Little Boy Blue - [5]

Flashing her warrant card, Helen pushed through the throng towards 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 that were uneven, sticky and cast in shadow. The club was comprised 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 towards 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.’

‘Ok. Let’s do this then, shall we?’

Charlie gestured Helen towards 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 and 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 post mortem 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 on to 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 footfall 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 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 patch of skin visible anywhere. The wet sheets clung to him, bolstering Helen’s sense of the paralysing immobility the victim must have felt. It was a horrific way to die.

There had been S &M deaths before of course – auto-eroticism 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 their 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 downwards, eventually coming to rest on his chest.