Little Boy Blue

by M. J. Arlidge

  “This isn’t about love,” his captor whispered. “This is about hate.”

  His eyes shot open, but it was too late. His captor was already winding the duct tape over his chin, his mouth … He tried to scream, but his tongue was forced back down by the sticky, bitter adhesive. Now the tape was covering his cheeks, flattening his nose. Moments later, the tape passed over his eyes and everything went black.

  4

  Helen stared out into the darkness beyond. She was back in her flat, showered and swathed in a towel, sitting by the casement window that looked out onto the street. The adrenaline and endorphins of earlier had dissipated, replaced by a relaxed, contented calm. She had no need for sleep—she wanted to enjoy this moment a little first—so she’d taken up her customary position in front of the window, her vantage point on the world beyond.

  It was at times like this that Helen thought she was making a go of her life. The old demons still lurked within, but her use of pain as a way of controlling her emotions had eased off of late, as she’d learned to push her body in other ways. She wasn’t there yet—would she ever be?—but she was on the right track. Sometimes she suppressed the feelings of hope this engendered in her, for fear of being disappointed; at other times she gave in to them. Tonight was one of those moments when she allowed herself a little happiness.

  Cradling her mug of tea, she looked down on the street below. She was a night owl and this was one of her favorite times, when the world seemed quiet, yet full of mystery and promise—the dark before the dawn. Living high up, she was shielded from view and could watch undetected as the night creatures went about their business. Southampton had always been a bustling, vibrant city and around midnight the streets regularly filled with workers, students, ships’ crews, tourists and more, as the pubs emptied out. Helen enjoyed watching the human dramas that played out below—lovers falling out and reconciling, best friends declaring their mutual affection for each other, a woman in floods of tears on her mobile phone, an elderly couple holding hands on their way home to bed. Helen liked to climb inside their lives, imagining what would happen next for them, what highs and lows still lay ahead.

  Later still, when the streets thinned out, you saw the really interesting sights—the night birds who were up at the darkest point of the day. Sometimes these sights tugged at your heart—the homeless, vulnerable and miserably drunk plowing their lonely furrows through the city. Other times they made you sit up—fights between drunken boys, the sight of a junkie prowling the derelict building opposite, a noisy domestic incident spilling out onto the streets. Other times they made Helen laugh—fresher students pushing one another around in “borrowed” Sainsbury’s trolleys, clueless as to where they were or how they would find their way back to their digs.

  All human life passed before her and Helen drank it in, enjoying the feeling of quiet omniscience that her elevated view gave her. Sometimes she chided herself for her voyeurism, but more often than not, she gave in to it, wallowing in the “company” it afforded her. On occasion, it did make her wonder whether any of the night stalkers were aware they were being watched, and if so, whether they would care. And occasionally, in her darker, more paranoid moments, it made her wonder whether somebody might in turn be watching her.

  5

  The panic shears lay on the floor, untouched. The heavy-duty scissors were specifically designed to cut through clothing, tape, even leather—but they wouldn’t be used. There would be no deliverance tonight.

  The chair had toppled over as the panicking victim attempted to wrestle himself free of his bonds. He made a strange sight now, bucking pointlessly on the floor as his fear grew and his breath shortened. He was making no headway in loosening his restraints and the end could not be far away now. Standing over him, his attacker looked on, wondering what the eventual cause of death would be. Overheating? Asphyxiation? Cardiac arrest? It was impossible to say and the uncertainty was quietly thrilling.

  His victim’s movements were slowing now and the leather-clad figure moved away. There was nothing to be gained by enjoying the show, especially when some sexed-up freak might burst in at any minute. His work here was done.

  Turning away, he walked calmly toward the door. Would they get it? Would they realize what they were dealing with? Only time would tell, but whatever happened, there was one thing that the police, the public and the freaks out there wouldn’t be able to ignore: the lovingly bound figure lying on the floor nearby, twitching slowly to a standstill as death claimed him.

  6

  Where was he?

  The same question had spun round Sally’s head for hours. She’d tried to go to sleep, but had given up, first flicking on the radio, then later switching on the light to read. But the words wouldn’t go in and she’d reach the end of the page none the wiser. In the end she’d stopped trying altogether, turning the light off to lie awake in darkness. She was a worrier—she knew that—prone to seeing misfortune around every corner. But surely she had a right to be worried. Paul was “working late” again.

  A few weeks ago, this wouldn’t have been a cause for concern. Paul was ambitious, hardworking and committed—his fierce work ethic had often meant him returning to cold dinners during the course of their twenty-year marriage. But then once, three weeks ago, she’d had to contact him urgently, following a call from his mother. Unable to reach him on his mobile, she’d called his PA, only to be told he’d left the office at five p.m. sharp. The hands of the kitchen clock pointed mockingly to eight p.m. as Sally hung up in shock. Her mind had immediately filled with possible scenarios—an accident, an affair—but she’d tried to quell her anxiety and when he returned home safe and sound later that night, she said nothing.

  But when he next called to say he’d be home late, she plucked up courage and visited him in person. She’d gone to the office armed with excuses, but they proved unnecessary, as he wasn’t there. He’d left early again. Had she successfully hidden her distress from his PA? She thought so, but she couldn’t tell. Perhaps his PA already knew. They say the wife is always the last to find out.

  Was Paul the kind of man to have an affair? Instinctively, Sally thought not. Her husband was an old-school Catholic who’d promised to honor his marriage vows and meant it. Their marriage, their family life, had been a happy, prosperous one. Moreover, Sally had kept her looks and her figure, despite the birth of the twins, and she was sure Paul still found her attractive, even if their lovemaking was more sporadic these days. No, instinctively she rebelled against the thought that he would give his love to someone else. But isn’t that what every scorned wife believes until the extent of her husband’s duplicity is revealed?

  The minutes crawled by. What was he up to so late at night? Whom was he with? On numerous occasions during the last few days, she’d resolved to have it out with him. But she could never find the right words, and besides, what if she was wrong? Perhaps Paul was planning a surprise for her? Wouldn’t he be devastated to be accused of betraying her?

  The truth was that Sally was scared. One question can unravel a life. So though she lay awake, groping for the correct way to bring it up, she knew that she would never ask the question. Not because she didn’t want to know. But because of what she might find out if she did.

  7

  It was nearly two a.m. and the seventh floor was as quiet as the grave. DS Charlie Brooks stifled a yawn as she leafed through the cold-case files on her desk. She was exhausted—the twin pressures of her recent promotion and motherhood taking their toll—but she was determined to give these cases the attention they deserved. They were unsolved murders going back ten, fifteen years—cases that were colder than cold—but the victims were all someone’s daughter, mother, father or son, and those left behind craved answers as keenly now as they had at the time of initial bereavement. There was so much going on during the daily grind that it was only at night, when peace finally descended on Southampton Central, that Charlie could get to grips with these cases. This was just one of the
extra duties required of her now that she’d made the leap from detective constable to detective sergeant, and she was determined not to be found wanting.

  She had Helen Grace to thank for her elevation. Although Helen already had DS Sanderson to act as her deputy, she’d demanded that Charlie be promoted following her good work on the Ethan Harris case. Helen had met resistance from those who worried that the chain of command would be compromised, but in the end Helen had got her way, convincing enough of the people who mattered that Charlie deserved promotion.

  DC Charlie Brooks had thus become DS Charlene Brooks. Nobody called her that, of course—she would always be Charlie to everyone at Southampton Central—but it still felt good when she heard her full name read out at the investiture ceremony. Helen was on hand that day, giving Charlie a discreet wink as she walked back to her place among the other deserving officers, trying to suppress a broad grin from breaking out over her face.

  Afterward she’d wanted to take Helen out, to say thank you to her personally, but Helen wouldn’t have it—ushering her instead to the Crown and Two Chairmen for the traditional “wetting” of the new sergeant’s head. Was this to avoid any charges of favoritism, or simply because she wasn’t comfortable accepting Charlie’s thanks? It was hard to say and in any event, the booze-up that followed had been a good one. The whole team had turned up and everyone, with the possible exception of Sanderson, had gone out of their way to tell Charlie how pleased they were. Given the dark days she’d endured getting to this point, Charlie had been profoundly grateful for the vote of confidence they’d given her that night.

  Charlie was so wrapped up in her recollections—dim memories of a very drunken, late-night karaoke session with DC McAndrew now surfacing—that she jumped when she looked up to see the duty sergeant standing over her.

  “Sorry, miles away,” she apologized, turning to face him.

  “Justice never sleeps, eh?” he replied with his trademark wink. “This just came in. Thought you’d want to see it straightaway.”

  The piece of paper he handed her was scant on details—a suspected murder with no victim ID and no named witness—but there was something that immediately leaped out at her. Listed at the top of the incident sheet was the address—one she’d never been to but which was notorious in Southampton.

  The Torture Rooms.

  8

  Helen walked toward the chaos. The club had been packed to the rafters and the partygoers now spilled onto the street, ushered there by the harassed bouncers. It was an arresting sight—a dozen police officers in their high-visibility jackets drowning in a sea of PVC, chain mail and naked flesh. In different circumstances it would have made Helen smile, but the fear and shock on the faces of those present banished any such thoughts. Many of the clubbers lingered outside despite the management’s attempts to move them on, clinging to one another as they speculated about the night’s events.

  Flashing her warrant card, Helen pushed through the throng toward the entrance. The uniformed officer gave her an awkward nod, embarrassed to be found standing guard over a notorious S&M club, then heaved open the vast leather doors that kept its members in and the world’s prying eyes out. Helen had never visited the Torture Rooms, and as she stepped across the threshold, she was immediately struck by the gaping staircase that descended in front of her. Deep crimson from floor to ceiling, flanked by walls studded with ingenious instruments of torture, it looked like the entrance to hell.

  Helen descended quickly, clinging to the rail to avoid slipping on the stairs, which were uneven, sticky and cast in shadow. The club was composed of a series of brick-arched vaults and Helen made her way to the largest of them now. An hour or two earlier, this had been a scene of wild abandon, but it was deserted now, save for Charlie, DC McAndrew and a number of junior officers. Only the smell lingered: sweat, spilled lager, perfume and more besides—a sweet, pungent cocktail that was at odds with the lifeless feel of the club.

  “Sorry to have called you so late. Or early. I’m not sure which it is.”

  Charlie had spotted Helen and was walking toward her.

  “No problem,” Helen replied warmly. “What have we got?”

  “Lover boy over there found the body,” Charlie answered.

  She indicated a pale, blond youth who was giving his statement to McAndrew. The police blanket he’d been given couldn’t completely conceal his skimpy LAPD outfit and he tugged nervously at it now, seemingly embarrassed by the presence of genuine police officers.

  “He and a friend were looking for somewhere to be intimate. They barged into one of the back rooms and found our victim. We’ve separated the pair of them, but their accounts tally. They swear blind they didn’t go into the room—Meredith’s taken samples from them to check.”

  “Good. Any sign of the manager?”

  “DC Edwards is in the back office with Mr. Blakeman now.”

  “Okay. Let’s do this, then, shall we?”

  Charlie gestured Helen toward the back of the club and they walked in that direction.

  “Any witnesses?” Helen asked.

  “We’ve no shortage of people who want to talk, but I wouldn’t call them witnesses. It was dark, noisy and crowded. Half the punters were in costumes or masks. We’ll be lucky to get anything useful, and no one is saying they saw anything ‘unusual.’ According to the bouncers, a few punters scarpered as soon as the police turned up. We’ve asked Blakeman for a full list of their members, so we can try to track them down, but—”

  “They’re unlikely to have used their real names,” Helen interjected. “And I can’t see them willingly coming forward to help us. Keep on it anyway—you never know.”

  Charlie nodded, but Helen could tell her mind was also turning on the peculiar complications a case such as this might offer. Given the paucity of eyewitnesses, they would probably have to rely heavily on forensic evidence, CCTV and the postmortem results if they were to make any tangible progress.

  Upping her pace, Helen now found herself in the company of scene-of-crime officers. They had reached the murder scene. Slipping sterile coverings onto her shoes, Helen nodded to Charlie and, bracing herself, stepped into the room beyond.

  9

  The small space was a hive of activity. Meredith Walker, Southampton Central’s chief forensics officer, was already on her hands and knees, diligently searching the floor space. The club’s owners clearly didn’t spend much on cleaning and it was going to be a mammoth job for Meredith and her team to bag all the detritus. The foot traffic in this room was evidently large—Helen feared it might be easier to work out which of the club’s members hadn’t been in this room than to pin down those who had—further complicating the task that lay in front of them.

  Helen caught Charlie looking at her and, putting these defeatist thoughts aside, moved cautiously forward. The victim lay in the middle of the room, bound to a metal chair with duct tape and wet sheets. Helen presumed he was a man, given the height, but it was hard to be sure. The victim’s entire head was encased in silver tape, not a strand of hair or a patch of skin visible anywhere. The wet sheets clung to him, bolstering Helen’s sense of the paralyzing immobility the victim must have felt. It was a horrific way to die.

  There had been S&M deaths before, of course—autoeroticism and sex games gone wrong—but this one felt different. A pair of sturdy panic shears lay on the floor next to the body, circled by Meredith’s team and tagged for inspection. Whoever did this, then, had the means to release the victim, but had chosen not to. Instead, they had left the room, closing the door behind them and walking away without once attracting anyone’s attention. This was no accident, then. This was a deliberate, calculated attempt to kill.

  The police photographer gave Helen the nod and she now moved forward. Slipping her gloved hand beneath the victim, she raised him from the ground. The chair wobbled a little, then righted itself, settling into position in front of her. The victim’s head lolled downward, eventually coming to rest on his chest.


  “Could you give us a couple of minutes, guys?” Helen said quietly, but firmly.

  Meredith and her team withdrew, leaving Charlie and Helen alone with the deceased. It was time now to reveal the victim and begin the process of trying to identify him—a task that didn’t require an audience.

  Gripping a pair of sterile scissors, Helen snipped through the wet sheets that bound the legs and torso. She was unlikely to be able to ID him from the sight of his feet, but she wanted to release his arms and legs from their constraints. This would allow her a better line of attack on the duct tape that bound him from the chest up. She knew she could ill afford to inflict any postmortem injuries on him by hacking blindly at the tape, so though every instinct urged her to remove the tape from his eyes, nose and mouth, she resisted for now.

  Patiently, Helen cut through the stiff sheets, releasing his body from its purgatory. The sheets fell away, revealing the ribbon that secured his ankles to the chair legs. Helen untied this, bagging it along with the sheets, but the body didn’t respond at all. Rigor mortis was setting in—their victim looked like a man frozen in time.

  Pressing on with her unpleasant task, Helen stripped off the upper sheets, passing them to a rather pale-looking Charlie. Now she slipped one scissor blade underneath the tape on his chest, sliding it over the soft leather of his suit without marking the surface. She slowed her progress as she cut upward toward his neck—every mark, every bruise on his body might provide them with vital clues, and Helen was determined not to stymie their investigation through human error.

  The tape covering his throat came away easily—only his head remained covered now. Downing the scissors, Helen decided to finish the last, most delicate stage by hand. Teasing her fingers along the top of his head, she soon found what she was looking for. The end of the tape had been stuck down firmly, but with a bit of coaxing, it came free.

  This was the moment of truth, then. Grasping the loose end, Helen began to unwind the tape. Slowly at first, then faster and with more confidence, until finally it fell away altogether.