Little Boy Blue

by M. J. Arlidge

  “Liberty.”

  This was their safe word, but his voice was cracked and his resulting call weak. He wasn’t surprised she hadn’t heard it, so he said it again, louder this time.

  “Liberty.”

  Still nothing. He knew she was still here—he could hear her moving. So why wasn’t she responding? It wasn’t done to tease someone in this situation. If you heard the word, you stopped everything.

  “Liberty,” he screamed, fear suddenly getting the better of him.

  He heard her moving toward him now and tears sprang to his eyes. He was still furious with her, but if she let him go now, then … He heard something tearing now. What was that? Was she cutting him out of this suit? Cutting his bonds? Then suddenly he felt something strike his face. He jumped, shocked by the impact, and too late realized what was happening. The tearing sound had been her ripping off some duct tape—tape that she had just stuck over his mouth.

  “Let me go.”

  He bellowed the words, but the tape held, muting his cry.

  “I’d love to, sweetheart, but we’ve only just begun.”

  The last word was said with such emphasis that for a second Max thought he was going to vomit. Fear now mastered him completely—he suddenly realized that he had made a terrible mistake in playing her games and that because of this misjudgment he was about to die.

  57

  Charlie stifled a yawn and looked at the clock. It was nearly midnight—she had another two hours before she was relieved. If Helen wanted to punish Charlie, she was doing a good job. Steve had complained about being dragooned into emergency childcare yet again and Charlie was irritated too—with Sanderson, with Helen, but mostly with herself. When had she become so brittle? She used to be the fun, cheeky officer whom everyone got on with. Now she was exhausted, short-tempered and paranoid. She didn’t regret starting a family for one second, but there were a lot of hidden costs that nobody told you about and she was feeling those now.

  Outside, the press pack’s enthusiasm was starting to wane. It was cold and a thin drizzle floated down the street, saturating all those still out and about. Most of the journalists had retreated to their vehicles, experience teaching them that you can catch your death on a night like this. Those who remained outside were swathed in thick North Face jackets, praying that the weather would clear. They would have gone home some time ago but for the light that stole underneath the garage door. Somebody had turned it on a while back, and as the family car was stored in there, everyone present was expecting Jackson to make a break for it.

  Charlie assumed it was Paul Jackson, as she’d seen his wife head upstairs a few hours ago. The gaggle of photographers that haunted the property was hoping to grab a through-the-window shot of him fleeing his home. There was something about the angle and context of those shots that always made the subject look guilty. Editors loved them, which was why people were prepared to brave the elements to get them.

  Charlie flicked through the radio stations again. If Paul Jackson was smart, he’d turn the light off and head to bed. The best way to deal with journalists was to starve them of what they craved. By hanging about, he was just raising their hopes. Finding little to divert her, Charlie switched off the radio and stole another look at the clock. Ten past midnight.

  Had Paul Jackson been banished to the garage? Surely not. There were plenty of bedrooms in the house, so even if his wife didn’t want anything to do with him … Charlie looked over at the garage again. Paul Jackson’s sons were elsewhere and his wife had stormed off upstairs, meaning he was in the garage alone. And had been for thirty minutes or more.

  Charlie now found herself opening the door and stepping out into the rain. It settled on her face, gentle and cold, but she didn’t bother pulling her hood up as she marched toward the garage. If she was wrong, then she wouldn’t mind getting a little wet. But if she was right …

  She walked straight up to the metal garage door and put her ear to it. A motorbike roared past in the road and a couple of news hacks now shouted at her, ribbing her for doing their job for them. She waved at them to shut up, but it made no difference. Furious, Charlie dropped to all fours, her knees soaking up the moisture from the ground. She placed her ear at the bottom of the metal door, where the narrowest chink allowed a little light to escape. She was listening for the sound of the engine, but it wasn’t the noise that struck her first. It was the smell.

  Now Charlie was on her feet, yanking at the garage handle. But it was locked from the inside and refused to budge. She redoubled her efforts, but still nothing.

  “Get over here now,” she roared at the startled photographers.

  The look on her face made them comply.

  “Get that open now.”

  As they grappled with the door, Charlie raced up the steps. She rang the doorbell once, twice, three times, then opened the letter box and yelled through it. There was no time for hesitation, no time for caution. This was a matter of life and death.

  58

  He was straining with every sinew, but getting nowhere. The fabric of the suit was smooth and the wooden floor so perfectly polished that the more he moved, the more he spun in pointless circles. He couldn’t get any purchase, and his attacker watched now as he exerted himself in vain. It was strangely moving to behold. This was what somebody looked like in his death throes.

  It had all gone to plan. The only moment of danger had come when Paine had screamed to be liberated. That had been a surprise—a testament to his instinct for danger or perhaps his innate lack of trust in his new “client.” It was a mistake, but a small one. Duct tape had been quickly applied to the mouth and the danger had passed.

  The foreplay had been completed, the preparatory work done—now it was time for the coup de grâce. Had the thrashing figure on the ground made the connection to Jake Elder’s death or was he as clueless as the rest? By the looks of things, he was still in denial, desperately trying to belly-slide toward the door. What was he going to do when he got there? Open it with his feet? It was a crazy last throw of the dice, but there was a possibility that his banging might alert a neighbor. So, crossing the room quickly, the figure lowered the rope from the ceiling pulley and slipped it through the hog ties, tying them together in a secure grapevine knot under Paine’s wrists.

  Alerted by the sound of the pulley, Paine bucked even more wildly, but, in the end, what could he do? His attacker yanked the rope tight and Paine lurched up into the air. He was only a few inches off the ground, but this sudden development clearly alarmed him—he swung back and forth on the rope, as he made one last, desperate push to escape. It was hard to hang on, but his assailant moved steadily backward, pulling sharply with each step, until Paine was safely suspended in midair. Securing the rope firmly to a wall hook, the figure then stood back to admire its handiwork—Paine, covered from head to toe in spandex, spinning in the air like an obscene mobile.

  This had been more arduous than expected, but the hard graft was done. Moving quickly, the figure now walked in and out of the bedroom, lifting a tablet and a smartphone from the bedside table and popping both of them in a zip bag.

  Satisfied, the figure headed for the doorway, flipping down the white plastic flap on the thermostat by the entrance. Casting a last look at Paine, his attacker punched the central heating up to the max, then quietly slipped out of the door.

  59

  The doors burst open and the medical team hurried through in the direction of the intensive care unit. Paul Jackson lay on the hospital trolley next to them, an oxygen mask secured over his mouth and nose. His ashen wife ran alongside, occasionally laying a hand on his, but he didn’t react. He had been unconscious when they found him.

  Charlie followed a few feet behind, keen to see what was happening, but anxious not to get in anybody’s way. Paul Jackson was dying and every second counted. She had eventually roused Sally Jackson, who seemed stupefied at first, barely believing what the desperate police officer was saying. When she had finally unchai
ned the front door, Charlie had raced straight past, navigating her way by instinct toward the internal door that connected to the garage. Jackson had locked it from the inside, so Charlie had had to kick it in.

  As soon as she had done so, great clouds of noxious fumes swept over her. Visibility had been poor, but the smell even worse. Clamping her scarf over her mouth, Charlie had pushed through the lethal haze, feeling her way toward the car. Fortunately, Jackson hadn’t locked the doors—if he had, it would have been all over for him. As it was, she had managed to maneuver the comatose figure onto the floor, just as the journalists on the other side finally levered the garage door open.

  Putting her hands underneath his armpits, Charlie had dragged him out of the garage, laying him in the recovery position in the fresh air outside. Moments later, the ambulance had arrived and Charlie’s leading role in events was over. Leaving Sally to join her husband in the ambulance, Charlie had hurried over to her car, receiving a few respectful nods from journalists as she went—their mutual hostility suspended for a few hours at least.

  The paramedics had done their best, but Jackson remained unconscious as the medical team now pushed through the double doors and into the intensive care unit. Sally Jackson hesitated, aware that this was as far as she was allowed to go, turning to Charlie as if looking for guidance. Charlie knew from experience that family members in this situation always wanted to do something to help, but the truth was that there was very little they could do. It was in the hands of the doctors and surgeons at South Hants Hospital now. Putting her arm around her, Charlie shepherded her toward a vacant chair. Greater tests lay ahead and she would need to preserve her strength.

  As she did so, Charlie reflected on her earlier irritations. She realized now how unworthy those thoughts were, how petty her complaints. Life had its frustrations, but in reality she was blessed. She possessed one thing that Sally Jackson might never experience again—a happy, healthy, loving family. And for that, she was eternally grateful.

  60

  Helen laid down her flowers and kissed the headstone in front of her. It was gone two a.m. and the driving rain raked the lonely cemetery, but still Helen lingered, pressing her forehead against the cool stone. She had been on her feet for nearly forty-eight hours, but was too wired and upset to return home. She would rather be doing something—anything—than pace her flat, and, besides, this was a duty she never shirked. Marianne was family, so every Thursday night after hours Helen came here, to tend her graveside and leave flowers for the sister she had loved and lost.

  Offering a few final words of love, Helen turned and walked down the path. She had hoped a simple act of kindness, of remembrance, might dispel the darkness growing within her—but her conscience weighed heavily on her tonight. She had only just got back to base when Charlie rang. She’d been racing to the hospital, panicking and upset, and her news had hit everyone hard. Paul Jackson had been a decent suspect, but now he was fighting for his life.

  Had they driven an innocent man to suicide? The press had to take some of the blame, but so did her officers. It would play hard on Sanderson’s conscience whatever the outcome, but it was ultimately her fault—the team was Helen’s responsibility, and in failing to identify the growing hostility between her DSs, she had committed an unforgivable oversight. If he died, they would all have to answer for it.

  Helen had reached the gates now and paused to look down over Southampton. It was a dark, brooding night, relentless bands of rain sweeping over the city, and the lights twinkled mischievously below, as if reveling in the dark deeds that go undetected at night. Helen instinctively felt that their latest thinking was right—that someone within the BDSM community was responsible for Jake’s murder. Samantha was potentially a good fit, but if so, why had she suddenly snapped? What had Jake done to provoke such savage treatment? And where was she now? As ever, there were more questions than answers.

  The rain continued to sweep the hillside, but Helen didn’t move. She remained stock-still, a lone figure lost in her thoughts, surrounded on all sides by death.

  61

  “It’s so nice to meet you. I just wish it could have been in happier circumstances.”

  Emilia gave David Simons her best happy-but-sad smile. Jake Elder’s former boyfriend had arrived on the first train from London and Emilia had been waiting for him. It was highly unlikely that another journalist would have got wind of his arrival in Southampton, but she’d decided not to take any chances, whisking him from the station back to base. They were now tucked away in her small office, breakfasting on strong coffee and the best doughnuts Southampton had to offer. In Emilia’s experience, sugar was the best medicine for grief.

  Simons was jet-lagged following his flight from Los Angeles, which only exacerbated his disorientation and distress. Emilia could tell that tears weren’t far away and she was keen to keep him on track, gently coaxing his story from him.

  “So you and Jake were together for …”

  “Six, seven months.”

  “And you saw each other regularly during that period?”

  “Pretty much every day.”

  “And how would you characterize your relationship?”

  “Good. Very good at first. He was so generous and kind—”

  “And then?”

  Simons looked up at her, a flash of irritation crossing his face. Emilia sensed he was irked to have been dragged away from happy memories to the painful reality, but she didn’t let her concern show.

  “Most of the time it was great, but fairly early on, it became clear that there were … limits to our relationship.”

  Emilia leaned forward.

  “Meaning?”

  “That I wanted more than he did.”

  Emilia nodded, but said nothing.

  “Contrary to the rumors, not all gay men are promiscuous,” he continued. “I’ve only ever had long-term relationships—don’t see the point in the other—”

  “And you were hoping that Jake might be a keeper?”

  “Isn’t that what everyone’s looking for?”

  Emilia smiled, keeping her counsel. Was that what she was after? She’d had relationships, of course, but they had been brief—her work schedule and family responsibilities always conspiring to kill off any potential romance. And now, after so long, she wondered if she was actually capable of commitment.

  “So what was the problem?” she replied eventually, interested in his answer for more than just professional reasons.

  “His heart wasn’t in it.”

  “Because?”

  “Are you always this fucking blunt?”

  Now his anger was clear. Emilia had misjudged how brittle he was and hurried to recover lost ground.

  “I’m sorry if I sound rude. It’s early mornings—I’m no good at them and I’ve a tendency to put my foot in my mouth. All I’m trying to do is get an idea of what you’ve been through. But please don’t answer if you don’t want to. I’m very happy to put you in touch with the police if you’d prefer, so you can get the answers you want from them.”

  This had the desired effect. The police had clearly been in contact with Simons, but Emilia sensed that he’d been evasive about the precise date of his arrival in the UK. He seemed keen to avoid contact with them for as long as possible. In the meantime, Emilia was a useful source of information for him—it would pay him to keep her onside, despite his evident distress.

  “I’m sorry. I’m just very tired …”

  “Of course you are,” Emilia responded gently, offering him another doughnut. “And there’s no need to talk about anything you don—”

  “He was in love with someone else, okay? He loved me in his own way, but there was a part of him I couldn’t reach.”

  “I see. And do you have any idea who this other person was—”

  “I glimpsed them talking once, but it was nobody I recognized.”

  “Can you describe him for me?”

  “Actually it was a she. Tall, shoulder-l
ength hair, pretty.”

  Intrigued, Emilia scribbled the description down before asking:

  “So what happened?”

  “I confronted him about it. He denied that he had feelings for her, but he was lying, so I pushed it. He told me more and … well, I was bloody upset, so I called it a day. I’ve been in this situation before. And I didn’t want the end of our relationship to be death by a thousand cuts.”

  “You went your separate ways?”

  “I took some work in the States. Tried to put as much distance between Jake and myself as possible. I’m not sure it worked, though.”

  Emilia kept her eyes glued to his as she scribbled “female lover?” on her pad. The tears that had threatened were coming now and she had the strong sense that this poor guy, who had loved Jake so much during his short life, now loved him even more in death.

  62

  He hammered on the door with his stick, but there was no response from inside. What was it with these people? Did they think that paying rent was optional?

  Cursing, Gary Lushington looked down at the little book in his hand. There it was in black and white—rent arrears going back over three months. Paine had been a good tenant at first—if you ignored what he got up to for a living—but he’d been evasive and moody of late, which made Gary nervous. That type of behavior usually meant only one thing—him ending up out of pocket. And that wasn’t something he was prepared to allow.

  Muttering, he leaned against the door and, pulling the key chain from his pocket, began to search for his duplicate set. As he did so, he became aware of a very strange sensation. His back felt warm against the door—no, more than that, it felt hot. Gary pulled away quickly, turning to face the doorway.

  And now he became aware that this corridor was markedly hotter than the couple he’d already visited on his rounds. He’d assumed his clamminess was the result of all those stairs—they were harder for him now that he had to use a stick to get about—but then he realized that the heat he felt was emanating from within the flat. What the bloody hell was Paine thinking? It was a nice autumnal morning, for God’s sake—there was no need to have the heating on full blast.