Little Boy Blue: DI Helen Grace 5 (A DI Helen Grace Thriller) (17 page)

Charlie hammered on the door, but still there was no response. She had followed Samantha up to the fourth floor, calling out her name. But she appeared not to hear and in any event she was too slow to stop her entering flat 15, slamming the door behind. By the time she made it there, the music had already started up. Deafening techno shook the walls of the building and no amount of knocking could raise its inhabitant. What was she doing there?

Charlie walked across to the landing window and looked down on to the street below. Having spent a good five minutes wearing the skin off her knuckles, she’d given up knocking and descended to the entrance once more. Just inside the main door, next to the fire regulations, was a number for the caretaker. He was clearly more used to dealing with leaking roofs and blocked toilets, but once Charlie impressed upon him the urgency of the situation, he had been happy to comply. So why was he taking so long to get here?

This was a calculated risk and Charlie knew it. Technically she should have waited for a warrant, but as long as her entry was not illegal, she would probably be fine. Samantha was only a tenant and the caretaker had the authority to open her door. Furthermore, she had failed
to stop when requested to do so by a police officer … Charlie knew she was scrabbling a bit, but she would need to have her story off pat, should the need arise. Helen would see through it, but might let her off if the arrest proved decisive and something told Charlie she needed to get into that flat as fast as possible. Samantha could be doing anything in there. Destroying evidence, preparing to flee, perhaps even making an attempt on her life? What was the reason for the deafening music? What was she trying to hide?

The squeal of brakes snapped Charlie out of her thoughts. Moments later, she heard the front door open. Shaking hands with the agitated caretaker, she ushered him upstairs until they were once more outside flat 15. The caretaker seemed to hesitate – as if tacitly asking Charlie if she was sure she wanted to do this – but Charlie wasn’t in a mood to be put off.

‘Open it, please.’

He turned the key in the lock and the door slid open.

‘Do you want me to stay?’ he asked half hopefully.

‘You can wait outside. I’ll call you if I need you.’

Grumbling, he complied. As he traipsed down the steps, Charlie didn’t hesitate. Pulling her mobile from her pocket, she called base to request backup, then stepped confidently into the gloomy flat.

‘This is him at Thomas’s birthday party.’

Helen was sitting with Dinah Carter in her dingy living room, turning the pages of the family photo album. To Helen’s surprise, Paine seemed to have had a strong relationship with his son – but this had been cut short. Thomas’s dad was now on a metal slab across town, in the tender care of Jim Grieves.

‘When did you last see Max?’

‘Maxwell,’ Dinah corrected her, ‘he was always Maxwell to us.’

‘Of course,’ Helen replied, noting the hostility to Max’s professional name. ‘When did you last see him, Dinah?’

‘Two weeks ago. He came round to take Thomas to football practice.’

There were no tears yet, just blank shock. Dinah was still trying to grapple with what she’d been told. The grief would come later.

‘How did he seem?’

‘Fine.’

‘And did you speak to him at all after this?’

‘We exchanged texts. Making arrangements and so on, but that was it.’

‘When was the last time you received a text from him?’

Dinah was already scrolling through her phone.

‘Sunday night.’

Helen read the message, which was everyday, anodyne, then said:

‘And you’ve been separated for how long?’

‘Separated for seven years, divorced for five.’

‘And can you tell me why your marriage broke up?’

‘Different lifestyles.’

‘Can I ask what you mean by that?’

‘Really? You have to ask?’ she replied tersely.

‘His choice of work.’

Dinah nodded.

‘He wasn’t working as a dominator when you met him?’

‘No, he wasn’t. He was a labourer, for God’s sake. I’m not saying he was an angel. Neither of us were. I was open to stuff, we had a good sex life, but then he started watching a lot of porn, more and more BDSM stuff. He wanted me to go along to meets and stuff and I went to a couple out of loyalty, but I’ve never been comfortable … doing that sort of stuff in public. And once I was pregnant that was it. I called time on it and asked him to do likewise.’

‘But he didn’t?’

‘He said he tried, but he didn’t really. He was hooked. Said it was part of who he was. I don’t think it was at all. In fact it changed him, I always said.’

‘In what way?’

‘He was always very generous, very kind and he loved being a dad. But he started staying out all hours, lying
about where he’d been. I loved him, but I didn’t love that side of him and in the end it all became too much.’

‘Was it you who ended the relationship?’

‘Yes. He got a flat and not long after that changed his name and …’

Helen nodded. It was clear that Dinah hated her ex-husband’s alter ego, feeling perhaps that the name change was a rejection of her, of his past.

‘Did you ever see his flat?’

‘No, I wouldn’t go round there and I wouldn’t let Thomas either.’

‘Did you ever come into contact with any of his clients? Anyone he worked with?’

‘No,’ Dinah replied impatiently. ‘I wanted nothing to do with it. Because that wasn’t him. Our Maxwell bought me flowers every Friday, took Thomas to the Saints, saved up to take us away on holiday. Whatever else came after, that was the
real
Maxwell. The man we both loved.’

Helen nodded, her gaze falling on the photo album that lay open in front of her. Looking at the photos of a smiling Maxwell, laughing and joking with his son, Helen reflected on how often people surprise you. She had been guilty of writing Paine off as a violent misogynist, but he was clearly capable of love, tenderness and devotion. Maybe it was impossible to know somebody else in this life. Perhaps it was only in death that one’s true self was revealed.

‘Samantha?’

The music was deafening, drowning out Charlie’s voice. Outside the flat, it had been unpleasant and jarring, within the flat it was horrendous – the insistent, high-pitched computer beat and thumping bass arrowing straight through her. Charlie’s first instinct on entering had been to turn back – her head throbbed and she felt unsteady on her feet, the vibrations crawling up through her bones, but she was here for a reason and was determined to see it through.

‘SAMANTHA?’

Her cry was once again lost in the audio barrage swirling round her. This was the third or fourth time she’d called her name now without response, so summoning her courage she pressed on. It was dark in the flat and the carpet was old and ruffled up in places, making it fertile ground for trips and slips. Charlie found a light switch on the wall to her right, but the low-energy light bulb emitted only a weak, yellowing light that barely helped.

Ploughing on, Charlie came to a doorway. Cautiously, she poked her head inside to find a deserted kitchen. The fridge door hung open and a pile of dirty pots clogged the sink. It didn’t look as if the room had been used for
some time. Directly opposite was another door, this time leading to a tiny, faded bathroom. Again it was deserted and the small room smelt so overpoweringly of vomit that Charlie beat a hasty retreat.

Once more, Charlie hesitated. The source of the noise seemed to be further down the corridor, which arced round to the left ahead, disappearing from view. This was the bowels of the flat – hidden from public view – and Charlie was suddenly nervous of what she might find there.

Pulling her baton from its holster, she moved forward. There was not enough room in this place to extend it properly, you’d never get a proper swing, so she kept it short. Experience had taught her that this often worked best when it came to hand-to-hand combat in confined spaces.

She made her way carefully down the corridor. The further you got from the front door, the darker it became and she had to feel her way round the corner. The floorboards creaked loudly beneath her feet, threatening to give way, so Charlie upped her pace, eventually coming to a door that hung ajar. A sliver of light crept from within, illuminating a faded poster of a topless model that hung on the exterior of the door. Any beauty or glamour the image might have once possessed was lost now under the welter of depraved graffiti which covered it.

Taking a breath, Charlie grasped the handle and pushed the door open. This time the wave of sound knocked her back on her heels. It felt like she’d been
struck, but gritting her teeth she stepped forward. The sight that met her eyes took her breath away.

The small room was in a terrible state of repair – bare boards, peeling plaster and exposed wiring hanging from the walls. There was no bed, no furniture – instead the room was piled high from floor to ceiling with dolls. Barely an inch of space was visible beneath the avalanche of painted faces, frills and stuffed limbs. Charlie stood still – she felt as if dozens of lifeless eyes were now fixed on her, chiding her for her intrusion.

Now the dolls were moving. Charlie took a step back, raising her baton in defence, flicking it out to its full length. The mound of dolls parted suddenly and from beneath them a figure emerged. It was Samantha but not as Charlie had seen her before. She was naked now, her pale form decorated only by the livid bruises on her ribs and the smeared mascara that had dried in streams on her face. Her expression was lifeless, her eyes cold and when she opened her mouth, Charlie could see that her teeth were yellow and brown. She looked the intruder up and down, then said:

‘I’ve been expecting you.’

We think we’re anonymous, but we never are. However we might try to protect ourselves, however smart we think we’ve been, it is impossible not to leave a footprint of some kind. Max Paine’s killer had left his or her mark in the corridor outside the flat and perhaps he or she had left a digital mark too.

The latter was increasingly the case in police work and DC McAndrew was no stranger to content warrants and cyberspace. Rolling her neck with a loud click, she returned her attention to the screens in front of her, making a mental note to go to her pilates class later. Too much data sifting played havoc with your posture and she could feel her back beginning to protest at her lack of activity.

Click, click, click. McAndrew and the team were working on the supposition that Paine’s attacker had deliberately cleared the flat of electronic devices – anything that could send or receive messages. Such a tactic might work in the short term but it was nothing more than a temporary fix. Paine hadn’t been very assiduous about backing up, but the apps, downloads and messages from his tablet and smartphone were synced to the Cloud. McAndrew sifted through them now, searching for the important clue that seemed to have eluded them so far.

She flicked quickly through the dating apps, before finding what she was really after. His e-diary. Scrolling straight to yesterday’s date, she took in his diary entries – a doctor’s appointment at 11 a.m., coffee with a friend at 12 p.m., a Tesco’s delivery at 3 p.m. After that came his work commitments – Paine was a nocturnal worker. A ‘Mike’ at 6.30 p.m., ‘Jeff’ at 8 p.m. and then the final appointment of the night at 9 p.m. None of the names gave them much to go on – no surnames and the first names probably false – but the last meeting of the day was even more oblique. Just a time and next to it a single initial:

‘S’.

‘If you want me, you’re going to have to come and get me.’

Samantha remained stock still, despite Charlie’s repeated demands for her to move. She lingered within the sanctuary of her strange doll cocoon and as neither of her hands was visible, Charlie had no intention of approaching her. Charlie had been stabbed, assaulted, even strangled in the line of duty and had no intention of risking another such attack.

‘That’s not going to happen and backup’s on its way,’ Charlie barked, crossing the room quickly to switch off the deafening music.

‘Isn’t that what they always say, just before something bad happens?’

‘Threatening a police officer is a criminal offence,’ Charlie growled back, irritated and angry.

‘I think I can wear it, sweetheart.’

Charlie stared at her. She was treating this like a game. Was she just enjoying the moment or was there something else going on here?

‘Well, that’s all you’re wearing, Samantha, so why don’t you find yourself a robe? You’ve no idea what the sight of a naked woman will do to some of my uniformed colleagues.’

‘Especially one like me,’ Parker responded, suddenly
getting to her feet. The dolls fell away to reveal her full nakedness. She was utterly hairless and stick thin. With her toned body and full eye make-up, she could pass very convincingly for a woman, except for the bulky male genitalia between her legs. Charlie raised her eyes to hers and kept them there.

‘Could you grab something for me, honey?’ Samantha nodded towards a large wardrobe in the corner of the room. ‘There’s a jumpsuit two hangers from the left that should fit the bill.’

She ran her tongue over the last two words, amused by her little joke. The faint sound of sirens could be heard in the distance now, but this seemed to have no effect on Samantha. Her eyes were fixed on Charlie.

Charlie edged towards the cupboard, not once breaking eye contact. Samantha seemed calm, relaxed even – it was hard to see where the danger might come from. Was it possible there was somebody actually in the cupboard? The thought was crazy, but taking two quick steps towards it, Charlie threw the wardrobe doors open.

Nothing but a ragged collection of dresses and suits. Keeping one eye on Samantha, she reached for the second hanger from the left. A crimson jumpsuit hung on it and Charlie lifted it out. As she did so, the hook of the hanger snagged on the top of the hanging pole and Charlie had to turn briefly to free it. As she did so, she saw her go. Samantha sprang from her position in the middle of the room and sprinted through the open doorway. She had waited patiently, playing for time, but now she was making her bid for freedom.

Charlie dropped the hanger and ran after her. Samantha made it through the door and tore off down the dark corridor, hurdling the detritus in her path. Charlie was only seconds behind her, busting a gut to keep up.

Samantha raced to the bend in the corridor and took it hard, bouncing off the wall but keeping her balance. Charlie lunged at her, but in the darkness failed to see a discarded vodka bottle on the floor. Her left foot went from under her, the bottle skidding away and she hit the ground hard. Her momentum carried her forward and then she was scrabbling to her feet, ignoring the throbbing pain in her shoulder as she burst round the corner.

Now it was a straight race. The long, creaking corridor ran all the way to the front door – to freedom. Samantha had a head start and looked odds on to get there first, but Charlie knew she had to stop her. Redoubling her efforts she surged forward. Samantha was only twenty feet from freedom now.

Charlie had shut the front door behind her on entering and she was glad of it now. As Samantha approached the door, she was forced to slow down. And as she yanked the door open, Charlie saw her chance. Launching herself through the air, she cannoned into Samantha, slamming her naked body against the back of the door, before the pair of them fell to the floor in a heap. Dazed, Samantha tried to struggle to her feet, but the wind had been knocked out of her and within seconds, Charlie had her knee in the small of her back. Pulling her arms roughly behind her, she slapped on the cuffs and yanked Samantha to her feet.

They stared at each other for a moment, breathless and bruised, before Charlie eventually said:

‘I think we’ve had enough fun and games for now. Let’s make you decent, shall we?’

Samantha stared at her, shivering even as the sweat ran down her cheek, then suddenly spat hard in Charlie’s face.