at her. All three victims were known to Helen – she had used their services and allowed them to see a part of her that no one else did. Was jealousy driving someone to destroy these people? Or something else? And what did the text message sent by Angelique’s killer summoning Helen imply? That she was being set up? Or just that she was meant to know? Perhaps the killer had just lost patience with the real target and had decided to bring her into the game.

Time would tell, but if Helen wanted to survive, she would belatedly have to get smart. Pulling her private mobile phone from her jacket, she flipped open the back and removed the SIM card. She looked around for any signs that she was being watched, but seeing nothing, removed her lighter from her jeans and ignited the flame. It was an oddly beautiful sight – the plastic melting slowly as the metal chip of the SIM card blackened and distorted. Holding it in her gloved hand until it was destroyed, Helen dropped it to the ground, into a small hole she’d dug with the heel of her boot. Kicking earth over the hole, she then moved away quickly, clutching the phone in her hand.

On the edge of the woods, she hesitated. A couple were wandering home across the Common, arm in arm. Helen waited until they had disappeared, before venturing on to open ground. She had always felt at home here, but now she felt exposed and vulnerable. Upping her pace, she soon found herself sprinting, keen to get this over with.

Within minutes, she was by the cemetery lake. Checking the coast was clear, Helen pulled the body of her phone from her pocket and threw it as hard as she could, watching it arc through the sky before landing in the water with a splash. The noise echoed briefly then died away.

Helen had already turned on her heel and was marching towards the southern exit. She had to regroup now, which meant heading back to her flat. She would have to search every inch of it and secure every lock before she would feel safe, but she would do whatever was necessary. It was her home after all – her only safe space now – and she was damned if she was going to be driven from it.

Charlie held her hand to her mouth, sickened by the sight in front of her. It shouldn’t have made a difference to her that their third victim was a woman, but it did. Charlie could see the naked terror frozen on her pretty face, she could feel her desperation to breathe, to live, even as the oxygen in her lungs ran out. Her nostrils were dilated, her mouth wide open – one almost felt she might lurch back into life suddenly with one big breath. But her lifeless eyes, staring monotonously at the low ceiling, gave the lie to that.

She went by the professional name of Angelique, but her real name was Amy Fawcett. The flat was registered in her name and the imprint of her real life could be seen in framed photos hung up in her private space at the back of the flat. She was a musician and performance artist, who paid the bills by her extracurricular work at night. She didn’t appear to be a prostitute – there were no condoms in the flat, no history of arrest – in fact this work appeared to be a sideline, which made her death all the more tragic. There was a photo next to her bed of a young Amy gripping a viola awkwardly under her chin. It had brought tears to Charlie’s eyes when she first saw it, such was the guileless innocence and optimism of the image, and she’d had to absent herself from the team for a few moments. She needed a break – she realized that now – but quite when and how she would get one was another matter.