The sight that greeted her took her breath away. Not because she was disgusted by the victim’s waxy, lifeless face, but because she recognized him. This poor wretch was her friend. Her dominator.
It was Jake.
10
Helen stumbled up the stairs, her hand clamped over her mouth. She could feel the vomit rising in her throat and she needed to be away from this underground hell. The green EXIT light could be glimpsed up ahead and she took the final steps at speed, barreling through the exit and out into the night.
Ignoring the startled looks of the uniformed officers on guard, Helen hurried over to the chain-link fence that bordered the club and clung onto it. Her breath was short, her heart was racing and the waves of nausea just kept coming. She gulped in huge lungfuls of air, desperate to avoid drawing attention to herself, but to no avail. She vomited now, hard and loud, her stomach cramping over and over again until there was nothing left inside.
Nobody made a move to help her, so Helen remained staring at the ground, empty and drained. It couldn’t be Jake. A small part of her was tempted to return to the crime scene, to prove to herself that she’d made a stupid mistake. But in her heart she knew it was him. His face was distinctive and familiar, and besides, the tattoo on his neck sealed it. The man whose company she’d paid for on numerous occasions over the years, who’d beaten her dark introspection from her many times during their S&M sessions, was dead. Jake was the only person who knew the real Helen, and his sudden death left her feeling disoriented and confused.
The last time she’d seen him, he was happy and settled. He was dating a new boyfriend, had relinquished his crush on Helen and seemed to be making a decent fist of his life. What had gone so terribly wrong that he had ended up here, in an after-hours club, falling into the clutches of a brutal and pitiless killer? Helen would have given anything to be able to turn back time, to step into that small room as Jake was being attacked and drag his assailant away.
“Are you okay?”
Helen looked up to find Charlie standing nearby, framed by the darkness. No one else would have spoken to her so informally or with such affection and it knocked the stuffing out of her now. A large part of Helen wanted to blurt out that she knew the victim, that he was a friend. But as she opened her mouth to speak, her tongue refused to obey.
“What is it, Helen? What’s wrong?” Charlie persisted.
Still Helen said nothing. To admit that she knew the victim would mean confessing how they’d met. Instantly she recoiled from this—she didn’t want to offer Jake up to them like this—and besides, how could she look any of her colleagues in the eye once the details of her private life were laid bare? She’d be a laughingstock, the butt of endless ribald jokes, but more than that, they would know. Her sessions with Jake had always been private, discreet and special—a space where she could reveal her historic wounds and confront her feelings of guilt. If she opened herself up like that, she’d be exposed, humiliated and in all likelihood taken off the case—and that was something that Helen was not prepared to countenance.
“I’m fine. It was just a shock,” Helen replied, straightening up.
“Not a pretty sight, was he? If you want me to handle this—”
“It’s okay. I’m good now,” Helen said quickly. “Let’s get it over with, shall we?”
Her jaunty tone sounded forced, but Charlie didn’t comment. So, swallowing down another wave of nausea and putting her best foot forward, Helen walked back toward the club’s gaping entrance to perform her grim duty.
11
He slipped into bed and turned his eyes to the wall. He could tell Sally wasn’t asleep—though she was pretending to be—and he wondered what she was thinking. Could she hear his heart beating sixteen to the dozen? Could she sense his excitement?
He had taken his time returning home, hoping that he would be in a calmer state of mind on his arrival. But the adrenaline coursed through him still, and even though he had taken a long shower, he felt sure the stain of the night remained on him.
He sometimes had the sense that Sally wanted to say something, as they lay together. That his increasing absence from her life had been noted, that her patience was reaching the breaking point. If he was honest, he wanted her to ask. Not just so that he could apologize and make amends for the cruel way he’d treated her. But also because he wanted to explain—to make sense of his wanton, self-destructive actions. He was playing with fire, risking everything and everyone he held dear, and he wanted to share this burden with her.
Should he seize the initiative? Tell her himself? As soon as the thought entered his head, he dismissed it. Where would he begin? What would he say? Sally was no doormat—she was an intelligent and spirited woman—why couldn’t she tackle him on it, demanding an explanation for his actions?
She wouldn’t, of course. Theirs was a marriage sustained by silence now. So nothing would change, while with each passing night everything changed. He was slowly becoming a different person—someone new and unfamiliar. It thrilled and scared him in equal measure; such was the strength of his obsession. And this was why he wanted someone to talk to him, challenge him. Because he knew instinctively that, left to his own devices, he would never, ever stop.
12
It was only seven a.m., but Emilia Garanita had been working for several hours. Journalists are often up at odd times, but crime reporters have it particularly bad—murderers, rapists and kidnappers having no respect for those who have to chronicle their deeds. Emilia was used to it and, if she was honest, rather enjoyed her lifestyle. She loved her bed as much as the next girl, but the buzz of her mobile phone in the middle of the night always presaged something exciting, something new.
She had been called at four a.m. by PC Alan Stark, a tame officer who was happy to accept cash payments for information. There had been a murder during the night—an unusual one—which was why Emilia was now ensconced with him in a transport café near the Torture Rooms, huddled over a bacon sandwich.
“Did you see the body?” Emilia asked, cutting to the chase.
“No, but I spoke to a mate in SOC and they gave me chapter and verse. This place is something else.”
“Meaning?”
“It’s a fetish club and tonight was their ‘Annual Ball.’ So they were all out in force—poofs, dykes, gimps, devils, angels—”
“Did you recognize anyone?”
“I’m sure they were all there.” He laughed grimly. “City councillors, BBC folk, vicars, but you can bet your bottom dollar they scarpered before CID turned up. Those that did hang about were wearing masks, helmets and such, so—”
“Did you pick up anyone with a criminal record?”
“We’re still processing them.”
“And who owns it—the club, I mean?”
“Pass. But the manager—if that’s what you can call him—is talking to CID now. Sean Blakeman.”
Emilia wrote the name down.
“Tell me about the victim.”
“White guy in his early forties. Tied to a chair, before having his head taped up from chin to crown. I’m guessing the poor bastard suffocated.”
He continued to describe the scene, giving what details he could about the victim and the clientele of the club. Emilia was only half listening, writing his testimony down in her crisp, efficient shorthand, her mind already spooling forward to the story she would write. Sex, murder, torture, titillation—this case was kinky with a capital K and would go down a storm with her editor. It had everything going for it, and the icing on the cake was Stark’s confirmation that the case would be handled by Emilia’s erstwhile friend, now nemesis.
DI Helen Grace.
13
Helen walked briskly along the corridor, her heart sinking lower with each step. She’d been up all night, heading straight from the crime scene back to the incident room. She’d secretly hoped that the team might have made some quick progress, but in reality she knew it was too early for that—the peculiarities of t
his crime meant that they would have to be patient. Eyewitness reports were thin on the ground, and with no surveillance systems in the club, they would have to garner amateur shots from mobile phones and piece together some kind of timeline. This might yield something, and of course, Meredith was still working her team hard on the forensics. Meanwhile, there was one very valuable piece of evidence that was as yet untapped—Jake’s body.
Helen reached the mortuary doors and buzzed herself in quickly. If she hesitated, she would lose her nerve and turn back. Jim Grieves, the pathologist, turned as Helen now approached. He didn’t offer much of a greeting and Helen was glad of it. She hadn’t the mental capacity or emotional strength for small talk. She just wanted to get this over with.
“He’s a Caucasian male, late thirties to early forties, with a keen interest in body art, piercing and masochism. Lots of old injuries associated with the use of restraints, including a fractured wrist sustained a few years ago and a dislocated ankle that has never fully healed. Some evidence of STDs and I also found historic semen residue—not his own—on parts of his clothing.”
Helen nodded but said nothing—it was upsetting to hear her friend dissected in such a cold, clinical way.
“We’ve done preliminary bloods—alcohol, ketamine and a small amount of cocaine, but that’s not what killed him. He died of asphyxia. You can tell by the petechial hemorrhages on his cheeks and eyelids and also the cyanosis, which is what gives his face that blue discoloration. There are no bruises or marks on his torso, so we can assume that the duct tape around his head was sufficiently tight to cut off oxygen to his airways and that his killer had no need to apply any pressure to his throat or neck. The bleeding and bruising to his lips suggest that he was trying to bite his way through the tape when he lost consciousness.”
Helen shut her eyes, overwhelmed by the horror of Jake’s predicament.
“He suffered severe dehydration thanks to a massive rise in his body temperature, which eventually led to a cardiac arrest, but he wouldn’t have known much about it. His brain was starved of oxygen—it was this that killed him rather than anything that came after.”
“How long?”
Helen’s voice sounded brittle and tight.
“Four to five minutes to lose consciousness, a little longer to die.”
“Would he have known what was happening?”
“Until he blacked out. Perhaps that was the point. There was no attempt to torture or harm him physically, even though he was at his killer’s mercy. Which might suggest your attacker wanted his victim to be cognizant of what was happening, to feel his helplessness as his oxygen failed.”
Helen nodded, but said nothing in response. She was riven with emotion—anger, despair, sickness—as Grieves laid bare the brutal details of Jake’s death. Did his assailant stick around to watch him die? Was being there at the point of death important to him? Beneath her fierce outrage, Helen now felt something else stirring—fear. Fear that the darkness was descending once more.
“Anything else? We’re light on hard evidence at the moment,” Helen went on.
“Given the environment his body was found in, his clothing is surprisingly clean. I did find some fresh saliva on his cheek and right ear, however. I doubt it’s his own, given the position of it.”
“Can we fast-track the analysis?” Helen said quickly. “We need something concrete we can work with—”
“I’ll do what I can, but I’ve got three other cadavers to process and everyone wants things yesterday, don’t they?” Grieves grumbled.
“Thank you, Jim. Quick as you can, please.”
Helen squeezed his arm and turned on her heel. Grieves opened his mouth to protest, but he was too slow. Helen was already gone.
14
Helen walked back to her Kawasaki, lost in thought. Barring one occasion, she had only ever encountered Jake in his professional guise. They had met at his flat, where the lighting was dim and conversation kept to a minimum. Over time they had got to know each other better, but they were still playing roles during their sessions and Helen now realized how little she knew her friend. She had certainly never seen him as she had this morning—naked and unadorned, under the powerful glare of the mortuary lights.
She’d remembered that he had an eagle’s head tattooed on his neck, but had never asked him what it signified. She knew he didn’t speak to his parents, but had never asked who they were or where Jake had been brought up. She knew he had an eye for the boys as well as the girls, but didn’t know which came first or whether he was looking for the same things as everyone else—commitment, security, a family. She wished now that she had asked more questions of someone she considered a true friend.
He had in the past thought of her as more than that. During the Ben Foster case, Jake had taken to following Helen—such was the level of his romantic obsession with her. She had put a stop to that, cutting off their relationship for a while, and to her surprise it had worked. When they had last met, by chance in a city center bar, he’d been seriously dating a guy he’d recently met. He seemed happy and together, so much so that when he texted Helen a few months later, asking if she wanted to resume their sessions, she’d been sorely tempted. In the end, caution had won out, however, and she’d made alternative arrangements, keen to avoid messy emotional entanglements. But she still often thought of him.
Could the boyfriend be involved? It would be interesting to find out the status of their relationship and whether he frequented the Torture Rooms too. Had their romance been one long seduction, building up to this savage murder? It was tempting to head round to Jake’s flat now, tear it apart in the hunt for concrete leads, but to do so without an official ID of the victim would be foolish in the extreme. It was agonizing to have to wait—it felt like she was deliberately letting his killer off the hook—but she knew Jake had been picked up for drug offenses previously and that, once his tissue samples had been processed, his identity would be swiftly established.
Then the investigation would begin in earnest. The thought cheered and chilled Helen in equal measure. She knew her team would leave no stone unturned in their hunt for Jake’s killer, but what might their interrogation of Jake’s life mean for her? Had he kept records of their meetings? Any tokens of her? Had she left her mark on him? It was over two years since she’d used his services, but it was very possible that gaining justice for Jake would result in her exposure.
Part of her wanted to run from this, but her better part knew she had to run toward it. Whatever the possible consequences for her, she had to find his killer. She owed that—and a whole lot more—to her old friend. So, climbing onto her bike, she fired up the engine and kicked away the brake. Her heart was thumping and she felt sick to her stomach, but there was no point delaying the inevitable, so, pulling back the throttle, she sped away from the mortuary in the direction of Southampton Central.
15
Detective Superintendent Jonathan Gardam stood by his office window, looking out at the world. It was not the finest view Southampton had to offer, but it afforded him a discreet vantage point on the station’s car park below.
Helen Grace had just arrived and was now dismounting her bike. She was a creature of habit, always choosing the same spot, always removing her helmet and leathers in the same precise order. Whether this was driven by logic or superstition, Gardam couldn’t tell. He knew that her passion for motorbikes was a legacy of her childhood—in one unguarded moment she had confessed to stealing mopeds as a teenager—but beyond that, he knew little. The inner workings of her mind were as much a mystery to him as they always had been.
So he watched her from afar. He had a pretty good idea of her routine now—when she went to the gym, when she went running—and he timed his arrival at the station to coincide with hers. He would be positioned at his window by the time she walked away from her bike, running her fingers through her long hair to breathe new life into it after its temporary constraint. She was always so focused on the business
in hand that she never looked up, never clocked his face at the window. He often wondered how she would react if she did. Would she be alarmed to see him there or would she offer him a smile and carry on? He had pictured the situation many times and in his head it was always the latter.
She was later than usual today, following an early-morning trip to the mortuary. Gardam had had to delay his first meeting by half an hour so he could be in place to receive her. It had put his PA in a mood, but it had been worth it—Helen looked particularly beguiling this morning. She was unfailingly attractive—he had always been captivated by her Amazonian figure, pale skin and fuck-you attitude—but as he’d got to know her better, he had seen a deeper beauty. There was a vulnerability there that was hidden from all except those closest to her. This fragile quality was very much in evidence today. Pale, distracted, deep in thought, his best DI looked utterly haunted.
Gardam pressed his fingers to the glass. As so often these days, he wanted to reach out and comfort her. But she remained beyond his reach. He hoped in time to change that, but for now all he could do was watch.
16
This was better than she could possibly have imagined. She had heard the stories about the Torture Rooms before, of course, but had never had the inclination—or the bottle perhaps—to investigate further. Seeing the club now for the first time, she felt a surge of excitement—you couldn’t have dreamed up a better backdrop for a gruesome murder. The moral majority out there would hoover this up, scared and titillated in equal measure.
Emilia pulled out her Nikon and got to work, snapping the exotic instruments of torture and restraint. Her time here was limited and she knew she had to work fast. Gaining access had been harder than usual—the manager and most of the bartenders had gone to ground—so she’d had to track down the security company who usually provided the muscle on the doors. The first two guys she’d contacted had told her to sling her hook, but the third one was twice divorced, with a drinker’s thirst, and needed the money.
Little Boy Blue Page 3