M. Arlidge - Little Boy Blue

‘Anything else? We’re light on hard evidence at the moment,’ Helen went on.

‘Given the environment his body was found in, his clothing is surprisingly clean. I did find some fresh saliva on his cheek and right ear, however. I doubt it’s his own, given the position of it.’

‘Can we fast-track the analysis?’ Helen said quickly. ‘We need something concrete we can work with -’

‘I’ll do what I can, but I’ve got three other cadavers to process and everyone wants things yesterday, don’t they?’ Grieves grumbled.

‘Thank you, Jim. Quick as you can, please.’

Helen squeezed his arm and turned on her heel. Grieves opened his mouth to protest, but he was too slow. Helen was already gone.

Helen walked back to her Kawasaki, lost in thought. Barring one occasion, she had only ever encountered Jake in his professional guise. They had met at his flat, where the lighting was dim and conversation kept to a minimum. Over time they had got to know each other better, but they were still playing roles during their sessions and Helen now realized how little she knew her friend. She had certainly never seen him as she had this morning – naked and unadorned, under the powerful glare of the mortuary lights.

She’d remembered that he had an eagle’s head tattooed on his neck, but had never asked him what it signified. She knew he didn’t speak to his parents, but had never asked who they were or where Jake was brought up. She knew he had an eye for the boys as well as the girls, but didn’t know which came first or whether he was looking for the same things as everyone else – commitment, security, a family. She wished now that she had asked more questions of someone she considered a true friend.

He had in the past thought of her as more than that. During the Ben Foster case, Jake had taken to following Helen, such was the level of his romantic obsession with her. She had put a stop to that, cutting off their relationship for a while, and to her surprise it had worked. When they had last met, by chance in a city centre bar, he’d been seriously dating a guy he’d recently met. He seemed happy and together, so much so that when he texted Helen a few months later, asking if she wanted to resume their sessions, she’d been sorely tempted. In the end, caution had won out, however, and she’d made alternative arrangements, keen to avoid messy emotional entanglements. But she still often thought of him.

Could the boyfriend be involved? It would be interesting to find out the status of their relationship and whether he frequented the Torture Rooms too. Had their romance been one long seduction, building up to this savage murder? It was tempting to head round to Jake’s flat now, tear it apart in the hunt for concrete leads, but to do so without an official ID of the victim would be foolish in the extreme. It was agonizing to have to wait – it felt like she was deliberately letting his killer off the hook – but she knew Jake had been picked up for drugs offences previously and that, once his tissue samples had been processed, his identity would be swiftly established.

Then the investigation would begin in earnest. The thought cheered and chilled Helen in equal measure. She knew her team would leave no stone unturned in their hunt for Jake’s killer, but what might their interrogation of Jake’s life mean for her? Had he kept records of their meetings? Any tokens of her? Had she left her mark on him? It was over two years since she’d used his services, but it was very possible that gaining justice for Jake would result in her exposure.

Part of her wanted to run from this, but her better part knew she had to run towards it. Whatever the possible consequences for her, she had to find his killer. She owed that – and a whole lot more – to her old friend. So climbing on to her bike, she fired up the engine and kicked away the brake. Her heart was thumping, she felt sick to her stomach, but there was no point delaying the inevitable, so, pulling back the throttle, she sped away from the mortuary in the direction of Southampton Central.

Detective Superintendent Jonathan Gardam stood by his office window, looking out at the world. It was not the finest view Southampton had to offer, but it afforded him a discreet vantage point on the station’s car park below.

Helen Grace had just arrived and was now dismounting her bike. She was a creature of habit, always choosing the same spot, always removing her helmet and leathers in the same precise order. Whether this was driven by logic or superstition, Gardam couldn’t tell. He knew that her passion for motorbikes was a legacy of her childhood – in one unguarded moment she had confessed to stealing mopeds as a teenager – but beyond that he knew little. The inner workings of her mind were as much a mystery to him as they always had been.

So he watched her from afar. He had a pretty good idea of her routine now – when she went to the gym, when she went running – and he timed his arrival at the station to coincide with hers. He would be stationed at his window by the time she walked away from her bike, running her fingers through her long hair to breathe new life into it after its temporary constraint. She was always so focused on the business in hand that she never looked up, never clocked his face at the window. He often wondered how she would react if she did. Would she be alarmed to see him there or would she offer him a smile and carry on? He had pictured the situation many times and in his head it was always the latter.

She was later than usual today, following an early-morning trip to the mortuary. Gardam had had to delay his first meeting by half an hour, so he could be in place to receive her. It had put his PA in a mood, but it had been worth it – Helen looked particularly beguiling this morning. She was unfailingly attractive – he had always been captivated by her Amazonian figure, pale skin and fuck-you attitude – but as he’d got to know her better, he had seen a deeper beauty. There was a vulnerability there that was hidden from all except those closest to her. This fragile quality was very much in evidence today. Pale, distracted, deep in thought, his best DI looked utterly haunted.

Gardam pressed his fingers to the glass. As so often these days, he wanted to reach out and comfort her. But she remained beyond his reach. He hoped in time to change that, but for now all he could do was watch.

This was better than she could possibly have imagined. She had heard the stories about the Torture Rooms before of course, but had never had the inclination – or the bottle perhaps – to investigate further. Seeing the club now for the first time, she felt a surge of excitement – you couldn’t have dreamt up a better backdrop for a gruesome murder. The moral majority out there would hoover this up, scared and titillated in equal measure.

Emilia pulled out her Nikon and got to work, snapping the exotic instruments of torture and restraint. Her time here was limited and she knew she had to work fast. Gaining access had been harder than usual – the manager and most of the bartenders had gone to ground – so she’d had to track down the security company who usually provided the muscle on the doors. The first two guys she’d contacted had told her to sling her hook, but the third one was twice divorced, with a drinker’s thirst, and needed the money.

‘You can have twenty minutes, but that’s it. I need this job and I’m not going to get fired on your account.’

Emilia had agreed, knowing that once she was in there, she could push it to half an hour. Once people have your money in their pocket, they become a bit less grand.

Having photographed the dance floor area, she headed swiftly down the corridor to the crime scene. But it was taped up and the door firmly secured. So, feigning a weak bladder, Emilia scurried back down the corridor, making her way to the small box room at the back that served as the club’s office.