Little Boy Blue: DI Helen Grace 5 (A DI Helen Grace Thriller) (10 page)

He grasped the metal bar and pulled down hard. The weights at the other end of the rope shot up and he held them in that position, his broad shoulder muscles taking the strain. He counted down the seconds in his head – thirty, twenty, ten – before easing the weights back down to base. They touched down without making a noise, bringing a smile to his face. It was stupid to revel in the finesse he brought to the job, but not everyone could do it, so why not?

Rising from the bench, Max Paine surveyed the scene around him. This was by far the most expensive gym in Southampton – complete with floor-to-ceiling views of the Solent – but you got what you paid for. It had the latest equipment, was quiet and full of professional gym bunnies. A particularly well-toned pair of girls wandered past now as he towelled himself down and he took the opportunity to scrutinize their tight backsides. They pretended to be deep in conversation, but they knew he was checking them out and loved it. Max made a mental note to say a few words to them before he left.

He was still following their progress towards the treadmills, when his attention was caught by one of the large plasma screens on the wall. There were TVs everywhere in this place, showing sports, lifestyle programmes,
soaps and of course the ubiquitous game shows that clogged up daytime viewing. He generally ignored them – he was here to exercise – but this time what he saw stopped him in his tracks.

The news was playing, showing a press conference with Hampshire Police. Max didn’t recognize the guy leading it and his headphones were switched off, so he couldn’t hear what he was saying – but his eye was drawn to the headline bar at the bottom of the screen:
TORTURE ROOMS MURDER
. Dropping his towel on the bench, he hurried over to the screen, tapping his console to tune into the relevant channel.

‘… in custody. We won’t be releasing a name, but we can confirm that he is a male in his forties who lives locally.’

Max Paine listened intently. He had been to the Torture Rooms on numerous occasions and had been scouring local media for updates since he’d heard the news of Jake Elder’s death.

‘That’s all I’m prepared to say for now. As you know, Detective Inspector Grace is leading the investigation, and I’m very confident that we’ll make swift progress in this case. There is no need for members of the public to be alarmed as we are currently treating this as a one-off incident.’

Max stood still. Had he been hearing things? No, the guy had definitely said DI Grace. Suddenly he laughed out loud, provoking startled looks from the gym bunnies nearby. This was too good to be true. No, this was
priceless
.

All thoughts of his workout were now long gone. As he strode towards the exit, his mind turned on the possibilities this surprising development threw up. This was an opportunity to make some serious money. What he had to say would pay for his expensive gym membership and a lot more besides.

‘So this was your third visit to the Torture Rooms?’

‘Yes,’ Jackson replied, without choosing to elaborate further.

Helen nodded, but didn’t push it. He had clearly never spoken about this to anyone before.

‘What time would you say you got there?’

‘Around eight p.m.’

‘Did you go with someone else or –’

‘I was alone.’

The way he said it made Helen think he had been ‘alone’ for some time.

‘This is not something I’ve shared,’ he continued. ‘It’s not something I want shared. It’s been a process for me.’

‘You’d told Jake Elder though.’

Jackson looked up sharply at Helen, then lowered his gaze once more.

‘How did you first encounter him?’

‘I went to a Munch. They’re –’

‘We know what they are. Go on.’

‘Well, I’d looked at some things online. I suppose I’ve always been attracted to men. But I’ve never told anyone, never done anything about it until recently. Maybe it’s because the kids are older, because I’ve got more
time on my hands. Don’t get me wrong, I love my wife, but there’s a part of me that’s just …’

Helen nodded, but said nothing. There was more coming.

‘I liked the S&M stuff. Can’t say why. I’ve got a stressful job, a busy life … but maybe that’s just excuses.’

‘And Mr Elder … ?’

‘Someone at the Munch mentioned him, so I got in touch. We had a session at his flat and well … that was pretty much it for me.’

Helen nodded. It was so odd to hear him articulating feelings
she
had felt, but she kept a poker face. She wanted more than this discursive preamble.

‘I went as often as I could. Spent I don’t know how much money. After a while, it became unsustainable so I thought I’d venture on to the scene to see if I could find some more … companionship.’

‘That must have been risky,’ Charlie interjected.

‘Of course it was, given my position … but there’s a kind of unwritten rule about these places. If you see someone you know – someone you recognize from normal life – well, you never mention it.’

‘What happens on tour stays on tour.’

‘Something like that.’

‘And what about Tuesday night?’ Helen said, inserting herself into the conversation once more. ‘When and how did you meet Jake Elder?’

‘I saw him on the dance floor. He looked bored. He looked … sad.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘What happened next?’

‘I beckoned to him,’ Jackson replied cautiously. ‘I beckoned to him and he came over. I suggested … I suggested he might like to go somewhere with me.’

‘Did you touch him?’

‘A little. Just to get him in the mood …’

‘Why was your saliva on his cheek and ear?’

Jackson sighed, fidgeting.

‘Why, Paul?’

‘Because I sucked his ear.’

‘Ok.’

‘I whispered a suggestion of what we might do and then … then I sucked his earlobe. I don’t know why I did it …’

‘Then what?’ Helen persisted. She could sense Jackson retreating inwards. These confessions were taking their toll.

‘He turned me down.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘You’d have to ask him that,’ Jackson laughed bitterly, earning a reproachful look from his lawyer. ‘He said it was because he didn’t want to blur the lines between the personal and professional, but who knows?’

Helen eyed Jackson carefully. It was a convenient excuse and Jake wasn’t around to contradict him. Was his bitterness just an act?

‘Did you go into the rooms at the back of the club?’

‘No.’

‘So we definitely won’t find any traces of you – hairs, skin, prints – in those rooms?’

‘I never got near them.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know, you tell me. Maybe it just wasn’t my night.’

‘A handsome guy like you?’

‘There’s no accounting for taste,’ Jackson spat back sourly.

‘Are you sure Jake didn’t accept your invitation and take you backstairs?’

‘Look, I’ve told you what happened. If you don’t believe me …’

‘Do you like the rough stuff?’

‘Don’t answer that,’ his lawyer interjected.

‘For God’s sake, Paul, our guys are poring over the search history on your phone. We’re picking up your computers – from home and work. We are going to find out what you’ve been looking at, so do
not
hold out on me now.’

‘Yes, I like the hard stuff.’

‘Paul …’ his lawyer warned gently, but his client appeared not to hear him.

‘Have you ever watched Edge Play? Online or in the flesh?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you ever participated in Edge Play?’

‘Occasionally.’

‘Have you used wet sheets?’

‘Yes, I have, but that doesn’t mean –’

‘Doesn’t mean what?’

‘That I did anything to Jake.’

‘Why would it mean that? I haven’t mentioned wet sheets in connection with his death. Neither has the press, so how would you know that?’

‘I wouldn’t … I was just saying that …’

‘Did you kill him, Paul?’

‘No …’

‘Did you take him to one of the back rooms that night, tie him up –’

‘No, a hundred times no …’

‘Punish him as he deserved to be punished?’

‘I would never do that.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s not my thing.’

‘You’re contradicting yourself now, Paul. We’ve all just heard you say –’

‘I like the rough stuff, but –’

‘But what?’

‘But I’m always the bottom, ok, never the top,’ he finally said, glaring at Helen.

‘Sorry, I’m a bit –’ his lawyer began.

‘Bottom means the submissive, the top is the dominator,’ Helen interjected, keen to keep the focus on Jackson.

‘I … I don’t
like
to dominate.’ Jackson’s voice faltered. ‘I want to be humiliated, abused, degraded. That’s why … that’s why I could never do something like this.’

Jackson raised his gaze to meet Helen’s and she was surprised to see that tears were threatening.

‘Please believe me. I didn’t kill Jake Elder.’

‘Is he lying?’

Helen and Jonathan Gardam were huddled in the smokers’ yard, away from the prying ears of colleagues, lawyers and Gardam’s PA.

‘Hard to say for sure. He sounds genuine, but there’s a lot that links him to Elder, to the scene. Also, Lynn Picket banks with Santander – it would have been the easiest thing in the world for him to lift her card details off the system and use them for his own devices.’

‘Would he really shit on his own doorstep like that?’

‘How could you link him to it? Nearly a hundred people work in that bank, thousands more have access to their system.’

‘So what’s our next move?’

‘I’m going to go back to Meredith, see if we can link Jackson to the crime scene. They’ve got mountains of stuff – cigarettes, beer bottles, hair, spit, semen – if we can put him in the room, then we can prove he’s lying.’

‘And if we can’t? What does your instinct tell you?’

‘I don’t really believe in the copper’s gut,’ Helen replied, dropping her cigarette to the floor. Nicotine was doing nothing for her today, but that still didn’t stop her wanting another.

‘You must have a view though,’ Gardam persisted.

‘I’d be tempted to believe him, in the absence of evidence to the contrary.’

‘Why?’

‘He was in the right place at the right time but … he just doesn’t seem the type to me. This murder was unusual, elaborate and provocative. It’s a statement killing – whoever did this
wants
our attention. Maybe he’s a good actor, but my feeling is that Jackson doesn’t want the world to know that he likes men, likes S&M …’

Gardam nodded, even as his eye was caught by the discarded cigarette on the floor. A smudge of Helen’s lipstick was still visible on the tip.

‘He’s married, got twin boys,’ Helen continued. ‘He’s leading a double life and my instinct is that he wants to keep it that way.’

The irony of this comment wasn’t lost on Helen – this case just kept rebounding against her – and she toyed with her lighter to avoid looking directly at Gardam.

‘Do you want to hold him?’ Gardam said, interrupting Helen’s chain of thought.

‘I’m not inclined to. He’s not a flight risk – he’s too anchored in Southampton – and I don’t want to put too much pressure on him, in case we’re wrong. He seems pretty fragile to me.’

‘Well, I’ll back whatever you decide.’

‘Thank you.’

Gardam offered Helen another cigarette, which she took without hesitation.

‘I know they’re not good for you,’ he said, lighting Helen’s cigarette before fixing one for himself, ‘but I
can’t do without them. I have to smoke them here as Jane thinks I’ve given up.’

Helen nodded, but didn’t play along. She’d never been comfortable with the way male colleagues deceived their wives, then enjoyed publicizing the fact.

There was a brief silence, then Gardam asked:

‘Are you ok, Helen?’

‘Sure. Why do you ask?’

‘You look very pale, that’s all. Is anything the matter?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Helen lied. ‘I’m always like this during a big investigation. I’m not a good sleeper at the best of times, so …’

‘I’m the same,’ Gardam replied. ‘Thank God for cigarettes, eh?’

‘Indeed.’

They smoked for a moment in silence. Then Helen said:

‘I’d better get back.’

Gardam nodded and Helen walked off, squeezing the last vestiges of nicotine from her dying cigarette as she did so. Gardam watched her cross the yard, his eyes never straying from her, until eventually she disappeared from view and he was left alone.

She looked in the mirror and saw darkness staring back.

It wasn’t the scratches on her arms or the faint shadow of bruising on her face. It was what she saw in her eyes that shocked her. Something dying, an emptiness taking hold. She had no idea how long she’d been sitting here, drinking herself in, but somehow she couldn’t find it in herself to move. The last couple of days had taken so much out of her.

Draining the last drops of her vodka, she reached for her mascara and resumed her preparations. For most of her life she had been friendless, but if there was a staple in her life – apart from self-abuse, drugs and the dolls of course – it was this. Her war paint had been part of her for as long as she could remember and she never felt whole without it. There was something soothing, exciting and empowering about the ritual of self-improvement and she loved the feeling of the brushes against her skin. She had always been into this kind of thing – her mother had once said she was very intuitive about ‘texture’. It was one of the few kind things she had ever said to her.

Putting the brushes down, she pulled the tub of hair gel towards her. Scooping up a large handful, she smeared it over her hair and scalp. She often wore her hair up – in a riotous, peacocking display – but not today.
Running her hands over her crown, she worked hard to flatten her hair. She liked the severe, asexual look it gave her – she was determined that there would not be a hair out of place.

Satisfied, she rose and walked over to the wardrobe. This was the most painful part and best done quickly. Pulling the whalebone corset from the wardrobe, she stepped into it and raised it up and over her chest. Grasping the strings, she pulled as hard as she could. The corset gripped her ribcage, punching the air from her lungs. She gasped but didn’t relent, pulling still harder. She loved the feeling of breathlessness, of constriction, of pain. After thirty seconds, she finally relented, loosening the strings a notch and tying them in a neat bow. Surveying herself in the mirror, she was pleased by what she saw. She looked sleek, smooth, in control.

Time was pressing now, so she slid into her jumpsuit, reaching over her shoulder to zip herself up. Then marching into the bathroom, she applied the final touches. Coloured contact lenses, changing her irises from light blue to a deep chocolate brown. Her hair looked dark and slick, her face uncharacteristically pale and the eyes that stared back at her were those of a stranger. She didn’t recognize herself. She hoped others wouldn’t either.

Her preparations were complete now, so there was no point hesitating. Switching off the light, she walked quickly towards the front door. It was time to do battle again.