It was the kind of story that would have people all over Southampton speculating about what their neighbors were up to after hours, so the Evening News had gone to town on it—Emilia once more enjoying a four-page spread all to herself. They’d mocked up an image of the crime scene, constructed a possible narrative of events and gone large on the views of a psychologist about the attraction of hard-core BDSM. That last element had been part of their wide-ranging profile of Paul Jackson. They’d initially run shy of using his name, but once he was released on bail, the gloves were off. Maybe he was guilty; maybe he wasn’t. In some ways it didn’t really matter—it was still great news, packed with secrets, lies and depravity.
The phone was still ringing, so Emilia clicked off and tried again. But she was growing tired now, so after another fifteen rings she hung up, heading for the exit. Whatever Max Paine wanted would have to keep for another day.
51
“Always nice to see a fresh face,” Max said as he straddled the chair and sat down to survey her. “I’ve not seen you before, have I?”
“I’m just passing through.”
“You seem very well kitted out for someone who’s in transit.”
“Oh, don’t let this fool you. I’m very green really.”
Max Paine smiled. He loved the tease of this job and always responded to clients who were prepared to make their time together more than just a soulless exchange. They were the ones who became regulars, the ones with whom the job was always fun and never a chore.
“Well, let me take you in hand,” he suggested, walking over to her.
She was tall and thin with slicked black hair and striking eye makeup. It was a classic Berlin look and suited her down to the ground. Running his finger up her arm, he paused to knead the flesh beneath her shoulder blades. She exhaled happily, so he carried on running his hands down her back, sliding them round to the front. Continuing his progress, he ran them over her chest before bringing them to rest on her crotch. The soft, pliable bulge that now began to harden to his touch revealed that this was going to be even more interesting than he’d imagined.
“Aren’t you the girl that’s got everything?” he said, rounding her to face her full-on.
“You better believe it,” was the impish reply.
Smiling, Max walked away, toward the locked cupboards at the back.
“We have two hours ahead of us, so why don’t you choose your weapon?”
He opened the double doors of the wardrobe to reveal his arsenal of crops, whips, paddles, bats, maces and more. There was nothing he couldn’t provide for his clients, nothing he hadn’t tried.
“You’re very sweet, but I wonder if we might use a couple of things I’ve brought along with me. I’ve never used them and I might need a little help.”
Without waiting for an answer, she now walked across to the drawstring bag she’d dropped by the door on arrival. Max watched, intrigued, as she drew a series of restraints and a large Zentai suit from within. The tight-fitting suit looked brand-new, the spandex glistening in the beams of the ceiling spotlights.
“I know we’ve only just met, but I’d like us to push things a little tonight. I want Edge Play. Can you stretch to that?”
Normally Max wouldn’t rush to do this on a first meeting, but she seemed to know what she was taking on, so, nodding, he moved forward to pick up the Zentai suit. But, as he did so, she laid a gloved hand on his arm.
“The thing is, Max,” she continued in a whisper, “I want you to be my bitch tonight. Are you willing to be my bitch?”
Max paused, turning to her. She was attractive and commanding and didn’t seem like a psychopath, but you could never be sure.
“That’s a bit rich for a first date,” he said. “Maybe when we know each other a little better.”
“Pity, but have it your own way,” she replied, putting the suit down. “These are troubled times. Everyone’s running scared at the moment, which is why I was willing to pay so much. But, as you say, another time—”
“How much?”
Paine hated himself for asking, but he couldn’t resist. He hadn’t paid his rent in more than three months and lived in daily fear of eviction.
“Five hundred pounds if you’re a bad boy. A thousand if you’re a very bad boy.”
His client removed a wedge of twenty-pound notes and placed them on the table.
“What do you say, Max? Can I tempt you?”
Max looked her up and down—there wasn’t much to her—then, shrugging his shoulders, he relented. Walking toward her, he smiled warmly and said:
“I’m all yours.”
52
“You can’t barge in here like this.”
“I didn’t barge in anywhere, Dennis. I rang the doorbell and your mum let me in.”
The mention of his mother provoked a visible flinch. Dennis was pushing fifty, overweight and underemployed and clearly had mixed feelings about living at the family home. Eliza Fitzgerald was a slim, punctilious septuagenarian, who could now be heard preparing tea in the kitchen. Helen imagined she would do it the proper way—warming the pot, using leaf tea—and wondered if her domestic regimen was as meticulous and old-fashioned. Did she still ask her adult son to tidy his room?
“Haven’t you people done enough already?”
“‘You people’?”
“We don’t do anything illegal—we don’t do anything wrong. You’ve no right to send spies to our gatherings—”
“Well, if people don’t talk to us, what can we do?”
Dennis eyeballed her, but said nothing.
“Everyone in the BDSM community says they are shocked by Jake Elder’s murder,” Helen told him. “Yet nobody has come forward to help us. Which makes me wonder how deep their concern is.”
“Fuck you.”
“Careful, now, Dennis. Mother might hear …”
Dennis shot her another venomous look, but said nothing. The sound of clinking crockery drifted in from the kitchen.
“I think you’re rather more interested in protecting yourself. You can dress it up as suspicion of the police, but I think it’s more about keeping your little secret safe. Don’t get me wrong—I understand that and I have no desire to make your life difficult, so—”
“How did you find me?” he interrupted.
“The BrotherHood Web site. IP address of the site runner is registered to this address. Electoral register has an Eliza and Dennis Fitzgerald living here. It took one of our data officers less than five minutes to locate you. Hardly a secret society.”
“And are you harassing the others too?”
“No, just you, Dennis. Because you have something I want.”
Helen took the photo of Michael Parker from her bag and handed it to him.
“Do you recognize this person?”
Dennis took a cursory look at it, then handed it back.
“Look at it, Dennis. Or I swear I’ll arrest you for obstructing police business.”
As Helen raised her voice, the clinking of crockery in the kitchen stopped. Helen could see small beads of sweat appearing on Dennis’s forehead.
“We know he’s got form, Dennis. Was this the person who hurt you? Is this ‘Samantha’?”
Dennis said nothing, but Helen noted that his hand was shaking slightly as he held the photo.
“If you’re worried for your safety—”
“It’s not that—”
“—or concerned about giving up a fellow member of your community, then I’m happy to make this an anonymous tip-off. But a young man has died here and we need to talk to anyone who might be connected.”
Dennis’s mother was on the move now, so he spoke quickly.
“I don’t know where she lives. But, yes, it’s her.”
“You never went to her flat, a place of work?”
“She got in touch over the Internet. We only ever met in neutral spaces. Clubs, hotel rooms—”
“Come on, Dennis,” Helen cajoled, “give me something h
ere.”
“But I do know that she sometimes performs at the End of the Road.”
Helen breathed out, relieved. The End of the Road was a gay bar in central Southampton that specialized in drag acts and cabaret.
“She’s a performer?”
“Sometimes she works behind the bar—other times she performs. Calls herself ‘Pandora’ when she’s onstage. To be honest, I’ve avoided her since … you know … but she probably still works there.”
“And do you think she could be responsible for Jake Elder’s death? Does she have it in her?”
Dennis thought for a moment, then gave her back the photo.
“Yes, I do.”
Nodding, Helen took the photo from him. Right on cue, his mother appeared in the doorway. Thanking Dennis for his help and reassuring the curious Eliza that there was nothing to worry about, Helen took her leave.
As she walked briskly to her bike, her eyes remained glued to the photo still in her hand.
Was this the face of their killer?
53
“There, that didn’t hurt, now, did it?”
Her voice was soft, but had an edge. Max could tell she was excited by what they’d done. And what was still to come.
He had stripped for her—much to her evident pleasure—then slipped on the Zentai suit that she’d brought with her. It was a snug fit—she was clearly far more experienced than she let on—and it covered him from head to toe. Max hadn’t done much Zentai before—the oriental stuff wasn’t really his bag—but he liked the way he looked. He was like a kind of depraved Spider-Man, every inch of him covered in black spandex.
It was an odd thing to be inside. You could still hear, but the sound was muffled; you could still see, but everything was a little darker. You felt different, not like yourself, the strangeness of the situation underlined for Max by the fact that he was the one taking the beating, rather than handing it out. This was not the norm, and given recent events, he had been tempted to refuse. But she seemed in control of herself, and the blows she was giving him were mild. Besides, he wasn’t inclined to believe the fevered tabloid speculation about there being a killer at large in their community. He wouldn’t be at all surprised if Jake Elder’s death turned out to be an accident with the press turning it into something it wasn’t.
Max suddenly realized that she had stopped. He was still bent over the wooden horse, and straightening up, he saw that she had retreated to her little bag of tricks once more.
“Hog ties,” she said, holding up the leather and chain contraption triumphantly. “I think we’ve both had enough of the nursery slopes, don’t you?”
Max crossed the room to where she was now pointing.
“No more talking from now on. Just do as I say,” she ordered.
Max nodded, enjoying the game.
“Get down on your knees. Good, now arms behind your back.”
Max did as he was told. He felt her secure his ankles in the leather restraints. Then, pulling his arms sharply down and back until his fingers were almost touching the upturned soles of his feet, she secured those too. All four restraints—two wrists, two ankles—were joined by a series of short metal chains, making it virtually impossible for him to move.
He was on his knees now and utterly at her mercy. His mouth was dry and he could feel his heart beating fast. She’d said she was into Edge Play—he suspected he was about to find out exactly what her version of that was. He heard her move toward him and seconds later she lowered herself to his level. Her cheek brushed against his and he couldn’t conceal his growing excitement when she finally whispered:
“Let the games begin.”
54
Paul Jackson stepped into the garage and closed the connecting door firmly behind him. He had tried to talk to Sally three times now. The first couple of times she’d just shut the bedroom door on him, but on the third she’d finally found her voice—telling him to pack his bags and go.
He hadn’t been expecting that. He had thought she would let him stay as they tried to work out what to do next. He’d wrongly assumed that that was partly why the boys were being looked after elsewhere—to give them time to talk.
But she didn’t want him in the house. In fact she barely seemed able or willing to look at him. The last twenty-four hours had been beyond awful, but this was the straw that finally broke the camel’s back and he’d sobbed as he’d begged for her forgiveness. He loved her—in spite of everything he’d done, he loved her now more than ever.
But she was deaf to his pleas, refusing to engage with him. And though the thought of facing the assembled journalists filled him with dread, he had eventually complied, pulling the small suitcase from the shelf in the wardrobe and throwing a few odds and ends into it. He never went away, never traveled for his work, and it all seemed like a ghastly pantomime as he tossed his socks, shirts and toiletries into the suitcase, heading off on a journey that he had no desire to make.
Zapping the car open, he raised the boot and dropped the suitcase inside. It fell with a dull thud, the sound echoing off the brickwork that surrounded him. They’d had the garage done only a few months ago. It was supposed to be his space. What a pointless waste of money it seemed now.
He climbed into the driver’s seat and picked up the remote control for the garage doors. Was this it, then? His departure from the family home? Inside was nothing but desolation and despair. And outside? A mass of prurient journalists, idlers and neighbors keen to enjoy his disgrace, not to mention two innocent boys who would never look at their dad in the same way again. It was hideous to contemplate.
Which was why he put down the remote control without pressing it, reaching instead for the car keys. Then, winding down all four windows, he sat back in his seat and, closing his eyes, started up the engine.
55
She hurried along the street, taking care to avoid the fast-food wrappers, the empty pint glasses and the occasional pool of vomit. It was Thursday night in Southampton and the drinkers were out in force.
The End of the Road was in the heart of Sussex Place and Helen pushed her way through the postpub crowds to get to it. There was a long queue snaking from the entrance, but Helen bypassed this, heading straight for the bouncer and presenting him her warrant card.
Inside, the party was in full swing. The cavernous bar was a sea of peacock feathers, sequins and elaborate eye makeup—punters and staff alike dressing to impress. Sleekly dressed in her biking leathers, Helen fit in pretty well, receiving several complimentary catcalls as she jostled to the bar. But she ignored them—something told her that speed was of the essence tonight.
She had to bellow to be heard at the bar. The bartender looked unimpressed by her inquiries but sloped off anyway. Cursing under her breath, Helen turned away to examine the scene. Her eye was immediately drawn to a poster for “Pandora,” frayed round the edges, but still in pride of place on the far wall. Helen drank in the face—even with the deep gold eye shadow and generously applied rouge, there was a coldness to the face that was unnerving.
“Can I help you?”
Helen turned to find a short, bald man looking at her across the bar. Craig Ogden owned the End of the Road and was clearly thrown by the presence of a police officer in his bar on a busy Thursday night.
“I need to speak to Samantha. You may also know her as Pandor—”
“Both.”
“She works here?”
“She does the late shift. Can I ask what this is about?”
“When are you expecting her?” Helen replied, ignoring the question.
“Well, she was due in at ten. But she called in sick.”
“When?”
“Just as we were opening,” he replied, his frustration clear.
“Where can I find her? Do you have an address?”
“We did, but she moved a few weeks back. Hasn’t told us where she is now. She might be living in a skip for all I know. She’s not the type to encourage questions and God alone knows w
here she ends up at night …”
“A phone number, then?”
“I can see if we have anything on file, but to be honest, I inherited her from the last manager and the record keeping at this place has never bee—”
“But she phoned you earlier,” Helen insisted. “You must have her—”
“Number withheld. Fuck knows why …”
“What about friends, then?” Helen said, increasingly exasperated now. “Or colleagues? Is there anyone here who might know where I can find her?”
“Ask around, by all means,” Ogden replied, shrugging. “For my part, I kept well clear of her. Sometimes you can just see it in the eyes, right?”
Ogden was in full flow now, but Helen was scarcely listening, turning to look at the hundreds of revelers who were packed into the club. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.
Helen ended the conversation and pushed through the crowds, keen to escape the din. She wanted to get back to Southampton Central, touch base with Sanderson and see if the team had made any progress. Helen had been in an optimistic frame of mind after her chat with Dennis, pleased to have a lead on the elusive Samantha at last. But now she was leaving the End of the Road empty-handed and frustrated, plagued by the feeling that Samantha was vanishing from their radar for a reason. She had vowed to get justice for Jake, but she was still no closer to catching his killer.
A promising lead had just gone up in smoke.
56
The sweat was oozing down his forehead, creeping into his eyes. It was incredibly hot in the Zentai suit and his discomfort was increasing by the second. What had started out as a tantalizing, transgressive game was now becoming unpleasant and unnerving.
He shook his head to dislodge the sweat, but succeeded only in making himself feel dizzy. His heart was racing and the clinging material of the suit was making it hard to breathe. For a moment, he thought he might faint, something he’d never done before. That could be disastrous in a BDSM situation, so, gathering himself, he said:
Little Boy Blue Page 11