Little Boy Blue

126

‘Look at the camera, please.’

Helen stared straight ahead as the flash fired – once, twice, three times. It was blinding, disorienting, the pain piercing her brain. But Helen knew it was just the beginning of her torture.

‘Now to the left, please.’

Flash, flash, flash.

‘Now to the right.’

Helen knew the drill – had watched this process countless times – but she had to be led through it now by the custody sergeant. She nodded when prompted, but none of it felt real. She was still in shock, her mind turning on the ingenuity of Robert’s scheme. He had trailed her patiently, picking up the detritus of her life, carefully assembling the narrative of her destruction. He had selected his victims well – choosing people who were not necessarily close to Helen, but who were nevertheless part of her secret life. Their exposure through death posed the question of who might want to silence them, leading the police straight back to Helen. She had no doubt now that Robert would have planted further DNA evidence at the Torture Rooms and possibly at Paine’s too. She had a connection to all the victims, so her only escape route was to establish a bona fide alibi.

With a shudder, Helen realized that this too would be denied her. She had been out running on the night of the first murder – had someone seen her running north, as if heading home from the Torture Rooms? On the night of Paine’s murder, she had visited Marianne’s grave – her route from Southampton Central would have taken her right past Paine’s flat. She was a creature of habit and Robert had taken full advantage of that, knowing all the while that there was no one waiting at home to confirm her version of events.

‘Right. Now we’re going to strip-search you.’

Helen felt hands upon her and looking up she saw a female custody officer removing her clothes. Her vest, trousers and boots were removed and bagged. She would be allowed to keep her underwear on, but only after they had been searched. Helen submitted to this indignity, all the while feeling the sergeant’s eyes on her. Helen’s torso was riddled with scars – evidence of her historic addiction to sado-masochism, which would no doubt strengthen the case against her. Very few people had seen her like this – naked and exposed – and Helen could feel the sergeant’s silent judgement.

This was nothing compared to what was to come, however. Helen knew that her life would be pored over now, her every misdemeanour and insecurity exposed as she was hung out to dry. She was at the bottom of the well, with no means or hope of escape.

Standing there half naked in the weak light of a flickering bulb, Helen was utterly alone.