Little Boy Blue - страница 5

It was nearly 2 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 craved answers as keenly now as they did at the time of their bereavement. There was so much going on during the daily grind that it was only at night, when peace finally descended at 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.

Afterwards 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 favouritism, 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 straight away.’

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 leapt 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.

Helen walked towards the chaos. The club had been packed to the rafters and the partygoers now spilled on to 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, chainmail 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 each other as they speculated about the night’s events.

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.