Little Boy Blue

by M. J. Arlidge

  Her cabbie had just placed Samantha near the scene of the first murder.

  69

  “Thank you for seeing me straightaway,” Helen said, her confident tone failing to conceal her anxiety.

  “My door is always open,” Gardam assured her calmly. “How bad is it?”

  “Bad. He’s definitely our second victim.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “The MO is slightly different, but the victim was made to suffer as much as is humanly possible and it was a highly ‘professional’ execution. This was a statement killing, just like Elder’s.”

  Gardam took this in—he looked as sick as Helen felt. Then he said:

  “So the flat is owned by this Max Paine? How sure are we that he’s our victim?”

  “One hundred percent.”

  “Right,” Gardam replied. “I thought we were still trying to contact his next of kin—”

  “We are, but I know him. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “I see. Have you come across him in a case before, or … ?”

  The “or” was left hanging and Helen knew she had to fill the gap. If she didn’t say it now, she would lose the confidence to do so.

  “This is very difficult for me to say … but it would be unprofessional of me not to do so,” Helen said, just about getting the words out.

  Gardam said nothing. He was watching her intently, which only made it worse.

  “I know Max Paine—in fact I know both victims, because I’ve used their services.”

  Gardam’s face didn’t move at all, but Helen could tell he was shocked by what she’d just told him.

  “I used Paine’s services twice, about a year ago. Before that, I used to visit Jake Elder on and off, but I haven’t seen him in over two years.”

  This wasn’t the whole truth. Helen had decided to omit the beating she’d given Paine—this was difficult enough without admitting to a criminal act.

  “Right. I see,” Gardam finally responded, not quite finding the words.

  “I don’t really want to go into the details,” Helen continued. “But I thought you ought to know.”

  “And you didn’t think this was worth telling me after Elder’s death?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Helen replied firmly. “I hadn’t seen him in ages and couldn’t add anything useful to the investigation by doing so. But now that a second man known to me … Well, I wanted to be up front with you and offer to remove myself from the case—if that’s what you’d like.”

  Helen had debated long and hard whether to offer this up, but she knew she was duty-bound to. It was the only thing she could do, given the circumstances.

  There was a long silence. As Gardam processed his response, Helen examined his face for signs of an instinctive reaction. What was he thinking? Had she irreparably damaged herself in his eyes?

  “Thank you for sharing this, Helen,” Gardam finally replied. “This can’t have been an easy thing to bring up.”

  “It wasn’t, believe me.”

  “Can I ask if anybody else knows of your connection to the victims?”

  Helen paused, then, closing her eyes, bit the bullet.

  “Emilia Garanita knows about my connection to Jake Elder.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “But she obtained this knowledge illegally and if she’s smart, she’ll keep quiet. She knows nothing of my connection to Paine.”

  Helen could have said more but didn’t. In reality it was highly unlikely she’d be able to stop Emilia with the threat of prosecution—the original offense having been so long ago—but she had to play any card she could with Gardam in order to try to stay on the case.

  Gardam pondered his response. Impatient, Helen now blurted out:

  “Look, if this is awkward, I can take sick leave. I don’t want to, but if you feel it would be for the best, then it’s something we should consid—”

  “Well, let’s review what we’ve got,” Gardam interrupted. “You knew both victims and have a personal connection to the case. Were you in a relationship with either of them?”

  “No. Of course not. I liked Jake as a human being, but that’s it. Paine meant nothing to me.”

  “Right.”

  What was that in his tone? Was it pity?

  “And do you think you’ll be able to discharge your duties in this investigation as normal?” Gardam continued.

  “Definitely.”

  “You’re not too invested in it?”

  “I don’t think so. I’d tell you if I was.”

  “And how sure are we that Garanita will keep shtum?”

  “Fairly, though there’s no guarantee, of course,” Helen lied quickly.

  Gardam looked at her, his mind turning. Helen was suddenly aware she was holding her breath and exhaled gently, trying to calm herself.

  “Well, it’s not an easy decision. But … I’m minded to keep things as they are for now,” Gardam said decisively. “These deaths are alarming and I need my best people on it.”

  Helen nodded, more relieved than she could say. She was embarrassed to feel tears pricking her eyes.

  “And don’t worry, Helen,” Gardam reassured her. “This will remain between us.”

  Helen thanked him and went on her way, keeping her eyes to the floor. Outside in the corridor, she leaned against the wall and brushed the offending tears away. Odd though it was, she almost felt happy. It had been a tough conversation to have to have, but she was pleased she’d grasped the nettle. It had cost her something to take Gardam into her confidence—to reveal her weakness to him—but she now felt free to drive the investigation forward. Marching toward the incident room, Helen pulled her mobile out and dialed Meredith’s number. There could be no more delays, no more setbacks now. Jake Elder and Max Paine deserved justice and Helen was determined to see that they got it.

  70

  Charlie drained the dregs of her coffee and tossed the paper cup in the bin. Would it be bad to have another one straightaway? She was tired, but more than that, she was cold, despite the autumnal sunshine. She had been pacing Newton Street for over an hour now and had little to show for it, except a mild headache and blocks of ice for feet.

  Her cabbie was certain that he’d dropped his ride off near the top of the road. There were several blocks of flats there, but a little basic detective work in the shops and cafés had established that Samantha had been seen coming out of Ellesmere Heights on occasion. It was a fairly sorry-looking setup and no one was answering the buzzers, despite Charlie having pressed them all several times. There had been nothing to do but watch and wait, so she’d parked herself on a bench outside the launderette with a coffee and a free sheet, arming herself with a puffed-out but empty laundry bag by way of cover. She seemed to spend most of her life on surveillance these days and she hungered for something a bit more challenging. The numerous lattes she was consuming were doing nothing for her waistline.

  As the minutes, then hours, ticked by, Charlie’s decision to keep this lead to herself began to trouble her. It was quite probable she was wasting her time, and besides, Helen had reiterated the importance of everyone sharing information from now on. But still … every lead Charlie had pursued so far had proved fruitless. Paul Jackson was a disaster and they were still trying to locate David Simons, though in truth no one genuinely thought he was a suspect. Which just left Michael Parker, aka Samantha. Charlie knew why she was keeping this lead to herself, and she knew it didn’t reflect well on her, but still she sat here, ignoring the occasional buzz of her phone, intent on seeing it through.

  How much longer could she stay? She would have to account for her time eventually and the longer she left it, the harder it would be to explain away. She was already in Helen’s bad books, so why risk their friendship further by escalating her war with Sanderson? When all she might end up with for her pains was a stinking cold?

  She rose to head back to the coffee shop and almost walked straight into Samantha. It took a moment
for her to compute who it was—Charlie was busy apologizing for getting in her way when her gaze was drawn to the bloodshot eyes and the faint scarring on her right cheek. Samantha hurried on, and Charlie, realizing her mistake, flung her newspaper into her laundry bag and walked swiftly in the same direction.

  Normally she would have waited longer, but Samantha seemed so determined to make it home that she was fearful of losing her. Samantha hurried up to Ellesmere Heights and pushed roughly inside, her gait unsteady and stumbling. The heavy door swung back on its hinges, then began its inexorable progress back to a closed position. Charlie jettisoned her fake laundry bag and ran. If she didn’t apprehend Samantha now, she would have to hand over her lead and take the consequences—and she was damned if she was going to do that. The gap was only inches wide, but Charlie shoved her foot into it, wincing slightly as the door pinched hard. But her intervention had been subtle and silent—she could hear Samantha stumbling up the stairs above, seemingly oblivious to her intrusion, so, easing the door open again, Charlie slipped inside.

  71

  “I have a name for you.”

  Helen was now standing in front of the team. A new case file in hand, she was determined not to waste any time.

  “His landlord has identified the victim as Maxwell Carter, more commonly known by his professional name of Max Paine. He was a dominator who worked from his flat, so obviously one of our first lines of inquiry is whether he was meeting a client last night. There were no papers or diaries at the scene, so, DC Reid, could you liaise with uniform on the house-to-house inquiries—see if we have any witnesses to activity at the flats last night. We’ll also need to interrogate his digital footprint—did he run Web sites, was he on Twitter, Tinder? There were no devices in his flat, but we did find chargers for an iPhone 5 and a tablet, so check if he backed up at all and if so where to. Fast-track any warrants—we need to know who he was communicating with in the last few days of his life. McAndrew, can you take the lead on this?”

  “On it,” McAndrew replied, rising and hurrying off.

  “Max Paine is a local boy,” Helen continued, “with one marriage behind him and a son, Thomas, aged six. He divorced three years ago—his wife, Dinah, now lives in Portswood with their little boy. I will talk to them once we’re done here. For now, let’s focus on the facts. As with the Jake Elder murder, the killer has been very cautious, very precise. We won’t have Jim Grieves’s findings for a few hours, but so far Meredith has found no DNA evidence of our perpetrator within the flat.”

  The way Helen said the word “within” made a few of the team look up. Clearly she was building up to something.

  “However, she has just confirmed to me that her team have found a partial footprint in the corridor leading away from the flat. The lino on the floor had been cleaned recently and we’ve got the faint outline of a size six boot. It was raining last night—the ground outside the flats was soft and dirty, so—”

  “Does that suggest his visitor was a woman?” DC Edwards asked.

  “Or a man with small feet. We’ve got an impression of the tread, which is ridged and in waved grip lines. DC Lucas, can you keep on forensics until we have a match?”

  “Will do.”

  Helen handed out the rest of the duties to the team—witness statements, Munch follow-ups, financial investigation, family histories—before calling time on the meeting. It felt good to be leading again, but even now something nagged away at her. She had asked for the whole team to attend the briefing—to push forward together on the new leads—but one officer was notably absent. Which left her wondering:

  Where the hell was Charlie?

  72

  Charlie hammered on the door, but still there was no response. She had followed Samantha up to the fourth floor, calling out her name. But she appeared not to hear and in any event Charlie was too slow to stop her entering flat 15, slamming the door behind. By the time she made it there, the music had already started up. Deafening techno shook the walls of the building and no amount of knocking could raise its inhabitant. What was she doing there?

  Charlie walked across to the landing window and looked down on the street below. Having spent a good five minutes wearing the skin off her knuckles, she’d given up knocking and descended to the entrance once more. Just inside the main door, next to the fire regulations, was a number for the caretaker. He was clearly more used to dealing with leaking roofs and blocked toilets, but once Charlie impressed upon him the urgency of the situation, he had been happy to comply. So why was he taking so long to get here?

  This was a calculated risk and Charlie knew it. Technically she should have waited for a warrant, but as long as her entry was not illegal, she would probably be fine. Samantha was only a tenant and the caretaker had the authority to open her door. Furthermore, she had failed to stop when requested to do so by a police officer … Charlie knew she was scrabbling a bit, but she would need to have her story off pat, should the need arise. Helen would see through it, but might let her off if the arrest proved decisive, and something told Charlie she needed to get into that flat as fast as possible. Samantha could be doing anything in there. Destroying evidence, preparing to flee, perhaps even making an attempt on her life? What was the reason for the deafening music? What was she trying to hide?

  The squeal of brakes snapped Charlie out of her thoughts. Moments later, she heard the front door open. Shaking hands with the agitated caretaker, she ushered him upstairs until they were once more outside flat 15. The caretaker seemed to hesitate—as if tacitly asking Charlie if she was sure she wanted to do this—but Charlie wasn’t in a mood to be put off.

  “Open it, please.”

  He turned the key in the lock and the door slid open.

  “Do you want me to stay?” he asked half hopefully.

  “You can wait outside. I’ll call you if I need you.”

  Grumbling, he complied. As he traipsed down the steps, Charlie didn’t hesitate. Pulling her mobile from her pocket, she called base to request backup, then stepped confidently into the gloomy flat.

  73

  “This is him at Thomas’s birthday party.”

  Helen was sitting with Dinah Carter in her dingy living room, turning the pages of the family photo album. To Helen’s surprise, Paine seemed to have had a strong relationship with his son—but this had been cut short. Thomas’s dad was now on a metal slab across town, in the tender care of Jim Grieves.

  “When did you last see Max?”

  “Maxwell,” Dinah corrected her. “He was always Maxwell to us.”

  “Of course,” Helen replied, noting the hostility to Max’s professional name. “When did you last see him, Dinah?”

  “Two weeks ago. He came round to take Thomas to football practice.”

  There were no tears yet, just blank shock. Dinah was still trying to grapple with what she’d been told. The grief would come later.

  “How did he seem?”

  “Fine.”

  “And did you speak to him at all after this?”

  “We exchanged texts. Making arrangements and so on, but that was it.”

  “When was the last time you received a text from him?”

  Dinah was already scrolling through her phone.

  “Sunday night.”

  Helen read the message, which was everyday, anodyne, then said:

  “And you’ve been separated for how long?”

  “Separated for seven years, divorced for three.”

  “And can you tell me why your marriage broke up?”

  “Different lifestyles.”

  “Can I ask what you mean by that?”

  “Really? You have to ask?” she replied tersely.

  “His choice of work.”

  Dinah nodded.

  “He wasn’t working as a dominator when you met him?”

  “No, he wasn’t. He was a laborer, for God’s sake. I’m not saying he was an angel. Neither of us were. I was open to stuff—we had a good sex life—but then he
started watching a lot of porn, more and more BDSM stuff. He wanted me to go along to meets and stuff and I went to a couple out of loyalty, but I’ve never been comfortable … doing that sort of stuff in public. And once I was pregnant, that was it. I called time on it and asked him to do likewise.”

  “But he didn’t?”

  “He said he tried, but he didn’t really. He was hooked. Said it was part of who he was. I don’t think it was at all. In fact it changed him, I always said.”

  “In what way?”

  “He was always very generous, very kind, and he loved being a dad. But he started staying out all hours, lying about where he’d been. I loved him, but I didn’t love that side of him and in the end it all became too much.”

  “Was it you who ended the relationship?”

  “Yes. He got a flat and not long after that changed his name and …”

  Helen nodded. It was clear that Dinah hated her ex-husband’s alter ego, feeling perhaps that the name change was a rejection of her, of his past.

  “Did you ever see his flat?”

  “No, I wouldn’t go round there and I wouldn’t let Thomas either.”

  “Did you ever come into contact with any of his clients? Anyone he worked with?”

  “No,” Dinah replied impatiently. “I wanted nothing to do with it. Because that wasn’t him. Our Maxwell bought me flowers every Friday, took Thomas to the Saints, saved up to take us away on holiday. Whatever else came after, that was the real Maxwell. The man we both loved.”

  Helen nodded, her gaze falling on the photo album that lay open in front of her. Looking at the photos of a smiling Maxwell, laughing and joking with his son, Helen reflected on how often people surprise you. She had been guilty of writing Paine off as a violent misogynist, but he was clearly capable of love, tenderness and devotion. Maybe it was impossible to know somebody else in this life. Perhaps it was only in death that one’s true self was revealed.

  74

  “Samantha?”

  The music was deafening, drowning out Charlie’s voice. Outside the flat, it had been unpleasant and jarring; within the flat it was horrendous—the insistent, high-pitched computer beat and thumping bass arrowing straight through her. Charlie’s first instinct on entering had been to turn back—her head throbbed and she felt unsteady on her feet, the vibrations crawling up through her bones, but she was here for a reason and was determined to see it through.