Little Boy Blue: DI Helen Grace 5 (A DI Helen Grace Thriller) (23 page)

Sanderson finished her drink and considered the wisdom of having another. It was only a pint of weak lager – not exactly Oliver Reed standards – but still she hesitated. She’d known many a copper ruin a perfectly good career by slipping into bad habits. The Mermaid pub had been the location for several falls from grace over the years, hidden away in a back street close to Southampton Central.

She should have been at a spinning class, but somehow she couldn’t face all that shouting and positive energy tonight. The alternative was going back to her badly heated flat and empty fridge, so she’d retreated to the warmth of the pub instead, ignoring the occasional glances of the hopeful males at the bar, to enjoy an overpriced pint of continental beer.

‘Can I get you another?’

Sanderson looked up to find Emilia Garanita standing over her.

‘I’m meeting someone here shortly, but I’ve got half an hour to kill. Judging by the looks you’re getting, you could use a chaperone.’

Sanderson assumed she was lying, but didn’t immediately tell her to sling her hook. Garanita had been useful in the past and maybe some company was better than none. She would need to be on her guard, but what the heck?

Minutes later, Emilia returned with two pints.

‘I would have thought you’d be burning the midnight oil.’

‘Taking a break. We’ve done as much as we can for tonight.’

‘I dare say.’

Sanderson detected the note of sarcasm, but didn’t begrudge Emilia her scepticism. Sanderson had set several lines of enquiry in train, but she had little confidence that any of them would pay dividends in the short term. Furthermore, Helen seemed to have gone AWOL, underlining Sanderson’s sense that things were drifting. The investigation appeared to be stymied, morale fractured and her own career going nowhere. Her conflict with Charlie risked dividing the team and she still feared that her popular rival would be the natural winner.

‘So how
are
things going?’ Emilia said brightly.

‘Do you mind if we don’t talk shop?’

‘By all means, but if there’s anything you want to tell me, off the record …’

‘I’m good.’

‘Well, let me help
you
then. I know things aren’t going your way.’

Sanderson looked up from her drink.

‘It must be tough now there are
two
DSs, especially as Brooks and Grace are so close. I’m not a betting woman, but when Grace eventually moves on, I’d say Brooks was favourite to take her place, wouldn’t you?’

Sanderson stared at Emilia, but said nothing.

‘Must be galling being pushed out, which is why I wanted to talk to you.’

‘Look, things haven’t been easy – I’m sure you’ve heard the gossip – but I don’t do quid pro quos, Emilia. If you want to know more about the case, there’s a press conference starting in ten minutes at Southampton Central –’

‘I’m not interested in that. The kind of questions I’ve got for you can’t be asked at a press conference.’

Sanderson looked at Emilia, intrigued now in spite of herself.

‘What I’m about to tell you is in confidence. I have important information regarding these murders.’

Emilia let her words settle, then continued:

‘If we act on this information, the implications for Hampshire Police will be profound, so I need to know I can trust you. Can I trust you, Joanne?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good.’

Emilia smiled and leant in close, dropping her voice to a whisper.

‘Because I’m about to make you an offer you won’t be able to refuse.’

And now Sanderson knew Emilia had been lying about meeting a friend. She had come here for
her
.

‘You’re going to have to handle it on your own.’

‘I can’t go out there without an SIO. I’m a bloody Media Liaison Officer.’

‘Then do your job – liaise with the media,’ Gardam replied curtly.

‘Not having DI Grace is one thing – I’m used to that – but I can’t go out there without you. They’ll smell a rat and call me on it.’

‘Then find Brooks or Sanderson.’

‘Believe me, I’ve tried. And next time – fyi – I would appreciate a call rather than an email. Bailing at the last minute is not on –’

‘But it’s happening, so get over it. This is not a fucking debate.’

DS Maddy Wicket looked sufficiently put out for Gardam now to soften his tone.

‘Look at me. I can’t face them like this.’

Maddy stared at the scratches on his right cheek.

‘What happened?’

‘Thought I’d go for a run to make a change from the police gym. Ran straight into a bloody branch and now I look like I’ve been mugged. Hardly the best advert for local policing.’

Maddy wanted to disagree but even she saw that Gardam was right.

‘We could cancel, if you want,’ Gardam suggested. ‘Unless you want to knock it back a couple of hours and try and raise Brooks in the meantime?’

Predictably Maddy now latched on to this. She loved nothing more than riding to the rescue and started to run through their options. Gardam nodded, but he was no longer listening. He was back in the interview suite with Helen.

She had come to him. She had worked him hard, appearing frosty and defensive at first, but that had all been part of her game. Slowly she had unpeeled herself and in the last few weeks she had come on to him directly. You don’t tell a man that kind of thing without expecting a reaction. It was an explicit invitation and when he acted on it, she’d attacked him.

Was she running scared? Was it because he was married? No, her reaction was far too aggressive to be explained like that. In other circumstances, he would have had her up on an assault charge, but he couldn’t do that here. Had she done this kind of thing before? He rather suspected she had. Her previous boss had been a woman but the one before that had been a man. He had left suddenly having crossed swords with her – had she tricked him in the same fashion?

She needed saving from herself – she
wanted
to be saved – and she’d led him to believe that he was the man to do so. He loved her pain, but wanted to
purge her of it, to protect her from the darkness out there. He had always thought of her as an injured bird requiring warmth, comfort and love. But now he knew that Helen Grace was nothing more than a heartless prick tease.

Helen shut her front door, locking it behind her. Leaning against it, she closed her eyes and tried not to cry. She had left the station and headed straight home, driving too fast, barely registering the other drivers. Her head was pounding and she now pulled her cigarettes from her pocket, but they tumbled from her grasp. Her hands were shaking – she was still in shock.

She kept replaying the last couple of hours in her head, barely believing they were real. It was over twenty years since anyone had been sexually aggressive towards her and she would never have expected it to happen at Southampton Central. The station had been her sanctuary for so long, the place where she could be a normal, functioning human being – but Gardam had destroyed all that.

What the fuck was he thinking? She’d told him about herself in confidence and as a friend. She’d been worried about the impact of her past on the case, but that was it. She had never encouraged his interest in her. Quite the opposite: she had put his close attention down to him being a good manager, a front-line officer who knew what it was like to lead a major investigation. What signs had he picked up on to make him think that he could behave like that?

It was scarcely believable and she wanted to wish it all away, but she still had his skin under her nails and the scent of his aftershave on her face. She hurried to the bathroom and, pulling off her jacket and blouse, scooped handfuls of hot water over her face, neck and hands. Before long her hair was dripping, her make-up smeared, but she was clean.

Towelling dry her hair, she looked at herself in the mirror. What should she do now? Should she report him? What he’d done was totally unacceptable but he hadn’t harmed her and if he contested her account of what happened, how on earth could she
prove
that she was telling the truth? It would be his word against hers.

She should report him. She
had
to report him. But the thought made her sick to the stomach and besides she might very well come off worse – Gardam had friends in high places. There’d be no question of carrying on with the investigation, of getting justice for Jake. But could she really go back to work as if nothing had happened and report to Gardam in the usual way? She now knew what he thought of her and it was impossible to stop thinking about it.

Buzz.

The noise had been somewhere on the periphery of her consciousness, but now she heard it clearly.

Buzz.

There it was again. It was coming from somewhere within the flat. Scenting danger, Helen drew her baton and extended it, creeping forward towards the source of the noise.

Buzz.

It was coming from the kitchen. What the hell was it?

Buzz.

Losing patience, Helen now stepped quickly inside. There was no one in the kitchen, but the sight that greeted her still stopped her in her tracks. Her private phone was sitting in the middle of the kitchen table. The mobile that she had dropped down a drain three days ago. It was powered up and now buzzing in receipt of a text message.

Helen inspected the room. Who had put it there? Were they still in the flat? The kitchen window was secured, but what about the living room? The bedroom? Baton raised, Helen charged from the kitchen, checking the windows, the cupboards, under the bed. Her heart was beating fast, but there was no sign of an intruder. She was alone.

Who had seen her drop the phone? Who had returned it to her?
Why
had they brought it back?

Helen walked quickly into the kitchen. Pulling a tea towel from the hooks, she covered her hand and carefully picked the phone up. Through the cotton fabric, she pressed READ. The message sprang up – it was from Angelique and it was short and sweet:

We need to meet
.

Helen parked her bike three blocks away, then began to walk hurriedly towards Angelique’s flat. The sun had set now and Helen stuck close to the wall, avoiding the sodium glow of the streetlights. She had no idea what she was walking into, but she didn’t want to announce her arrival.

Had Angelique followed her that night? Seen her drop the phone down the drain? If so, why had she fished it out and how had she gained access to her flat? Helen’s cleaner had been in today, it was possible she’d forgotten to lock the door properly, but she was usually very scrupulous about security. Had Angelique got a key somehow?

It made little sense but the shadow of a memory now rose in her mind. Helen remembered looking through the list of names drawn up by Sanderson, detailing people who’d attended her Munch or who were regular visitors there. There was an Angelique on that list somewhere – Helen was sure of that – but she’d thought little of it at the time. Sanderson hadn’t met her, they had nothing specific on her and there was no guarantee it was even the same person. But she had been on the list – she was part of the community. It was very possible she was a size 6 shoe and from memory she did like
to wear boots. Did she know Paine? Had she frequented the Torture Rooms? And if she was responsible for these crimes, what was driving her?

The chief question in Helen’s mind was why she had gone to such lengths to summon her. If she wanted to be anonymous or discreet there would have been easier, less sinister ways to do so. So what was this then? Some kind of power game? A signal that she was in control?

Helen paused at the top of Angelique’s street. It was near the docks and largely made up of converted warehouses and a few specialist shops – most of which never seemed to be open. There didn’t appear to be any CCTV on the street, so Helen moved quickly forward, walking down the opposite side of the road to get a better look at Angelique’s building.

It was plum in the middle of the quiet street, backing on to another large set of flats. There appeared to be no back entrance, nor any fire escape either. Her only means of entry was through the front door. This made Helen nervous, but it had one advantage. There were two other sex workers operating from the flats, which meant that the front door was often in use, especially after dark. Helen crossed the road, taking up a position a few yards away from the front door, shielded by a couple of large municipal bins.

Helen breathed out, trying to calm her racing heart. Was she foolish to come here? She had no choice really – she had to find out why Angelique was playing games with her – but it didn’t make her any less apprehensive. This was not her turf, nor was she arriving under
circumstances of her own choosing. She was dancing on the end of somebody else’s line.

A noise made her look up – a man with an overcoat and briefcase was hurrying away from the flats. Helen gave him a couple of seconds start, then emerged from her hiding place – to see the heavy front door swinging to a close. Darting forward, she grabbed at the handle, arresting its progress just in time.

Moving inside, she eased the door shut, then looked up the stairwell. There was no one in sight and all was quiet, so Helen walked quickly but quietly up the stairs. Soon she was on the third floor, outside Angelique’s flat. Now she didn’t hesitate, pulling a credit card from her jacket pocket. If the dead lock was on, she would get nowhere. But if it wasn’t …

She eased the card through the gap between the door and the frame and, moving it upwards, felt for the latch. The card hit metal and, having gained traction, Helen kneaded it back and forth, manoeuvring the metal tongue out of its mooring. She increased the pressure of her body on the door and moments later it opened with a gentle sigh.

Helen stepped inside and listened. A distant beat drifted down from above – someone upstairs had the music ramped up – but there was little sound in this flat. Nor was there any light – the whole place stood in utter darkness. Silently slipping her baton from her pocket, she extended it and took a step forward.

The floorboard creaked under her weight, so Helen took a step back. Changing her route, she now clung to
the wall, moving faster and with less clamour. The flat was a small one-bed affair and wouldn’t take long to scout. Helen was suddenly keen to have this over with – it occurred to her that perhaps the place was so quiet because there was no one here. Wouldn’t that be rich if she was creeping around an empty flat, braced for an attack that was never going to come?

She had reached the kitchen and darted her head in. But it was deserted. She moved forward now into the living room, ducking low to avoid any possible attack. Whatever misgivings, there was no point taking unnecessary chances. But this room too was deserted. She could see through the open door opposite that the bathroom was empty as well, which just left the bedroom.

Helen padded towards the door, which hung ajar. Perhaps the place was unoccupied? Perhaps Angelique was waiting until Helen was inside before following her in? She shot a look over her shoulder, but all was still, so using the point of her baton, she pushed the door open.

Still nothing. So cautiously Helen took a step forward. The curtains were closed and it was dimly lit, but something made Helen hesitate on the threshold. Something – or someone – was in here. They had the advantage, but Helen suddenly flicked the light on to level the playing field.

And there was Angelique, lying on the bed. She wasn’t moving, so checking the corners of the room, Helen moved forward. As she g0t closer, it became clear that Helen had come too late. Angelique lay there
in her catsuit, her limbs tethered to the four corners of the bed with Japanese bondage cords. Her face was blue and as Helen now leant over she saw that the unfortunate dominatrix had a ball gag secured in her mouth. Worse still her entire head, from chin to crown, was covered in clingfilm.

Helen had been right all along. She had just walked into a trap.