Little Boy Blue

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.’