Little Boy Blue

by M. J. Arlidge

  “You can have twenty minutes, but that’s it. I need this job and I’m not going to get fired on your account.”

  Emilia had agreed, knowing that once she was in there, she could push it to half an hour. Once people have your money in their pocket, they become a bit less grand.

  Having photographed the dance floor area, she headed swiftly down the corridor to the crime scene. But it was taped up and the door firmly secured. So, feigning a weak bladder, Emilia scurried back down the corridor, making her way to the small boxroom at the back that served as the club’s office.

  The room was nearly bare—a decrepit desk, a small filing cabinet and a naked lightbulb. Emilia got to work, but the drawers were empty, the files uninteresting, and there was little here to detain her. Emilia cursed—this visit wasn’t proving quite as fruitful as she’d hoped.

  As she turned to leave, her attention was caught by the photos that decorated the walls of the poky office. They were of past events—balls, fashion shows, photo shoots—that had been held in the club. They were full of exotically dressed revelers and deserved her careful attention.

  “Gary, can you come in here a second?” Emilia shouted.

  Moments later, he entered the office, looking flustered and annoyed.

  “What’re you doing in here? I said front of house and back corridor only.”

  “I got lost,” Emilia said, smiling sweetly, “but now that I’m here, could you take a look at these?”

  She gestured toward the photos on the wall. But her partner in crime was already backing off.

  “We’ve been here too long as it is.”

  “You saw the victim, right?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Either you did or you didn’t.”

  “His face was taped up, but I knew the fella from the way he was dressed. Can’t tell you his name—we always used to call him ‘Twinkletoes’ because of the gold boots he wore—”

  “Look at these photos, then, and tell me if you see him.”

  “No way. We need to be going—”

  “You’ve had good money out of me—now you have to earn it. I know Sean Blakeman’s mobile number,” she continued, lying. “It would only take a minute for me to put you back on benefits.”

  Grumbling, Gary pulled some reading glasses from his top pocket. Emilia suppressed a smile as he perched the owlish glasses on the fleshy folds of his red face. He really did make a comical sight.

  “There. That’s the fella.”

  His finger was now pointing toward a figure on a podium who was dressed in gold lamé shorts and posing for the photographer. Emilia shot a look at the photo frame—“Annual Ball 2013”—and moved in for a closer look. The man in the photo was half-naked, muscular and seemingly having a very enjoyable time.

  “But I’ve no idea who he is and you won’t get anything more out of me today,” the burly bouncer added.

  “No need,” Emilia said, straightening up. “I know exactly who he is.”

  Her guide was stupefied for a moment, before replying:

  “Who? Who is he?”

  Emilia was already walking to the door, but turned now. Smiling coyly, she answered:

  “Read the paper tomorrow and you’ll find out.”

  17

  “The victim’s name is Jake Elder.”

  Helen’s voice held firm. It was the first time the full team had gathered together and she was determined not to reveal her distress to them, despite the emotions that churned inside her. She had to be strong.

  “Forty-one years of age, he’s been living in Southampton for the last fifteen years. His DNA matched samples taken following an arrest for possession of a Class B drug three years ago. He’s got a couple of other charges on his file—nothing major, but we should chase them down anyway. See if he owed anyone any money, whether he was consorting with known dealers. DC Lucas, can you coordinate that?”

  “Of course.”

  “His family have been informed and are on their way over from Taunton now. I’ll field them, but in the meantime I want us to climb inside our victim’s life. Did he have a boyfriend or girlfriend? Was he invited to last night’s ball by anyone? The victim had fresh saliva on his cheek—was it left there by a companion or by someone more casual? Also, it appears from his online activity that Elder was a professional dominator. Who did he meet? Who were his regular clients? Let’s interrogate his phone records, e-mail, bank accounts, credit card statements …”

  The team were busy scribbling down Helen’s instructions, so she paused now to gather herself. It was strange and unsettling to be talking about Jake as if he were a total stranger, to be deliberately withholding vital information from the team. Helen took a deep breath, before continuing:

  “Jake Elder lived his life online and via his phone—he is not your usual office worker. So check his Web history, the chat rooms he used, his text messages, Snapchats, his Twitter followers …”

  “Do we think he was specifically targeted?” DS Sanderson piped up.

  “Impossible to say, which is why we have to dig,” Helen resumed evenly. “His killer may have a personal motive or Elder might just have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. There are numerous DNA traces at the scene of the crime—cigarette butts, items of clothing, discarded fetish gear. We’ll need to run them all down, but I’d like us also to pay particular attention to the equipment our killer employed. You can’t buy wet sheets and panic shears in your local Tesco’s—they are specialist equipment with only one purpose. So let’s contact local bondage retailers—I’d like a list of all outlets situated within a twenty-mile radius of Southampton. Many of these operations are online only, meaning you have to pay with a credit card. So let’s interrogate their transactions, find out who’s been buying this stuff. Edwards, are you good for this?”

  “It’s my natural home,” the handsome young officer replied, earning a few wry smiles from the rest of the team.

  “Let’s also make ourselves visible in the immediate environs of the club,” Helen carried on, ignoring Edwards’s joke. “People heading to the Torture Rooms presumably cab it, rather than taking the bus. Find out if the local cabbies saw anything. Our victim was probably killed sometime between midnight and one a.m.—we should follow up on anyone seen leaving the club around this time, particularly if they appeared distressed or agitated.”

  “Perhaps they stayed to party?” Lucas interjected.

  “Possibly, but we’ve got a lot of lines to run and my instinct is that they would probably try to leave the scene before the body was discovered. But you’re right—we should rule nothing out.”

  Helen paused, picking up a file from the desk. She was finally getting into her stride, but the most difficult part was yet to come.

  “Alongside this, I want us to look at mummification.”

  A ripple of nervous laughter spread through the team.

  “Also known as total-enclosure fetishism. It’s at the extreme end of the S and M spectrum and involves somebody getting a sexual kick from being completely reliant on another for their liberty, their movement, even their life.”

  Visions of Jake—bound and taped—punched through Helen’s mind. Flicking through her file to buy herself a moment, Helen swallowed and pressed on:

  “There are many different ways to do it—straitjackets, wet sheets, bandages, rubber strips—but one thing that’s crucial to every method is trust. You have to trust the person doing it to you or you wouldn’t even start—”

  “So he knew his attacker?” Charlie suggested.

  “It’s very possible. There are S and M groups who meet regularly to discuss, socialize and occasionally play. Their meets are called ‘Munches.’ I want us to investigate them, see what we can dig up about the scene. Have there been similar incidents that we haven’t heard about? Is there anyone out there who is known for taking things too far? I don’t think a head-on attack is going to work, so I’ll be looking for a volunteer for undercover work.”

&nb
sp; More nervous laughter, but as Lucas jokily tried to raise Edwards’s arm against his will, Sanderson stepped forward:

  “I’d like to take this, unless anyone objects?” she said firmly, scanning the team for dissenters.

  “Thank you,” Helen replied quickly. “Run down a list of forthcoming meets and then let’s discuss which ones to target.”

  “I’ll have it for you within the hour.”

  “Good.”

  Helen paused, her ordeal nearly over, then said:

  “I don’t need to tell you how much coverage this murder is likely to get. So no talking out of school, no shortcuts, and any leads come straight to me. We do not rest until we have found Jake Elder’s killer. Understood?”

  The looks on the faces of the team showed that they had got the message and they now hurried off to do her bidding. Helen was aware that her tone had been a little harsh, but she was not prepared to soft-soap anyone while they still lacked any tangible leads. The investigation was starting to take shape now—the victim identified, multiple strands of inquiry set in motion—but there was one key element of this killing that remained as impenetrable and mysterious as ever.

  The motive.

  18

  He was rooted to the spot. He knew it was coming, but even so, it was a shock. The newscaster was only relaying information that had been buzzing around Internet chat rooms for hours, but hearing it relayed in her professional monotone was still disquieting.

  Nobody else in the office seemed to be paying attention to the radio bulletin, but he drank in every word: “A popular S and M club … appealing for witnesses … the victim has not yet been formally identified.” He knew the victim’s name, of course, but did the police too? Was their “failure” to identify him just a smoke screen as they pursued their inquiries or were they genuinely in the dark? He suddenly realized how much he needed to know.

  He had been careful to conceal their connection, but who knew what they were able to access these days? Terrorism had a lot to answer for, providing the police with the perfect excuse to snoop on everything and everyone. He had never used the computer at home and had never contacted Jake via direct text, but even so, he suddenly had the unnerving feeling that he hadn’t been careful enough.

  The newscaster had moved on to local traffic and travel, but still he didn’t move. Things seemed to be moving fast now and he was suddenly aware of how much he had to lose. Would they suspect him? Or would his middle-class exterior and respectable job shield him from suspicion? He was too far into this, too stained by his actions, for this to unravel. There were two sides to him—but they were known only to him—and that was the way it had to stay.

  He was so deep in thought that at first he didn’t notice his PA marching across the room toward him. He might have remained there for hours were it not for her sudden intrusion.

  “Your ten o’clock is here,” she said testily.

  He didn’t respond, didn’t trust himself to. Instead, he gathered up his files, nodded at her and walked purposefully away toward the meeting room.

  19

  The silence in the room was suffocating. Helen had given Moira and Mike Elder the basic facts of their son’s death, avoiding the more distressing details. She’d shouldered this unpleasant duty many times before and knew that if you hit people with too much too soon, you lose them. Assaulted by the shock, bowing under their grief, the bereaved just implode. It wasn’t fair to treat them like that, and besides, it served nobody’s purpose—she needed facts, not tears.

  But, to Helen’s surprise, Jake’s parents had barely reacted at all to her carefully chosen words. Moira had shot a brief look at her husband, then joined him in staring at the floor. Their gazes remained doggedly turned in that direction, and though Helen provided a few gentle prompts, the couple stayed resolutely silent.

  “We have a full team working on this. As I said, your son was discovered at a nightclub in Banister Park, and once you’ve formally identified him, we can make arrangements for you to visit it, if you feel that would be helpful. Relatives sometimes find that it’s important to see the place where—”

  “What sort of club was it?”

  Mike Elder’s voice was cracked and harsh. For a moment Helen wondered if it was a trick question—the news was already out there in radio bulletins and on the Internet—then pushed that thought aside. They had probably driven all the way from Taunton in silence, their minds trying to grapple with their unexpected tragedy. It was no surprise that they were still processing the details.

  “It was an S and M club,” Helen replied gently. There was no point dressing it up—they’d find out soon enough anyway.

  Mike sniffed loudly, while his wife fiddled with the buttons on her cardigan.

  “It wasn’t a club he visited regularly, just somewhere he used now and then.”

  “I bet he did.”

  Now it was Helen’s turn to be silent. Four words—four simple words—but they were said with such bitterness that for a moment Helen was speechless. She had encountered many emotions in the relatives’ room—despair, denial, fury—but she had seldom seen such distaste. She felt anger flare in her but, aware that the eyes of the Family Liaison officer were on her, swallowed it down.

  “Can I ask you what you mean by that, Mike?” she said.

  “I’m sure by now you know what my son was,” was the curt reply.

  “Obviously we’re aware that Jake worked as a professional dominator. That’s one of our main lines of inquiry, to see if he might have been attacked by someone he knew through his work.”

  “His work,” Mike repeated, shaking his head ruefully, before casting a sardonic smile at his wife.

  “Can you tell me how much you knew about Jake’s professional life?” Helen continued.

  “Too bloody much, but nothing that would help you.”

  Helen was beginning to see why Jake had never got on with his parents, but resumed her questioning as patiently as she could.

  “His life in Southampton, then? Did you ever visit his flat? Meet up with him?”

  “This is our first visit to Southampton.”

  Finally, Moira had spoken.

  “He moved away from Somerset when he was a young man. He threatened to come back and visit us, but … but he never made it.”

  Was the use of the word “threatened” deliberate? Helen was so bewildered by this interview that she couldn’t tell.

  “And you weren’t tempted to visit him here?”

  “It’s a long way to come and we can’t leave the animals,” Moira replied quickly, trotting out her excuse with practiced ease.

  “I see.”

  “Do you?” Mike Elder now said, suddenly turning to look directly at Helen. “I can tell from your tone what you’re thinking, but you’ve got no right to look down your nose at us.”

  Helen stared back, refusing to break eye contact. He was right, however—Helen was allowing her feelings to affect her judgment and was behaving in a manner that was unprofessional and unkind.

  “I’ve nothing but sympathy for you and your wife, believe me,” she said quickly.

  “That may be, but it doesn’t change things. You might feel our son’s ‘lifestyle’ was acceptable, but we didn’t. I don’t blame the boy entirely—we should have been tougher on him when he was small,” he resumed, his wife flinching slightly as that barb landed. “But he made his choices and had to live by them. He was never interested in my opinion, but, for the avoidance of doubt, I’ll give it to you anyway. I thought what he did … was perverted. For the life of me, I could never understand why he wanted to surround himself with degenerates and freaks—he could never explain it himself, just said it was ‘who he was.’ He thought we should accept him, but why should we accept something like that? He chose his path, we chose ours and, believe you me, they never met.”

  It was said with something approaching pride and for a moment Helen thought she might actually slap him. She had never heard someone damn his own f
lesh and blood in such blunt terms.

  “We haven’t seen him in nearly ten years and we’re not going to be much help now, so let’s just get this over with, shall we? I don’t want to be here any more than you do.”

  He rose abruptly, clearly keen to get the formal identification of his son over and done with. Moira followed suit, hurrying after her departing husband.

  As she left, she glanced briefly back at Helen. After her husband’s harsh words, Helen had expected to see some embarrassment there, perhaps even contrition. But not a bit of it.

  The look Moira now gave Helen was one of pure scorn.

  20

  Her fist slammed into the metal, rebounding off it violently. Without hesitating, she raised her arm again, plowing her clenched fist into the unyielding surface. This time her impact was true and the metal buckled under the assault. Wincing, Helen withdrew her hand and stepped back to survey the damage. To her shame, she saw that she had left a large dent on the unfortunate locker door—a complement to the bloody knuckles on her right hand.

  She turned away, furious with herself, but angrier still with Jake’s parents. They seemed so dismissive, so fixed in their view of him, yet if they had known their son at all, they would have known that he was kind, generous and loving. They refused to see that, remaining blinkered to the bitter end. What must it be like to live your life that way, Helen wondered, to sacrifice so much on the altar of your principles? Would it bring them happiness in the end? She suspected not.

  Helen hadn’t trusted herself to return to the incident room straightaway, so had been pacing the ladies’ locker room ever since, trying to quell her growing anger. Helen knew that indignation and fury were sometimes positives, driving you to work harder and faster, but this wasn’t like that. For the first time in years, Helen felt out of control. She hadn’t slept at all, which didn’t help, but still she was surprised at how upset and disoriented she was by the morning’s events. She knew that, for Jake’s sake, she had to find a way to contain her emotions. She couldn’t run a major investigation in this state.