Little Boy Blue - страница 38

Helen’s voice faltered as Jake’s lifeless corpse once more sprung to mind.

‘- an innocent man who deserves justice.’

‘Why are you being like this?’ Charlie said, emotion suddenly ambushing her.

‘Because it’s my job. You’d do well to remember yours.’

Helen stared at Charlie, challenging her to respond. But this time she didn’t. Instead, she turned and walked straight out of Helen’s office and towards the exit without saying a word to anyone. Helen retreated quickly to her desk, keen to busy herself with her case files. She could feel her face burning, as if she were the one in the wrong. She needed to regain her composure.

Silence reigned in the incident room beyond but Helen knew that that was just show. They were all trying very hard to look busy and engaged, but as Helen distractedly turned the pages of the case file in front of her, she knew instinctively that all eyes were on her. Everybody was watching her, but nobody was saying anything.

Max Paine flicked through the pages of the newspaper until he found what he was looking for. The Evening News was dominated by sensational reports of the Torture Rooms murder, but it was the centre spread he was after. There at the top-right-hand corner of the page was the journalist’s mug shot and direct line.

Emilia Garanita was no looker, given the extensive scarring on one of her cheeks, but she was a famous face in Southampton – with a number of high-profile exposés already to her name. She was happy to walk where angels fear to tread, going anywhere and talking to anyone who might provide her with a scoop. Paine hoped to use that to his advantage now.

He would meet with Garanita and tell her in confidence the information he was prepared to sell. He would then ask her to make him an offer. Under the pretext of thinking about it, he would then contact Grace and see what she was prepared to pay. To the winner, the spoils. He wasn’t on some moral crusade after all. He just wanted money.

He punched Garanita’s phone number into his mobile and turned away from the café counter – he didn’t want to be overheard. But the call didn’t connect, going straight to voicemail instead. He decided to be short and sweet.

‘My name is Max Paine. I have information about the Torture Rooms murder that you’ll want to hear. Call me on 07977 654878. I’ll be waiting.’

He rang off, pleased to have made the first move, but irritated not to have been able to speak to Garanita in person. Still, there was plenty of time for that. No point getting strung out this early in the game.

He finished his coffee, flicking carelessly through the rest of the paper, before heading on his way. It was getting late and he had work to do. He thought about taking the News with him, but he had Garanita’s number on his phone now, so tossing it casually on to the table, he left. The waitress swooped, scooping up his empty coffee cup, pausing momentarily to take in the front page of the abandoned paper. Something approaching sympathy now creased her features as Jake Elder’s smiling, happy face beamed out at her from beneath the screaming headline:

SOUTHAMPTON SEX MURDER.

They stood staring at each other, neither daring to speak.

The enormous relief Paul Jackson had felt on being told he was to be released swiftly turned to anxiety, when he realized what lay ahead. He didn’t trust himself to call Sally – he wasn’t even sure if she’d answer – so he’d texted her. His message was brief, saying simply that he was on his way home and would see her shortly. It was the kind of anodyne message he had sent a hundred times before. Now, however, it had a very different meaning.

He had hoped to avoid the press by sneaking out of the back exit of Southampton Central, but they were waiting for him there, as they were when he eventually pulled into his road. There was no question of heading in via the back door – the garden wall was too high to be scaled without a ladder – so getting out of the car he made a dash for the front gate. Immediately, he cannoned off one journalist, knocking over a photographer in the process. Nobody actually laid a hand on him but they all contrived to impede his progress. They wanted to provoke him, to get him to lash out, but he kept his head down until he reached the sanctuary of his front door.