PRAISE FOR THE DETECTIVE HELEN GRACE THRILLERS
“It’s almost always cause for skepticism when a book’s jacket copy promises an ingenious new variety of serial killer, but amazingly enough it’s true of M. J. Arlidge’s gripping debut… . His story is honest to us and to itself, and boy, do the pages fly by.”
—USA Today
“A fast-paced, twisting police procedural and thriller sure to become another bestseller.”
—The Huffington Post
“I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Tami Hoag
“There are so many things about this novel that are expertly pulled off … a dark, edgy thriller.”
—New York Times bestselling author Will Lavender
“What a great premise! … A fresh and brilliant departure from the stock serial killer tale. And Helen Grace is one of the greatest heroes to come along in years.”
—New York Times bestselling author Jeffery Deaver
“Exciting… . Readers will root for this admirable if flawed heroine every step of the way.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Pure, gripping entertainment.”
—Crime by the Book
“M. J. Arlidge has created a genuinely fresh heroine in Helen Grace… . He spares us none of the dark details, weaving them together into a tapestry that chills to the bone.”
—Daily Mail (UK)
Also by M. J. Arlidge
Detective Helen Grace Thrillers
Eeny Meeny
Pop Goes the Weasel
The Doll’s House
Liar Liar
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2016 by M. J. Arlidge
Excerpt from Eeny Meeny copyright © 2014 by M. J. Arlidge
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Title page art © Geoffrey Kuchera/Shutterstock Images
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Arlidge, M. J., author
Title: Little boy blue / M. J. Arlidge.
Description: Berkley trade paperback edition. | New York City: Berkley,
2016. | Series: A Helen Grace thriller; 5
Identifiers: LCCN 2016012507 (print) | LCCN 2016018593 (ebook) | ISBN
9781101991374 (softcover) | ISBN 9781101991381 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Policewomen—Fiction. | Women detectives—Fiction. | Serial
murder investigation—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Suspense. | FICTION /
Thrillers. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction. | Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PR6051.R55 L58 2016 (print) | LCC PR6051.R55 (ebook) |
DDC 823/.914—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016012507
Penguin Group (UK) trade paperback edition / March 2016
Berkley trade paperback edition / October 2016
Cover photo by David Lichtneker / Arcangel Images
Cover design by Colleen Reinhart
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
Contents
Praise for the Detective Helen Grace Thrillers
Also by M. J. Arlidge
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Excerpt from Eeny Meeny
About the Author
1
He looked like a falling angel. His muscular body, naked save for a pair of silver wings, was suspended in midair, turning back and forth on the heavy chain that bound him to the ceiling. His fingers groped downward, straini
ng for the key that would effect his release, but it remained tantalizingly out of reach. He was at the mercy of his captor and she circled him now, debating where to strike next. His chest? His genitals? The soles of his feet?
A crowd had gathered to watch, but he didn’t linger. He was bored by the spectacle—had seen it countless times before—and moved on quickly, hoping to find something else to distract him. He always came to the Annual Ball—it was the highlight of the S&M calendar on the South Coast—but he suspected this year would be his last. It wasn’t simply that he kept running into exes who he’d rather avoid; it was more that the scene had become so familiar. What had once seemed outrageous and thrilling now felt empty and contrived. The same people doing the same old things and wallowing in the attention.
Perhaps he just wasn’t in the right mood tonight. Since he’d split up with David, he’d been in such a deep funk that nothing seemed to give him any pleasure. He’d come here more in hope than in expectation, and already he could feel the disappointment and self-disgust welling up inside him. Everybody else seemed to be having a good time—and there was certainly no shortage of offers from fellow revelers—so what was wrong with him? Why was he incapable of dealing with the fact that he was alone?
He pushed his way to the bar and ordered a double Jameson, then scanned the scene as the barman obliged. Men, women and others who were somewhere in between paraded themselves on the dance floors and podiums—a seething mass of humanity crammed within the basement club’s crumbling walls. This was their night and they were all in their Sunday best—rubber-spiked dominators, padlocked virgins, sluts who blossom into swans and, of course, the obligatory gimps. All trying so hard.
As he turned back to the bar in disgust, he saw him. Framed by the frenzied crowds, he appeared as a fixed point—an image of utter stillness amid the chaos, coolly surveying the clubbers in front of him. Was it a “him”? It was hard to say. The dark leather mask covered everything but the eyes, and the matching suit revealed only a sleek, androgynous figure. Running his eyes over the concealed body in search of clues, he suddenly realized that the object of his attention was looking straight at him. Embarrassed, he turned away. Seconds later, however, curiosity got the better of him and he stole another glance.
The person was still staring at him. This time he didn’t turn away. Their eyes remained glued to each other’s for ten seconds or more, before the figure suddenly turned and walked away, heading toward the darker, more discreet areas of the club.
Now he didn’t hesitate, following him past the bar, past the dance floor, past the chained angel and on toward the back rooms—heavily in demand tonight as private spaces for brief, fevered liaisons. He could feel his excitement growing and as he picked up the pace, his eyes took in the contours of the person ahead of him. Was it his imagination or was there something familiar about the shape of the body? Was this someone known to him, someone he’d met in the course of work or play? Or was this a total stranger who’d singled him out for special attention? It was an intriguing question.
The figure had come to a halt now, standing alone in a small, dingy room ahead. In any other situation, caution would have made him hesitate. But not tonight. Not now. So, entering the room, he marched directly toward the expectant figure, pushing the door firmly shut behind him.
2
The piercing scream was long and loud. Her eyes darted left just in time to see the source of the noise—a startled vixen darting into the undergrowth—but she didn’t break stride, diving ever deeper into the forest. Whatever happened now, she had to keep going.
Her lungs burned and her muscles ached, but on she went, braving the low branches and the fallen logs, praying her luck would hold. It was nearly midnight and there was not a soul around to help her should she fall, but she was so close now.
The trees were thinning out, the foliage was less dense and seconds later she broke cover—a svelte, hooded figure darting across the vast expanse of Southampton Common. She was closing in fast on the cemetery that marked the western edge of the park, and though her body was protesting bitterly, she lurched forward once more. In a few seconds she was there, slapping the cemetery gates hard before wrenching up her sleeve to arrest her stopwatch. Forty-eight minutes and fifteen seconds—a new personal best.
Breathing heavily, Helen Grace pulled back her hood and turned her face to the night. The moon was nearly full, the sky cloudless, and the gentle breeze that rippled over her was crisp and refreshing. Her heart was beating out a furious rhythm, the sweat creeping down her cheeks, but she found herself smiling, happy to have shaved half a minute off her time, pleased that she had the moon at least to bear witness to her triumph. She had never pushed herself this hard before, but it had been worth it.
Dropping to the ground, she began to stretch. She knew she made an odd sight—a lone female contorting herself in the shadow of a decaying cemetery—and that many would have chastised her for being here so late at night. But it was part of her routine now and she never felt any fear or anxiety in this place. She reveled in the isolation and solitude—somehow being alone made it feel like her space.
Her life had been so troubled and complex, so fraught with incident and danger, that there were very few places where she truly felt at peace. But here, a tiny, anonymous figure dwarfed by the immense darkness of the deserted common, she felt relaxed and happy. More than that, she felt free.
3
He couldn’t move a muscle.
Conversation had been brief and they had moved quickly to the main event. A chair had been pulled out into the middle of the room and he had been pushed down roughly onto it. He knew not to say anything—the beauty of these encounters was that they were mysterious, anonymous and secret. Careless talk ruined the moment, but not here—something about this one just felt right.
He sat back and allowed himself to be bound. His captor had come prepared, wrapping thick ribbon around his ankles, tethering them to the chair legs. The material felt smooth and comforting against his skin and he exhaled deeply—he was so used to being in control, to being the one thinking, planning, doing, that it was gratifying to switch off for once. It had been a long time since anyone had taken him in hand and he suddenly realized how excited he was at the prospect.
Next it was his arms, pushed gently behind his back, then secured to the chair with leather straps. He could smell the tang of the cured hide—it was a smell that had intrigued him since he had been a boy, and its aroma was pleasantly familiar. He closed his eyes now—it was more enjoyable if you couldn’t see what was coming—and braced himself for what was ahead.
The next stage was more complicated, but no less tender. Wet sheets were carefully unfurled and steadily applied, from the ankle up. As the minutes passed, the moisture began to evaporate, and the sheets tightened, sticking close to his skin. Before long he couldn’t move anything below his waist—a strange but not unpleasant sensation. Moments later, he was bound to the chest, his lover for the night carefully finishing the job by securing the upper sheet with heavy-duty duct tape, winding it round and round his broad shoulders, coming to a halt just beneath his Adam’s apple.
He opened his eyes and looked at his captor. The atmosphere in the room was thick with expectation—there were many different ways this could play out: some consensual, some less so. Each had its merits and he wondered which one he, or she, would choose.
Neither spoke. The silence between them was punctured only by the distant thump of the Euro pop currently deafening those on the dance floor. But the sound seemed a long way away, as if they were in a different universe, locked together in this moment.
Still his captor made no move to punish or pleasure him and for the first time he felt a flash of frustration—everyone likes to be teased, but there are limits. He could feel the beginnings of an erection straining against its constraints, and he was keen not to let it go to waste.
“Come on, then,” he said softly. “Don’t make me wait. It’s been a long t
ime since I had any love.”
He closed his eyes again and waited. What would come first? A slap? A blow? A caress? For a moment nothing happened; then suddenly he felt something brush against his cheek. His lover had moved in close—he could feel his breath on the side of his face, could hear his cracked lips parting.