Little Boy Blue: DI Helen Grace 5 (A DI Helen Grace Thriller) (19 page)

‘So why do you do it?’

Samantha arched an eyebrow, but said nothing, examining her nails.

‘Is it about you? The victims? What is it about them that gets you riled?’

‘Why should I hate
them
? They are nobodies.’

‘So maybe it’s about you, Michael.’

‘Don’t call me that.’

‘It’s your name, isn’t it? Michael James Parker.’ Helen pulled a couple more sheets of paper from her file. ‘Born just outside Portsmouth, second child of Anna and Nicholas Parker, brother to Leoni. Are your parents still alive?’

‘No, thank fuck.’

‘But Leoni is. She’s had to post bail for you on a number of occasions, hasn’t she?’

‘If you say so.’

‘I see you’ve got form for credit card fraud. Tell me about that.’

‘I was working at a café. Management took all the tips and I needed some money to survive –’

‘So you lifted customers’ credit cards and then what?’

‘I feathered my nest.’

‘Until you got caught.’

‘Precisely.’

‘Also charges of affray, assault … and false imprisonment.’

‘That was bullshit.’

‘Your victim didn’t think so.’

‘It was a game that went wrong.’

‘Went wrong how?’

‘I thought the guy had balls. Turned out he hadn’t.’

‘It’s never your fault, is it? Everything we’ve talked about so far –’

‘Why
should
it be my fault?’

Samantha snarled as she said it. Her female carapace was slipping now, her voice low and breathy, revealing a masculine side that was usually hidden from view.

‘Tell me, when did you realize that you wanted to be Samantha, rather than Michael?’ Helen said, changing tack once more.

‘I didn’t realize, I knew.’

‘So it was from birth.’

‘Of course. I was just born wrong.’

‘And this desire to be a woman, how did it express itself when you were a kid?’

‘How do you think? I had a mother and a sister.’

‘You borrowed their clothes?’

‘Sure. My mother said she never knew, but she did.’

‘And your father?’

Samantha suddenly threw her head back and laughed.

‘He definitely didn’t know. Not initially at least …’

‘And when he did?’

‘What do you think?’

‘He beat you?’

‘Have a look at my past medical records. You’ll see a lot of accidents there.’

‘How long did this go on for?’

‘Until he sent me away. He decided my mum and sister were the problem, so he packed me off to boarding school.’

Helen watched Samantha closely. The pain of this separation was still evident.

‘It was all boys and I hated it. Nowhere to dress, no one to talk to and then puberty, God help me.’

‘Your voice broke?’

‘And the body hair, and walking round with a giant pair of balls between my legs like a fucking ape.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I cut myself, played the fool, I messed up in pretty much every subject I took. Still I was bullied to shit. Turns out the boys there didn’t like sissies any more than my dad did.’

‘So you’ve always been a victim of violence?’

‘Pretty much, though they saved the best till last. I took their abuse for five years then one day I thought “fuck it”. I turned up at the sixth-form disco dressed as Samantha. Immaculate, I was, far better-looking than the rest of the sad sacks there. And you know what? Nobody said a bad word to me. No, they waited until I was on my way back to the dorm. Doctors said I was lucky not to lose my sight.’

Samantha was looking directly at Helen, her eyes boring into hers.

‘And the scar … on your face?’

‘A present from my dad when I was eventually expelled.’

Helen nodded. She instinctively disliked Samantha, but her story was not so dissimilar to hers. The wounds inflicted by family are the deepest of all.

‘Do you still self-harm?’

Samantha gave Helen a withering look that answered strongly in the affirmative.

‘Do you think that’s why you’re drawn to recreational violence? To BDSM?’

‘I’m not a shrink, sweetheart. Are you?’

Helen smiled and shook her head. She didn’t like her attitude, but she was talking, which was good.

‘Tell me what you like to do when you’re having a session? What’s your taste?’

‘The usual.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Restraint, role play, punishment, isolation techniques, sensory deprivation –’

‘Edge Play?’

‘It’s been known.’

‘Give me some examples.’

Samantha looked at Helen. She had been warming to her, becoming almost garrulous and sociable, but now Helen saw her hesitate.

‘In one of Max Paine’s previous entries against your name – or your initial at least – he’s written Phoenix. Can you explain that to me?’

Samantha looked dead straight at Helen. Was she looking for an excuse not to answer the question? A way out?

‘We’re not due to break for another thirty minutes, so please answer the question.’

‘I’d like a lawyer now.’

‘Your brief is on her way and should be here soon. In the meantime, what does Paine mean by “Phoenix”?’

‘It’s a scenario.’

‘A scenario you act out?’

‘Of course.’

‘Describe it to me. Samantha, you can look away all you want, but I prom—’

‘It’s a scenario in which the bottom comes out on top, ok?’

‘So the victim – you – are in control.’

‘Right. Sometimes you act out a little bit first, where the top verbally abuses you, beats you up, but then the tables are turned.’

‘Meaning that eventually
you
are the one handing out the punishment.’

‘The Phoenix rising.’

As she said it, a smile crept over Samantha’s face. Did she feel she was finally getting the upper hand with Helen too?

‘Did you act out the Phoenix with Max Paine?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘I don’t mean in the past,’ Helen butted in, ‘I mean on Thursday night. Is that what you wanted? Is that what he offered you?’

Samantha took a long time to think about her answer, before she finally said:

‘Yes.’

The silence in the room was deafening. Normally the Incident Room was the epicentre of noise on the seventh floor – mobiles ringing, printers whirring and officers arguing, laughing, speculating. But not today. It was tense and hushed, the spectacle of both Sanderson and Charlie avoiding each other putting everybody else on edge.

Sanderson finished her tea and contemplated heading to the canteen for another. She’d been chivvying the computer operatives into carrying out their data checks on Paine’s devices for over an hour, but with little success. This was especially galling, given Charlie’s arrest of Parker. Despite her argument with Helen, Charlie would still get all the plaudits, if they managed to secure a confession from their prime suspect. Sanderson
had
started the day in conciliatory mood, thinking she should perhaps apologize to Charlie and try to make things right. But Charlie had gone her own way, stitched the rest of them up and now she had the upper hand. So her apology had been swallowed.

‘Ok, let’s park the smartphone for now, focus on the tablet instead,’ she said, her patience finally wearing thin.

Her abruptness earnt her a reproachful look from
the data analyst, but Sanderson ignored it. She knew she was behaving petulantly, but she couldn’t help herself. As her aggrieved subordinate punched the keyboard, Sanderson’s eyes strayed across the room. She could see Charlie out of the corner of her eye, leafing through files. It made Sanderson smile. Hard though she was trying to look busy, she knew that all Charlie’s thoughts were bent on the interview downstairs – an interview she was excluded from. This would be a big feather in her cap, if things played out as she hoped.

‘Here you go,’ her neighbour said, failing to conceal the hint of triumph in her voice. Sanderson turned to her, irritated with herself for being so distracted.

‘What have you got?’

‘Someone’s using Paine’s tablet.’

‘Where?’ Sanderson said, suddenly engaged.

‘Not sure yet. They’re hooked into a server in the city centre. Give me another five minutes and I’ll give you a more precise location.’

Sanderson was already heading to the door.

‘Buzz me in the car. I’m heading down there now.’

Sanderson pushed through the door and down the corridor, half walking, half running. She didn’t want to overdo it, but she couldn’t look this gift horse in the mouth. There
was
a chance that she could still redeem herself. More than that, there was a chance that DS Charlene Brooks had pulled in the wrong guy.

‘So what do you think?’

Gardam had been waiting for Helen outside the interview suite. She’d been keen to get back to the team, but he’d pressed her for an update. So they now found themselves in the smokers’ yard once again.

‘I think she’s a good suspect. She’s admitted engaging in extreme BDSM practices with Paine on the night he died, she knew Elder and I’m pretty sure we’ll be able to place her at both scenes. She’s definitely damaged enough – she’s been a victim of violence all her life and I suspect it’s the only language she knows. Plus it’s clear that she has an unhealthy interest in subjugating other people.’

‘She told you all this?’

‘She doesn’t seem to mind, in fact she seems to enjoy it.’

‘So why hasn’t she confessed? If she’s so willing to talk?’

‘It could be that she’s innocent – though she’s never said as much. It may be that she’s cornered and wants to enjoy the game for as long as possible. Or it may be that actually admitting what she’s done is too hard for her. Don’t forget she’s a victim too.’

‘So what’s the next play?’

‘We keep digging – see if we can link her to BDSM
purchases made with stolen credit cards. Anything we can turn up will increase our leverage.’

Gardam nodded and drew hard on his cigarette. A brief silence followed as Helen did likewise. They were alone today and the smokers’ yard had a curiously intimate feel.

‘I really should give these things up,’ he said, exhaling.

‘Me too. But somehow every time I make the decision to quit –’

‘Something comes up.’

Helen nodded.

‘Occupational hazard, I guess,’ Gardam continued, flicking his ash on to the ground. ‘How long have you been a smoker … ?’

‘Since I was a kid,’ Helen replied. ‘There wasn’t much else to do round our way when we were bunking off school. It was my sister who really got me into it.’

‘I was the same. I wanted to be like my older brothers. Of course, they both quit years ago and now the bastards do triathlons just to rub my nose in it.’

Gardam finished his cigarette and rubbed it out on the wall behind him.

‘Maybe we should both quit together?’ he said. ‘Keep an eye on each other.’

‘Let’s not run before we can walk, eh?’ Helen replied, extinguishing her cigarette. ‘We’ve still got a long way to go on this one.’

‘I guess you’re right,’ Gardam answered, pocketing his packet of cigarettes.

Helen waited to be dismissed, but Gardam made no move to do so.

‘Was there anything else, sir?’

‘No. And don’t feel you need to call me that. Jonathan is fine, as long as it’s not in front of the troops.’

‘Of course, thank you.’

‘Good night, Helen.’

Helen took her leave and headed back to the seventh floor. Perhaps she had been wrong about Gardam. Against all the odds, they were starting to get along.

‘It’s so nice to have someone to talk to. Someone who
understands.
It must have been hard losing your dad so young, but you turned out ok, didn’t you?’

Emilia Garanita nodded and gave Dinah Carter’s arm a squeeze. The latter was clearly terrified that her son would be left traumatized by his father’s sudden death and she desperately needed some female reassurance. Emilia was happy to oblige – she was good at making people feel better and what she’d told her so far was
mostly
true. The fact that her dad was not dead, but serving a sentence for drug smuggling, was a minor detail. It
had
been tough for her becoming a surrogate parent to her many siblings at such a young age, but the experience had been beneficial for her in the long run and now she didn’t regret it. It was certainly useful in situations such as these.

Dinah Carter had been reluctant to open the door. She’d already had journalists round offering her money, but she’d run scared of them. Emilia sensed that they had been too aggressive, too obviously grasping for a piece of Dinah. Emilia by contrast had tried the softly, softly approach, mainlining on her sympathy for the bereaved ex-wife. And it had worked – Carter hadn’t shut the door on her. Emilia suspected it was more
than just her empathetic manner that had made Dinah hesitate – the extensive scarring on her face helped too. Emilia wasn’t proud of the way she looked, but it certainly had its uses. People could see she had suffered – there was no need to explain – and more often than not that got her through the door.

They had already spoken at length about Dinah’s son, Thomas, but there was a finite amount of copy in this, so Emilia moved the conversation on. The moral majority out there had limited sympathy for a man of Max Paine’s alternative lifestyle, however loving a dad he might have been at the weekends. What they – and Emilia – were interested in was who might have killed him.

‘Did DI Grace tell you what lines of enquiry they’re pursuing, in relation to Maxwell’s death?’

Dinah shook her head, fiddling nervously with the buttons on her cardigan.

‘Do they have a suspect in mind?’ Emilia enquired. She was aware that another suspect – Michael Parker – had been arrested in connection with the enquiry, but she wasn’t sure how serious this new line of enquiry was yet.

‘Not that they told me. They just wanted to know what kind of man Maxwell was. I told them about how he used to be, the good side of him, but beyond that …’

‘And do you have any suspicions yourself? Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm Maxwell?’

For the first time, Dinah hesitated. She looked nervous, even a little tense.

‘Has anyone harmed him before?’ Emilia sensed a breakthrough.

Still Dinah paused, then:

‘I don’t know if I should be telling you this.’

‘I won’t print anything you don’t want me to.’

It was an easy lie to tell and Emilia had done so many times before. Did Dinah smell her duplicity? She still seemed uncertain whether to trust her new friend, whether she should unburden herself. Then, making a decision, she said:

‘He was attacked once before.’

Emilia nodded and looked concerned, giving this piece of info the weight Dinah obviously felt it merited.

‘When was this?’

‘About nine months ago. He had to cancel a day out with Thomas. I was livid, shouted at him down the phone, so he sent me a photo. Poor sod had been beaten black and blue.’

‘Have you still got this photo?’

‘Probably. On my old phone.’

‘It would be great to have a quick look before I go,’ Emilia said quickly. ‘What did the police say about this?’

‘I … I didn’t tell them.’

‘May I ask why?’

Dinah said nothing, but Emilia could tell there was more.

‘Surely you must want to catch Maxwell’s killer? For Thomas’s sake, if not your own. Why
wouldn’t
you tell them?’

‘Because it was a police officer that did it.’

‘How do you know?’ Emilia asked.

‘Because he told me. He wanted to do something about it, but how can you, when it’s one of their own?’

‘Did he say why he was attacked?’

‘No, just that it was unprovoked. He didn’t like talking about it much – he was embarrassed, I think, because it was a woman that did it.’

‘It was a female officer?’ Emilia responded, failing to contain her surprise. ‘Did he give you a name?’

‘No.’

‘A description?’

‘No, but he said she was well-known round here. He knew who she was, but he wouldn’t tell me. Wanted to protect me, I guess.’

‘Or protect himself,’ Emilia thought, but said nothing. She was prepared to play along with Dinah’s fantasy of Maxwell as the innocent victim for now. Thanking her for her time, Emilia began to wrap things up. She had come here with relatively low expectations, but was leaving with a major new lead. Could it be true? If it was, it presented some very interesting possibilities.

A narrative was taking shape in Emilia’s mind that would trump all of the stories she’d penned so far in her brief, colourful career. She would need to be sure of her facts of course. And there was one person who would be able to help confirm her growing suspicions.

This was Emilia’s next stop – one she hoped would finally blow this story wide open.