Little Boy Blue

Book 5: A Helen Grace Thriller

by M.J. Arlidge

Genres: Police Procedurals; Crime Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

Penguin presents that unabridged, downloadable, audiobook edition of Little Boy Blue by MJ Arlidge, read by Elizabeth Bower.

Hiding her personal connection to the victim - and a double-life which must remain secret at all costs - Helen becomes a woman possessed, working her team around the clock to chase down every lead.

As the killer strikes again, the investigation takes its toll not only on Helen but also her senior officers. Tempers flare, friendships fray and Helen faces an impossible choice.

Confess her sins and lose control of the case? Or keep living a lie, protecting her darkest secrets, and risk getting trapped in this tangled web?

But whatever she does, this killer will not stop until the truth is revealed: there are some fates worse than death . . .

Release date: October 4, 2016

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 400

Sample

***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected copy proof***

Copyright © 2016 M.J. Arlidge

1

He looked like a falling angel. His muscular body, naked save for a pair of silver wings, was suspended in midair, turning back and forth on the heavy chain that bound him to the ceiling. His fingers groped downward, straining for the key that would effect his release, but it remained tantalizingly out of reach. He was at the mercy of his captor and she circled him now, debating where to strike next. His chest? His genitals? The soles of his feet?

A crowd had gathered to watch, but he didn’t linger. He was bored by the spectacle—had seen it countless times before—and moved on quickly, hoping to find something else to distract him. He always came to the Annual Ball—it was the highlight of the S&M calendar on the South Coast—but he suspected this year would be his last. It wasn’t simply that he kept running into exes that he’d rather avoid; it was more that the scene had become so familiar. What had once seemed outrageous and thrilling now felt empty and contrived. The same people doing the same old things and wallowing in the attention.

Perhaps he just wasn’t in the right mood tonight. Since he’d split up with David, he’d been in such a deep funk that nothing seemed to give him any pleasure. He’d come here more in hope than in expectation, and already he could feel the disappointment and self-disgust welling up inside him. Everybody else seemed to be having a good time—and there was certainly no shortage of offers from fellow revelers—so what was wrong with him? Why was he incapable of dealing with the fact that he was alone?

He pushed his way to the bar and ordered a double Jameson, then ran his eye over the scene as the barman obliged. Men, women and others who were somewhere in between paraded themselves on the dance floors and podiums—a seething mass of humanity crammed into the basement club’s crumbling walls. This was their night and they were all in their Sunday best—rubber-spiked dominators, padlocked virgins, sluts who blossom into swans and, of course, the obligatory gimps. All trying so hard.

As he turned back to the bar in disgust, he saw him. Framed by the frenzied crowds, he appeared as a fixed point—an image of utter stillness amid the chaos, coolly surveying the clubbers in front of him. Was it a “him”? It was hard to say. The dark leather mask covered everything but the eyes, and the matching suit revealed only a sleek, androgynous figure. Running his eyes over the concealed body in search of clues, he suddenly realized that the object of his attention was looking straight at him. Embarrassed, he turned away. Seconds later, however, curiosity got the better of him and he stole another glance.

The person was still staring at him. This time he didn’t turn away. Their eyes remained glued to each other’s for ten seconds or more, before the figure suddenly turned and walked away, heading toward the darker, more discreet areas of the club.

Now he didn’t hesitate, following him past the bar, past the dance floor, past the chained angel and on toward the back rooms—heavily in demand tonight as private spaces for brief, fevered liaisons. He could feel his excitement growing and as he picked up the pace, his eyes took in the contours of the person ahead of him. Was it his imagination or was there something familiar about the shape of the body? Was this someone known to him, someone he’d met in the course of work or play? Or was this a total stranger who’d singled him out for special attention? It was an intriguing question.

The figure had come to a halt now, standing alone in a small, dingy room ahead. In any other situation, caution would have made him hesitate. But not tonight. Not now. So, entering the room, he marched directly toward the expectant figure, pushing the door firmly shut behind him.

2

The piercing scream was long and loud. Her eyes darted left just in time to see the source of the noise—a startled vixen darting into the undergrowth—but she didn’t break stride, diving ever deeper into the forest. Whatever happened now, she had to keep going.

Her lungs burned and her muscles ached, but on she went, braving the low branches and the fallen logs, praying her luck would hold. It was nearly midnight and there was not a soul around to help her should she fall, but she was so close now.

The trees were thinning out, the foliage was less dense and seconds later she broke cover—a svelte, hooded figure darting across the vast expanse of Southampton Common. She was closing in fast on the cemetery that marked the western edge of the park, and though her body was protesting bitterly, she lurched forward once more. Seconds later she was there, slapping the cemetery gates hard before wrenching up her sleeve to arrest her stopwatch. Forty-eight minutes and fifteen seconds—a new personal best.

Breathing heavily, Helen Grace pulled back her hood and turned her face to the night. The moon was nearly full, the sky cloudless, and the gentle breeze that rippled over her was crisp and refreshing. Her heart was beating out a furious rhythm, the sweat creeping down her cheeks, but she found herself smiling, happy to have shaved half a minute off her time, pleased that she had the moon at least to bear witness to her triumph. She had never pushed herself this hard before, but it had been worth it.

Dropping to the ground, she began to stretch. She knew she made an odd sight—a lone female contorting herself in the shadow of a decaying cemetery—and that many would have chastised her for being here so late at night. But it was part of her routine now and she never felt any fear or anxiety in this place. She reveled in the isolation and solitude—somehow being alone made it feel like her space.

Her life had been so troubled and complex, so fraught with incident and danger, that there were very few places where she truly felt at peace. But here, a tiny, anonymous figure, dwarfed by the immense darkness of the deserted common, she felt relaxed and happy. More than that, she felt free.

3

He couldn’t move a muscle.

Conversation had been brief and they had moved quickly to the main event. A chair had been pulled out into the middle of the room and he had been pushed down roughly onto it. He knew not to say anything—the beauty of these encounters was that they were mysterious, anonymous and secret. Careless talk ruined the moment, but not here—something about this one just felt right.

He sat back and allowed himself to be bound. His captor had come prepared, wrapping thick ribbon around his ankles, tethering them to the chair legs. The material felt smooth and comforting against his skin and he exhaled deeply—he was so used to being in control, to being the one thinking, planning, doing, that it was gratifying to switch off for once. It had been a long time since anyone had taken him in hand and he suddenly realized how excited he was at the prospect.

Next it was his arms, pushed gently behind his back, then secured to the chair with leather straps. He could smell the tang of the cured hide—it was a smell that had intrigued him since he had been a boy, and its aroma was pleasantly familiar. He closed his eyes now—it was more enjoyable if you couldn’t see what was coming—and braced himself for what was ahead.

The next stage was more complicated, but no less tender. Wet sheets were carefully unfurled and steadily applied, from the ankle up. As the minutes passed, the moisture began to evaporate, and the sheets tightened, sticking close to his skin. Before long he couldn’t move anything below his waist—a strange but not unpleasant sensation. Moments later, he was bound to the chest, his lover for the night carefully finishing the job by securing the upper sheet with heavy-duty duct tape, winding it round and round his broad shoulders, coming to a halt just beneath his Adam’s apple.

He opened his eyes and looked at his captor. The atmosphere in the room was thick with expectation—there were many different ways this could play out: some consensual, some less so. Each had its merits and he wondered which one he, or she, would choose.

Neither spoke. The silence between them was punctured only by the distant thump of the Euro pop currently deafening those on the dance floor. But the sound seemed a long way away, as if they were in a different universe, locked together in this moment.

Still his captor made no move to punish or pleasure him and for the first time he felt a flash of frustration—everyone likes to be teased, but there are limits. He could feel the beginnings of an erection straining against its constraints, and he was keen not to let it go to waste.

“Come on, then,” he said softly. “Don’t make me wait. It’s been a long time since I had any love.”

He closed his eyes again and waited. What would come first? A slap? A blow? A caress? For a moment nothing happened; then suddenly he felt something brush against his cheek. His lover had moved in close—he could feel his breath on the side of his face, could hear his cracked lips parting.

“This isn’t about love,” his captor whispered. “This is about hate.”

His eyes shot open, but it was too late. His captor was already winding the duct tape over his chin, his mouth . . . He tried to scream, but his tongue was forced back down by the sticky, bitter adhesive. Now the tape was covering his cheeks, flattening his nose. Moments later, the tape passed over his eyes and everything went black.

4

Helen stared out into the darkness beyond. She was back in her flat, showered and swathed in a towel, sitting by the casement window that looked out onto the street. The adrenaline and endorphins of earlier had dissipated, replaced by a relaxed, contented calm. She had no need for sleep—she wanted to enjoy this moment a little first—so she’d taken up her customary position in front of the window, her vantage point on the world beyond.

It was at times like this that Helen thought she was making a go of her life. The old demons still lurked within, but her use of pain as a way of controlling her emotions had eased off of late, as she’d learned to push her body in other ways. She wasn’t there yet—would she ever be?—but she was on the right track. Sometimes she suppressed the feelings of hope this engendered in her, for fear of being disappointed; at other times she gave in to them. Tonight was one of those moments when she allowed herself a little happiness.

Cradling her mug of tea, she looked down on the street below. She was a night owl and this was one of her favorite times, when the world seemed quiet, yet full of mystery and promise—the dark before the dawn. Living high up, she was shielded from view and could watch undetected as the night creatures went about their business. Southampton had always been a bustling, vibrant city and around midnight the streets regularly filled with workers, students, ships’ crews, tourists and more, as the pubs emptied out. Helen enjoyed watching the human dramas that played out below—lovers falling out and reconciling, best friends declaring their mutual affection for each other, a woman in floods of tears on her mobile phone, an elderly couple holding hands on their way home to bed. Helen liked to climb inside their lives, imagining what would happen next for them, what highs and lows still lay ahead.

Later still, when the streets thinned out, you saw the really interesting sights—the night birds who were up at the darkest point of the day. Sometimes these sights tugged at your heart—the homeless, vulnerable and miserably drunk plowing their lonely furrows through the city. Other times they made you sit up—fights between drunken boys, the sight of a junkie prowling the derelict building opposite, a noisy domestic incident spilling out onto the streets. Other times they made Helen laugh—fresher students pushing one another around in “borrowed” Sainsbury’s trolleys, clueless as to where they were or how they would find their way back to their digs.

All human life passed before her and Helen drank it in, enjoying the feeling of quiet omniscience that her elevated view gave her. Sometimes she chided herself for her voyeurism, but more often than not, she gave in to it, wallowing in the “company” it afforded her. On occasion, it did make her wonder whether any of the night stalkers were aware they were being watched, and if so, whether they would care. And occasionally, in her darker, more paranoid moments, it made her wonder whether somebody might in turn be watching her.

5

The panic shears lay on the floor, untouched. The heavy-duty scissors were specifically designed to cut through clothing, tape, even leather—but they wouldn’t be used. There would be no deliverance tonight.

The chair had toppled over as the panicking victim attempted to wrestle himself free of his bonds. He made a strange sight now, bucking pointlessly on the floor as his fear grew and his breath shortened. He was making no headway in loosening his restraints and the end could not be far away now. Standing over him, his attacker looked on, wondering what the eventual cause of death would be. Overheating? Asphyxiation? Cardiac arrest? It was impossible to say and the uncertainty was quietly thrilling.

His victim’s movements were slowing now and the leather-clad figure moved away. There was nothing to be gained by enjoying the show, especially when some sexed-up freak might burst in at any minute. His work here was done.

Turning away, he walked calmly toward the door. Would they get it? Would they realize what they were dealing with? Only time would tell, but whatever happened, there was one thing that the police, the public and the freaks out there wouldn’t be able to ignore: the lovingly bound figure lying on the floor nearby, twitching slowly to a standstill as death claimed him.

6

Where was he?

The same question had spun round Sally’s head for hours. She’d tried to go to sleep, but had given up, first flicking on the radio, then later switching on the light to read. But the words wouldn’t go in and she’d reach the end of the page none the wiser. In the end she’d stopped trying altogether, turning the light off to lie awake in darkness. She was a worrier—she knew that—prone to seeing misfortune around every corner. But surely she had a right to be worried. Paul was “working late” again.

A few weeks ago, this wouldn’t have been a cause for concern. Paul was ambitious, hardworking and committed—his fierce work ethic had often meant him returning to cold dinners during the course of their twenty-year marriage. But then once, three weeks ago, she’d had to contact him urgently, following a call from his mother. Unable to reach him on his mobile, she’d called his PA, only to be told he’d left the office at five p.m. sharp. The hands of the kitchen clock pointed mockingly to eight p.m. as Sally hung up in shock. Her mind had immediately filled with possible scenarios—an accident, an affair—but she’d tried to quell her anxiety and when he returned home safe and sound later that night, she said nothing.

But when he next called to say he’d be late home, she plucked up courage and visited him in person. She’d gone to the office armed with excuses, but they proved unnecessary, as he wasn’t there. He’d left early again. Had she successfully hidden her distress from his PA? She thought so, but she couldn’t tell. Perhaps his PA already knew. They say the wife is always the last to find out.

Was Paul the kind of man to have an affair? Instinctively, Sally thought not. Her husband was an old-school Catholic who’d promised to honor his marriage vows and meant it. Their marriage, their family life, had been a happy, prosperous one. Moreover, Sally had kept her looks and her figure, despite the birth of the twins, and she was sure Paul still found her attractive, even if their lovemaking was more sporadic these days. No, instinctively she rebelled against the thought that he would give his love to someone else. But isn’t that what every scorned wife believes until the extent of her husband’s duplicity is revealed?

The minutes crawled by. What was he up to so late at night? Whom was he with? On numerous occasions during the last few days, she’d resolved to have it out with him. But she could never find the right words, and besides, what if she was wrong? Perhaps Paul was planning a surprise for her? Wouldn’t he be devastated to be accused of betraying her?

The truth was that Sally was scared. One question can unravel a life. So though she lay awake, groping for the correct way to bring it up, she knew that she would never ask the question. Not because she didn’t want to know. But because of what she might find out if she did.

7

It was nearly two a.m. and the seventh floor was as quiet as the grave. DS Charlie Brooks stifled a yawn as she leafed through the cold-case files on her desk. She was exhausted—the twin pressures of her recent promotion and motherhood taking their toll—but she was determined to give these cases the attention they deserved. They were unsolved murders going back ten, fifteen years—cases that were colder than cold—but the victims were all someone’s daughter, mother, father or son, and those left behind answers craved as keenly now as they had been at the time of initial bereavement. There was so much going on during the daily grind that it was only at night, when peace finally descended on Southampton Central, that Charlie could get to grips with them. This was just one of the extra duties required of her now that she’d made the leap from detective constable to detective sergeant, and she was determined not to be found wanting.

She had Helen Grace to thank for her elevation. Although Helen already had DS Sanderson to act as her deputy, she’d demanded that Charlie be promoted, following her good work on the Ethan Harris case. Helen had met resistance from those who worried that the chain of command would be compromised, but in the end Helen had got her way, convincing enough of the people who mattered that Charlie deserved promotion.

DC Charlie Brooks had thus become DS Charlene Brooks. Nobody called her that of course—she would always be Charlie to everyone at Southampton Central—but it still felt good when she heard her full name read out at the investiture ceremony. Helen was on hand that day, giving Charlie a discreet wink as she walked back to her place among the other deserving officers, trying to suppress a broad grin from breaking out over her face.

Afterward she’d wanted to take Helen out, to say thank you to her personally, but Helen wouldn’t have it—ushering her instead to the Crown and Two Chairmen for the traditional “wetting” of the new sergeant’s head. Was this to avoid any charges of favoritism, or simply because she wasn’t comfortable accepting Charlie’s thanks? It was hard to say and in any event, the booze-up that followed had been a good one. The whole team had turned up and everyone, with the possible exception of Sanderson, had gone out of their way to tell Charlie how pleased they were. Given the dark days she’d endured getting to this point, Charlie had been profoundly grateful for the vote of confidence they’d given her that night.

Charlie was so wrapped up in her recollections—dim memories of a very drunken, late-night karaoke session with DC McAndrew now surfacing—that she jumped when she looked up to see the duty sergeant standing over her.

“Sorry, miles away,” she apologized, turning to face him.

“Justice never sleeps, eh?” he replied with his trademark wink. “This just came in. Thought you’d want to see it straightaway.”

The piece of paper he handed her was scant on details—a suspected murder with no victim ID and no named witness—but there was something that immediately leaped out at her. Listed at the top of the incident sheet was the address—one she’d never been to but which was notorious in Southampton.

The Torture Rooms.

8

Helen walked toward the chaos. The club had been packed to the rafters and the partygoers now spilled onto the street, ushered there by the harassed bouncers. It was an arresting sight—a dozen police officers in their high-visibility jackets drowning in a sea of PVC, chain mail and naked flesh. In different circumstances it would have made Helen smile, but the fear and shock on the faces of those present banished any such thoughts. Many of the clubbers lingered outside despite the management’s attempts to move them on, clinging to one another as they speculated about the night’s events.

Flashing her warrant card, Helen pushed through the throng toward the entrance. The uniformed officer gave her an awkward nod, embarrassed to be found standing guard over a notorious S&M club, then heaved open the vast leather doors that kept its members in and the world’s prying eyes out. Helen had never visited the Torture Rooms, and as she stepped across the threshold, she was immediately struck by the gaping staircase that descended in front of her. Deep crimson from floor to ceiling, flanked by walls studded with ingenious instruments of torture, it looked like the entrance to hell.

Helen descended quickly, clinging to the rail to avoid slipping on the stairs, which were uneven, sticky and cast in shadow. The club was composed of a series of brick-arched vaults and Helen made her way to the largest of them now. An hour or two earlier, this had been a scene of wild abandon, but it was deserted now, save for Charlie, DC McAndrew and a number of junior officers. Only the smell lingered: sweat, spilled lager, perfume and more besides—a sweet, pungent cocktail that was at odds with the lifeless feel of the club.

“Sorry to have called you so late. Or early. I’m not sure which it is.”

Charlie had spotted Helen and was walking toward her.

“No problem,” Helen replied warmly. “What have we got?”

“Lover boy over there found the body,” Charlie answered.

She indicated a pale, blond youth who was giving his statement to McAndrew. The police blanket he’d been given couldn’t completely conceal his skimpy LAPD outfit and he tugged nervously at it now, seemingly embarrassed by the presence of genuine police officers.

“He and a friend were looking for somewhere to be intimate. They barged into one of the back rooms and found our victim. We’ve separated the pair of them, but their accounts tally. They swear blind they didn’t go into the room—Meredith’s taken samples from them to check.”

“Good. Any sign of the manager?”

“DC Edwards is in the back office with Mr. Blakeman now.”

“Okay. Let’s do this, then, shall we?”

Charlie gestured Helen toward the back of the club and they walked in that direction.

“Any witnesses?” Helen asked.

“We’ve no shortage of people who want to talk, but I wouldn’t call them witnesses. It was dark, noisy and crowded. Half the punters were in costumes or masks. We’ll be lucky to get anything useful, and no one is saying they saw anything ‘unusual.’ According to the bouncers, a few punters scarpered as soon as the police turned up. We’ve asked Blakeman for a full list of their members, so we can try to track them down but—”

“They’re unlikely to have used their real names,” Helen interjected. “And I can’t see them willingly coming forward to help us. Keep on it anyway—you never know.”

Charlie nodded, but Helen could tell her mind was also turning on the peculiar complications a case such as this might offer. Given the paucity of eyewitnesses, they would probably have to rely heavily on forensic evidence, CCTV and the postmortem results if they were to make any tangible progress.

Upping her pace, Helen now found herself in the company of scene-of-crime officers. They had reached the murder scene. Slipping sterile coverings onto her shoes, Helen nodded to Charlie and, bracing herself, stepped into the room beyond.

9

The small space was a hive of activity. Meredith Walker, Southampton Central’s chief forensics officer, was already on her hands and knees, diligently searching the floor space. The club’s owners clearly didn’t spend much on cleaning and it was going to be a mammoth job for Meredith and her team to bag all the detritus. The foot traffic in this room was evidently large—Helen feared it might be easier to work out which of the club’s members hadn’t been in this room than to pin down those who had—further complicating the task that lay in front of them.

Helen caught Charlie looking at her and, putting these defeatist thoughts aside, moved cautiously forward. The victim lay in the middle of the room, bound to a metal chair with duct tape and wet sheets. Helen presumed he was a man, given the height, but it was hard to be sure. The victim’s entire head was encased in silver tape, not a strand of hair or a patch of skin visible anywhere. The wet sheets clung to him, bolstering Helen’s sense of the paralyzing immobility the victim must have felt. It was a horrific way to die.

There had been S&M deaths before, of course—autoeroticism and sex games gone wrong—but this one felt different. A pair of sturdy panic shears lay on the floor next to the body, circled by Meredith’s team and tagged for inspection. Whoever did this, then, had the means to release the victim, but had chosen not to. Instead, they had left the room, closing the door behind them and walking away without once attracting anyone’s attention. This was no accident, then. This was a deliberate, calculated attempt to kill.

The police photographer gave Helen the nod and she now moved forward. Slipping her gloved hand beneath the victim, she raised him from the ground. The chair wobbled a little, then righted itself, settling into position in front of her. The victim’s head lolled downward, eventually coming to rest on his chest.

“Could you give us a couple of minutes, guys?” Helen said quietly, but firmly.

Meredith and her team withdrew, leaving Charlie and Helen alone with the deceased. It was time now to reveal the victim and begin the process of trying to identify him—a task that didn’t require an audience.

Gripping a pair of sterile scissors, Helen snipped through the wet sheets that bound the legs and torso. She was unlikely to be able to ID him from the sight of his feet, but she wanted to release his arms and legs from their constraints. This would allow her a better line of attack on the duct tape that bound him from the chest up. She knew she could ill afford to inflict any postmortem injuries on him by hacking blindly at the tape, so though every instinct urged her to remove the tape from his eyes, nose and mouth, she resisted for now.

Patiently, Helen cut through the stiff sheets, releasing his body from its purgatory. The sheets fell away, revealing the ribbon that secured his ankles to the chair legs. Helen untied this, bagging it along with the sheets, but the body didn’t respond at all. Rigor mortis was setting in—their victim looked like a man frozen in time.

Pressing on with her unpleasant task, Helen stripped off the upper sheets, passing them to a rather pale-looking Charlie. Now she slipped one scissor blade underneath the tape on his chest, sliding it over the soft leather of his suit without marking the surface. She slowed her progress as she cut upward toward his neck—every mark, every bruise on his body might provide them with vital clues, and Helen was determined not to stymie their investigation through human error.

The tape covering his throat came away easily—only his head remained covered now. Downing the scissors, Helen decided to finish the last, most delicate stage by hand. Teasing her fingers along the top of his head, she soon found what she was looking for. The end of the tape had been stuck down firmly, but with a bit of coaxing, it came free.

This was the moment of truth, then. Grasping the loose end, Helen began to unwind the tape. Slowly at first, then faster and with more confidence, until finally it fell away altogether.

The sight that greeted her took her breath away. Not because she was disgusted by the victim’s waxy, lifeless face, but because she recognized him.