Little Boy Blue

8

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.

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.