Little Boy Blue

by M. J. Arlidge

  “Of course, thank you.”

  “Good night, Helen.”

  Helen took her leave and headed back to the seventh floor. Perhaps she had been wrong about Gardam. Against all the odds, they were starting to get along.

  84

  “It’s so nice to have someone to talk to. Someone who understands. It must have been hard losing your dad so young, but you turned out okay, didn’t you?”

  Emilia Garanita nodded and gave Dinah Carter’s arm a squeeze. The latter was clearly terrified that her son would be left traumatized by his father’s sudden death, and she desperately needed some female reassurance. Emilia was happy to oblige—she was good at making people feel better and what she’d told her so far was mostly true. The fact that her dad was not dead, but serving a sentence for drug smuggling, was a minor detail. It had been tough for her becoming a surrogate parent to her many siblings at such a young age, but the experience had been beneficial for her in the long run and now she didn’t regret it. It was certainly useful in situations such as these.

  Dinah Carter had been reluctant to open the door. She’d already had journalists round offering her money, but she’d run scared of them. Emilia sensed that they had been too aggressive, too obviously grasping for a piece of Dinah. Emilia by contrast had tried the softly, softly approach, mainlining on her sympathy for the bereaved ex-wife. And it had worked—Carter hadn’t shut the door on her. Emilia suspected it was more than just her empathetic manner that had made Dinah hesitate—the extensive scarring on her face helped too. Emilia wasn’t proud of the way she looked, but it certainly had its uses. People could see she had suffered—there was no need to explain—and more often than not, that got her through the door.

  They had already spoken at length about Dinah’s son, Thomas, but there was a finite amount of copy in this, so Emilia moved the conversation on. The moral majority out there had limited sympathy for a man of Max Paine’s alternative lifestyle, however loving a dad he might have been on the weekends. What they—and Emilia—were interested in was who might have killed him.

  “Did DI Grace tell you what lines of inquiry they’re pursuing, in relation to Maxwell’s death?”

  Dinah shook her head, fiddling nervously with the buttons on her cardigan.

  “Do they have a suspect in mind?” Emilia asked. She was aware that another suspect—Michael Parker—had been arrested in connection with the murders, but she wasn’t sure how serious this new line of inquiry was yet.

  “Not that they told me. They just wanted to know what kind of man Maxwell was. I told them about how he used to be, the good side of him, but beyond that …”

  “And do you have any suspicions yourself? Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm Maxwell?”

  For the first time, Dinah hesitated. She looked nervous, even a little tense.

  “Has anyone harmed him before?” Emilia sensed a breakthrough.

  Still Dinah paused, then:

  “I don’t know if I should be telling you this.”

  “I won’t print anything you don’t want me to.”

  It was an easy lie to tell and Emilia had done so many times before. Did Dinah smell her duplicity? She still seemed uncertain whether to trust her new friend, whether she should unburden herself. Then, making a decision, she said:

  “He was attacked once before.”

  Emilia nodded and looked concerned, giving this piece of info the weight Dinah obviously felt it merited.

  “When was this?”

  “About nine months ago. He had to cancel a day out with Thomas. I was livid, shouted at him down the phone, so he sent me a photo. Poor sod had been beaten black-and-blue.”

  “Have you still got this photo?”

  “Probably. On my old phone.”

  “It would be great to have a quick look before I go,” Emilia said quickly. “What did the police say about this?”

  “I … I didn’t tell them.”

  “May I ask why?”

  Dinah said nothing, but Emilia could tell there was more.

  “Surely you must want to catch Maxwell’s killer? For Thomas’s sake, if not your own. Why wouldn’t you tell them?”

  “Because it was a police officer that did it.”

  “How do you know?” Emilia asked.

  “Because he told me. He wanted to do something about it, but how can you, when it’s one of their own?”

  “Did he say why he was attacked?”

  “No, just that it was unprovoked. He didn’t like talking about it much—he was embarrassed, I think, because it was a woman that did it.”

  “It was a female officer?” Emilia responded, failing to contain her surprise. “Did he give you a name?”

  “No.”

  “A description?”

  “No, but he said she was well-known round here. He knew who she was, but he wouldn’t tell me. Wanted to protect me, I guess.”

  Or protect himself, Emilia thought, but said nothing. She was prepared to play along with Dinah’s fantasy of Maxwell as the innocent victim for now. Thanking her for her time, Emilia began to wrap things up. She had come here with relatively low expectations, but was leaving with a major new lead. Could it be true? If it was, it presented some very interesting possibilities.

  A narrative was taking shape in Emilia’s mind that would trump all the stories she’d penned so far in her brief, colorful career. She would need to be sure of her facts, of course. And there was one person who would be able to help confirm her growing suspicions.

  This was Emilia’s next stop—one she hoped would finally blow this story wide-open.

  85

  “Nobody moves unless I say so.”

  Sanderson signed off and waited for the other members of the team to confirm that they would hold their positions. She had been keen not to repeat Charlie’s mistake and had summoned backup as soon as she had pinned down where Paine’s device was being used. It was routing via a server that was registered to an estate agent’s on Banner Street in Portswood. It was pushing eleven p.m., so the agency was closed, but a light was burning in a third-floor window. The buzzers by the door adjacent to the agency suggested that the second and third floors of the building were flats. Perhaps they had an agreement to share the router or perhaps whoever was upstairs had gained access to it by some other means. Either way, the team were about to find out.

  Sanderson had tried and failed to contact the estate agency via its out-of-hours number, leaving her with no choice but to apply for a warrant. This had taken a couple of hours to source, but now she had the authority she needed to act. She rang the buzzer for the third-floor flat. No response. She rang it again, but still nothing. Losing patience, she gestured to the nearby PC to barrel charge the door. The weak lock yielded easily, the door swinging wide-open, and Sanderson was inside and bounding up the stairs.

  She moved past the second-floor flat, which appeared to be unoccupied and quiet. Another burst of speed and she crested the top landing. Marching straight to the flat door, she hammered on it.

  “Police. Open up.”

  She beat the door again, then moved aside quickly, allowing her uniformed colleague a proper run-up. Giving her the nod, she pulled her radio from her pocket.

  “On the count of three. One, two …”

  The door to the flat suddenly opened, prompting the uniformed officer to abort her swing at the last second. Sanderson hurried forward—to be confronted by a sheepish-looking student.

  “What gives?” he said, trying and failing to be insouciant.

  Sanderson pushed past him. She scanned left and right, darting in and out of the cramped rooms, but she already knew that this was not their killer’s lair. It was a down-at-heel student flat—nothing more. You could tell by the smell of weed, the laddish posters, the unwashed pots and pans and, most tellingly of all, the sight of an unshaven young man in his pajamas playing Minion Rush on a battered tablet.

  86

  Samantha lay on her bed, staring at a
spider crawling across the ceiling. It was a while since she’d been in a proper police cell. Normally they just put her in the custody cage with the drunk and the violent. This time they’d moved her to a solo cell. Had they done this to give her more time to reflect? To try to isolate her? Either way, it showed that they had plans for her.

  She watched the spider scuttle its way to the corner of the room, settling itself back into its web to lie in wait for its prey. Was this Helen Grace’s tactic too, lying in wait in the darkness, hoping that Samantha would offer herself as a sacrifice? If it was, she’d be a long time waiting. Grace had built up a considerable reputation over the years and Samantha had been surprised and disquieted at having to face her. She had thought she might get to talk to Brooks. But instead she had found herself opposite the boss, dancing on a wire.

  Grace was determined, resourceful and well prepared. Oddly, she was also adept at putting you at your ease, which made her more dangerous still. You could never be entirely sure what her next move would be, which was unnerving at first, but as she’d grown into the interview, Samantha had begun to enjoy the sudden changes of direction and the attempts to wrong-foot her. It reminded her a little of the ghastly fencing displays she’d had to sit through during her brief period in private education. Lunge, retreat, parry, riposte. Lunge, retreat, parry … Grace hadn’t landed a telling hit yet, though Samantha could tell she thought she was close. Was she out there right now, drawing all the strands together until she was ready to pull the net tight?

  What she wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall, watching Grace sifting the evidence with her team and debating her next move. She had seemed so confident, so businesslike when they started the interview, as if it was only a matter of time before she got her “man.” But, by the end, her frustration was coming through loud and clear as she pressed Samantha for a confession. She had enjoyed refusing to play ball—that bitch was clearly full of herself and needed taking down a peg or two.

  Grace was used to getting her way, to being on the winning side. But not this time. Perhaps she would be patient, waiting for her prey to come to her. Or perhaps her next move would be a full-frontal assault. Either way, one thing was clear to Samantha. DI Grace was clutching at straws.

  87

  “It would have been a lot easier if you’d contacted us earlier, Mr. Simons.”

  David Simons said nothing in response—he looked about as pleased to be in the interview suite as Charlie did. She’d been on the cusp of calling it a day when he had finally presented himself at the custody desk. Sanderson had just returned to the station and was locked in a private briefing with Helen, leaving Charlie no choice but to field the interview, as the only senior officer available.

  “I might say the same thing to you,” Simons replied. “I’m the only person on this planet who gave a shit about Jake Elder and yet I’ve no clue what’s happening. Are you going to charge this guy Parker or not?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t comment on an ongoing operation—”

  “Yada yada yad—”

  “But I can assure you we are making good progress,” Charlie interrupted, resisting the temptation to punch Simons in the face.

  The truth was of course a little different. Samantha was in custody but had not been charged, which made Charlie very nervous indeed. There was a lot riding on this for her, especially after her bitter argument with Helen.

  “In the meantime, I’d like to go over a few details with you. Starting with where and how you first met Jake Elder?”

  Begrudgingly, David Simons began to talk, giving brief details of his relationship with the first victim. Charlie listened, nodding and taking notes when necessary, but in truth her mind remained elsewhere. She didn’t expect any revelations from Simons and her thoughts were full of the day’s traumatic events. Her shoulder still ached from her fight with Samantha, but she would have happily worn that if she had helped bring this troubling case to a conclusion. As it was, she had all but destroyed her relationship with Helen, and Samantha remained a suspect, but no more.

  Had the price been worth paying? She was determined not to come second best to Sanderson—but had it really been necessary to confront her mentor and friend so harshly? She and Helen had always got on and though it was true that Helen was in a very troubled place at the moment, she owed Charlie more than bitterness and aggression. She had been right to call Helen out on her behavior, but a lot of what Helen had said about her had also been on the money. Charlie did need to get a grip on herself. The fact that she wasn’t planning on telling her partner, Steve, about her fight with Samantha told Charlie all she needed to know about the wisdom of entering that flat alone.

  Would an apology cut it? Was it even advisable? Charlie had brought Samantha in and while there was still a good chance that she would be charged, it was probably best to say nothing. Once she had put Sanderson in her place, then she could try to repair her relationship with Helen. For now, there was nothing for it but to hunker down and see things through to the bitter end.

  88

  The kettle shrieked as it reached the boiling point, jolting Helen from her thoughts. She had been briefed by Sanderson before leaving the station, her DS confirming that Paine’s tablet was a dead end. The device had been found by two students in a park bin miles from his flat, its memory erased and the exterior wiped clean.

  Frustrated and drained, Helen had spent some time in her office leafing through Meredith’s latest reports, which worryingly did not include a positive DNA source for Parker at the Torture Rooms, before she decided to call it a day. It was late and she craved the sanctuary of her flat.

  Once safely home, she’d tried to read, but when that failed to distract her, she’d opted for herbal tea and a hot bath instead. But, as ever, she couldn’t stop her mind from turning. She didn’t really remember filling the kettle, which was testament enough to her inability to drive Samantha from her thoughts. She was such a good fit for these crimes, but if she was guilty, why was she so cocky? She seemed to be enjoying the dance, as if she alone knew the punch line that was about to be delivered. Helen had the unnerving feeling that they were missing something significant.

  Helen poured the boiling water into the cup and watched the color leach out of the tea bag. She had been looking forward to a soothing drink, but now she couldn’t face it. What was the point of going through this ritual? She could have a cup of tea, lie in a warm bath, but she would still be thinking the same thoughts, teasing away at the same knotty problems. She’d smoked too many cigarettes and she didn’t have the energy for a run—it was a bitter irony that she no longer had Jake to turn to, to rid her of her dark energy.

  Throwing her tea into the sink, Helen turned to face the window. It was late now and the pubs would be emptying soon—perhaps some late-night voyeurism would help Helen unwind. The lights were off in her kitchen, shrouding her in darkness, but the moon was full and bright and as Helen looked out of her window, she saw him. It was only for an instant, but there was no mistaking it. A man was standing in the derelict building opposite, watching her.

  Helen’s instinctive reaction was to pull away, but she managed to control herself, turning and walking slowly toward the back of the flat, as if nothing had happened. Then, as soon as she was out of view, she dashed to the front door and wrenched it open. She had no idea who was watching her, but he wasn’t going to escape her tonight.

  89

  Helen burst out of the fire exit and into the communal gardens at the back of her flats. Whipping her key fob from her pocket, she buzzed herself out and sprinted round the corner. She now doubled back to her road but instead of turning left into it, she carried on past, coming to a halt by the lolling chain-link fence that surrounded the derelict building—its only form of defense against the squatters and junkies who occasionally used it.

  Finding a low point in the fence, Helen slipped over and padded toward the back of the flats. The building cast a tall shadow and Helen had to choose her path car
efully—the ground was littered with broken glass and discarded needles. As she worked her way toward the empty shell, her mind was turning on what she’d seen. Was this the same figure she’d glimpsed a few months back? She’d thought nothing of it at the time, assuming it was just another drug user seeking temporary sanctuary. Now she chided herself for her complacency.

  She had reached the back entrance and, bending down, picked up an empty beer bottle. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do—in her haste she had left her baton and holster in the flat. Stepping into the building, she reached out a hand to steady herself. There was no light in the cavernous space—just moonlight creeping through the holes in the roof. It was an oddly magical sight, the moonbeams descending from above, but perilous too. Helen could barely see where she was going and knew that a wrong step might send her plunging into the basement below. More than that, she sensed that the person she was hunting was still inside somewhere. He might strike at any minute—if that was his intention—and Helen would be virtually defenseless.

  She hesitated. Through the gloom she could make out a staircase in the far corner. Creeping forward, testing each floorboard as she went, she kept her head upright and alert, searching for danger. She remembered her words to Charlie earlier, but it was too late to call for the cavalry now. By the time they arrived, Helen felt sure her quarry would be gone.

  Reaching the staircase, Helen looked up, suddenly feeling very small in the deserted building. There were fifteen floors above her, but she felt certain the figure she’d seen had been on the penultimate floor. She had fourteen floors to climb. What was her best strategy—slow and steady or swift and decisive? The stairs were made of concrete and seemed the one element of the building that hadn’t rotted away, so, summoning her courage, Helen raced up the stairs.

  Fourth floor, fifth floor, sixth floor. Helen drove herself on, keeping her pace steady. She was bouncing lightly from step to step, moving as silently as she could, but it was hard to move this fast without creating a little noise. Would this prove costly? Was she walking into an ambush? Fear once more seeped into her consciousness. She was not by nature fearful, but something about this place was messing with her head. She didn’t want to end her days here.