Little Boy Blue - [17]

‘Each to their own, that’s always been my motto. But we’ve all got to live around here, haven’t we? Kids, pensioners, mums and dads. And you don’t know who a place like that will attract. Then there’s the house prices. Soon as it becomes common knowledge that you’ve got a brothel next door – Sorry, love, am I boring you?’

McAndrew realized her gaze had drifted out of the window towards Jake’s flat. Snapping out of it, she turned to Maurice once more.

‘Not at all.’

‘You’re very sweet, but you’re not a good liar and I know you’re busy. Now I did jot down a few number plates in case the police should ever get around to doing anything about it, let me see if I can find them…’

He hurried over to the dresser. McAndrew thanked him, grateful that her time here hadn’t been completely wasted. It was tough doing door-to-doors – ‘hit-and-hopes’ – when you knew the real police work was going on elsewhere.

‘Right, let’s start at the beginning – this was from March 2013,’ Maurice said cheerfully, seating himself and opening his large notebook at the first page.

McAndrew sighed again. Perhaps Maurice had important information for the investigation. Perhaps he didn’t. Either way, one thing was clear – she was going to be here for a long, long time.

26

‘Don’t tell me. Let me guess. I’ve got a talent for these things.’

Helen said nothing. She had just spent a dispiriting couple of hours trawling industrial estates and wasn’t in the mood for games. Two of the businesses on her section of the list had gone into liquidation, another had refused to talk without a lawyer and two more were dead ends, with nothing in their recent transactions that fitted the bill.

‘I look at you and I see… nipple clamps, bondage mitts and perhaps a cock cage for that special someone in your life,’ the bearded man drawled.

‘Well, feast your eyes on this,’ Helen replied, flipping open her warrant card. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’

‘You’ll get nothing out of me without a warrant.’

They were seated on cardboard boxes in the back office. In truth it was little more than a storeroom, but Steven Fincher clearly felt it was his turf and was determined to press home the advantage.

‘If that’s the way you want to play it, that’s fine,’ Helen replied. ‘But your lack of cooperation suggests to me that you have something to hide.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘And any formal investigation of your affairs would necessarily be quite wide-ranging. I take it you’re up to date with your tax returns, national insurance and so on…’

Fincher’s eyes narrowed, but he kept his counsel.

‘So perhaps it would be easier all round, if you just do as I ask. Do you have an up-to-date list of recent transactions?’

‘Of course. This is a legitimate business.’

‘I’m very glad to hear it. And I take it you sell these items: wet sheets, leather restraints, duct tape?’

‘Of course.’

‘Have you sold any of those items within the last three months? Either individually or as a package?’

Grumbling, Fincher opened a nearby box file and pulled a tea-stained ledger from it. Helen watched him closely as he ran his finger down the columns. Edwards hadn’t had any joy in his search; neither had the other DCs – they were fast running out of options here.

‘This might be it,’ Fincher said cautiously.

‘Go on.’

‘Three wet sheets, blue, two tan leather restraints with gold buckles and a roll of silver duct tape.’

Helen nodded, concealing the excitement rising within her. She had been deliberately vague in her description of the items so far, but Fincher had just described the murder weapons in perfect detail.

‘Were they bought in store?’

‘No, delivery.’

‘Do you know the name of the courier company who delivered them?’

‘Course I bloody do. It was me.’

‘So you saw him?’ Helen said quickly. ‘The person you delivered them to?’

‘No. The house was derelict. But it was definitely the right address and the order form had instructions to post through the letter box if no one was at home. I never heard any more about it, so I assumed everything was ok…’

‘How did he pay for them?’ Helen asked further, her tone hard with disappointment.

‘Credit card.’

‘And do you still have those details?’

‘Sure,’ Fincher replied, rummaging around in another box file. ‘I’ve got the card number, the cardholder’s name and’ – he pulled a transaction receipt from the box with a flourish – ‘I’ve got his home address too.’

27

‘Who is this? What do you want?’

Emilia suppressed a smile. It was still early in Los Angeles and David Simons sounded bleary and half awake. His cracked voice and faltering speech suggested that he’d probably been out half the night. That wasn’t ideal – he might still be drunk or high and was more liable to get emotional – but the key thing was to get to him before the police did. They would have been trying to contact him, but they were spread thin over what was already shaping up to be a major investigation. Simons was a freelance cameraman, whose website had all the relevant contact details, and she’d had his mobile number on repeat dial since early afternoon. It had been going to voicemail for hours, but finally he had turned his phone on and she had struck gold.