Gaslighting: A British Crime Thriller (Doc Powers & D.I. Carver Investigate Book 3)

by Will Patching

  Gaslighting

  A British Crime Thriller

  (Doc Powers & D.I. Carver Investigate #3)

  by

  Will Patching

  ***

  Copyright 2017 Will Patching

  The right of Will Patching to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, and incidents in this publication are the product of the author’s imagination. Real organisations, events and places are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Proofread by James Jones 2017:

  www.proof-edgb.com

  Any remaining errors are entirely the author’s.

  Covers created in conjunction with: Krespan Designs

  ***

  Table of Contents

  Foreword – Beware Spoilers…

  Law Enforcement Testimonials

  Gaslighting – Definitions

  Prologue – Kindling

  Saturday – Pre-ignition

  Sunday – Ignition

  Monday – Combustion

  Tuesday – Immolation

  Birthday – Conflagration

  Epilogue – Afterglow

  Warning – Heart Attack Hoax

  The Hack - Read the opening pages of the sensational international crime thriller by the same author...

  Author’s Foreword: Beware Spoilers…

  Unlike Mutilated, the second book in the Remorseless Trilogy, this story is not designed to be read as a standalone novel, although if you are not fussed about spoilers relating to book one, please be my guest.

  In case you would prefer to read Remorseless first, but would rather not pay for it, you might like to visit my website to find out how you can receive a copy, sent to you directly, on joining my Readers Group.

  Incidentally, Remorseless was selected by Ebook Skills as their ‘Mystery and Thriller of the Year, 2017’ so it is well worth reading...

  This novel is apparently my darkest yet – a disturbing psychological thriller that I hope will make your toes curl. That’s the sort of stuff I like to read, and write. I happen to think Gaslighting is my best novel to date, but the jury is out on that one. I’m looking forward to hearing what my readers think.

  If you have comments on any of my writing you may email me, or you can leave your comments through my website contact pages. I try to reply to everyone personally.

  Enjoy!

  Will Patching, Author

  Join Will’s Readers Group for free author giveaways and gain access to exclusive Members’ pages offering character profiles, back story, deleted scenes and unique author insights!

  *

  Law Enforcement Testimonials

  ‘Mr. Patching is an author who should be seriously followed by any fan of crime fiction.

  ‘In my view, he is a masterful storyteller. He knows how to keep the reader on the edge of their seat and keeps the fan wanting more of his stories.’

  Joseph Romero Jr.

  Life Member of the United States Federal Law Enforcement Officers Association (FLEOA) since the 1980s.

  *

  Scott M.

  (UK detective on active duty)

  Scott tweeted to me after reading Remorseless to tell me that the book was the best he had read. Later, he also said the novel helped him understand his ‘clients’ rather better, thanks to my descriptions of what goes on in the psychopathic mind.

  Like Joe, Scott has been spreading the word, including among his colleagues, and also was generous enough to assist with Mutilated by offering some detailed feedback. Thank you Scott for your support and efforts to spread the word — and I am delighted you felt reading my novels was rather like working with your crew.

  *

  Since Joe and Scott contacted me in 2016 I have had several other law enforcement officers and medical professionals, including psychologists, comment positively on the novels in the Remorseless Trilogy. I have tried throughout to create an accurate account of how psychopaths think and behave: they are nothing like most of us!

  More such testimonials can be found on my websites along with a great deal of information on psychopaths in both fact and fiction:

  www.remorselessthriller.com

  www.remorselessfiction.com

  www.thehacknovel.com

  www.willpatchingauthor.com

  ***

  Gaslighting: Definitions

  1). Gaslighting (verb)

  A form of manipulation and emotional abuse. The perpetrator aims to create doubt in the mind of a targeted individual, or members of a group. Targets begin to question their own memory, perception, and sanity.

  The term was first used in Gas Light, a 1938 play that inspired the 1944 film.

  2). Gaslighting (verb, colloquial)

  Arsonists’ slang for the technique of using a fuel-filled Molotov cocktail, launched from a distance, to ignite a flammable or explosive compound, thereby creating a much larger inferno.

  ***

  Prologue: Kindling

  Uncle Peter…

  A short excerpt from Remorseless – current paperback edition page 224

  ‘You didn’t know you had an uncle, did you? Mummy and Daddy didn’t tell you, did they?’

  Billy shook his head, his face a picture of misery.

  ‘That was very bad of both of them. Don’t you think?’

  The boy was confused, but nodded.

  ‘If I were you, I’d want to punish them. For lying. Lying’s bad, isn’t that right boy?’

  Again, a desperate nod.

  ‘So. As it’s not your fault, I’m going to let you go.’

  Billy’s eyes, already huge, threatened to pop out, either in fear or disbelief.

  ‘R-r-really?’ His voice squeaked.

  ‘Really. But you’ll have to promise. You’ll never forget Uncle Peter. That you’ll think of me every day.’

  ‘P-p-promise.’ Billy’s head jerked up and down. ‘Every day, Uncle.’

  ‘You know, boy. Normally I think people tend to lie. But today, I believe you…’

  ***

  Saturday: Pre-ignition

  Billy Leech woke seconds before his alarm clock had a chance to rouse him. As the usual staccato burst of music from his favourite punk band started playing, his palm slammed down on the off button while his eyes focused on the digital display. His ears, alert for any unusual sounds, twitched as he strained to hear if either of the other house occupants were up and about.

  Nothing from downstairs.

  Just the wind rattling a branch against his skylight window and a few groans from the roof rafters in his attic bedroom, creaking above his head.

  Satisfied that he was the only one conscious at 3am, his designated witching hour, he grinned into the darkness, slipped on his shorts and tee shirt, and padded across the bare floorboards to the door. He had no need to be stealthy, but it was a habit ingrained in his psyche, and he seemed to drift down the stairs like a wraith, his feet avoiding the steps with loose planking, so that he arrived outside his mother’s room with only the air disturbed by his movements.

  In any normal household, the light spilling from the gap at the bottom of a bedroom door would suggest the resident was awake.

  But this was no normal household.

  Billy’s hand twisted the doorknob and he craned his head into the room to check on his mother. A flicker of disgust warped his features for just a moment, before th
ey relaxed back to form his habitual surly teenage scowl.

  Suzie Leech was snoring. A snuffling, grunting wheeze that reminded Billy of happier times – their regular family trips to Bucklebury Farm Park when his younger self had been able to pet the animals. Despite the park being just a few miles from his current home, he had not visited for several years. That last time had been a few weeks before he had been forced to come to this place, to live in this dump, all the while thinking it would be a temporary arrangement. Soon after, his mother had followed, insisting they stay in a vain attempt to leave behind the horrors of their house in London. As if their dreadful memories could be expunged by some country air.

  ‘Pah! You stupid, snorting sow.’ He muttered under his breath as he pulled the door to, thinking how much he had grown up since his uncle had come to visit them, that one fatal night when events had wrenched Billy from the innocent grasp of childhood.

  The image of his mother lying on a different bed floated through his brain for a few distressing seconds, then he squeezed his eyes shut to clear his mind. His feet, as if driven by another soul, a malevolent presence that had visited his family that same night in Chelsea, carried him to his Nana’s room.

  Billy tingled with anticipation, the thrill of the predator, as he tugged open her door. No light on in here.

  Nana was dead to the world.

  Well, not quite. Soon, maybe…

  The delicious thought murmured in his head as he switched on the light. The old dear did not stir, her breathing was regular and deep – hardly surprising, given the cocktail of drugs Billy had added to the small glass of warm milk he had brought her some five hours before. Empty now, other than some opaque residue, long since dried, clinging to the inside.

  Good.

  The sickly-sweet smell of Nana’s preferred pot pourri irritated his nostrils, but it amused him to know why she felt it necessary to have several jars dotted around the room, flooding the place with cloying odours. Lavender with a hint of mothballs.

  He gazed down at her for a few moments, wondering if she experienced vivid dreams as she lay there, her wrinkled mouth open and quivering as she breathed, her head nestled, snug in the down pillow with her thinning chestnut hair draped around her. Maybe he would ask her in the morning, though he knew she was probably too far gone from the various medications he had fed her to remember much at all.

  ‘No sweet dreams for you then, Nana… Just another nightmare.’

  Billy chuckled, pulled back her duvet and inspected her.

  Unlike the dyed hair, the thin yellow silk of her nightgown could not disguise the ageing truth, the frail seventy-four-year-old body, with its bony hips and parchment skin, veined, wrinkled and liver-spotted.

  Disgust once again tugged ugly at Billy’s lips, and his shoulders shuddered at the sight of her. He knelt on the edge of the bed, unbuttoned the front of his shorts, reached inside and prepared himself.

  The stream of warm urine was aimed at Nana’s crotch and it stained the silk as it spread down the insides of her emaciated thighs to the sheet below. The sight sent a wave of euphoria through Billy’s frame, electrifying him.

  Once finished, he eased himself off the bed, checked his handiwork, and, satisfied with the effect he had created, rearranged the duvet to cover his mother’s mother again.

  Time to up the stakes, he thought.

  Tomorrow, he would give an enhanced performance.

  With one last glance at her, still almost comatose, he lifted the glass from her bedside table and picked up her slippers, then glided from the room.

  Two hours later, he was climbing back into bed, well pleased with himself, convinced his Uncle Peter would approve. As his head dropped on to the pillow, his teeth gleamed in the dark at the thought of what they had planned for the coming days, the special events that would mark the conclusion of his childhood, in celebration of his mere sixteen years on the planet.

  With that final thought, he drifted into blissful sleep.

  ***

  Doctor Colin Powers heard Judy’s scream but thought he was still dreaming about her at first. Then he came awake with a start. The high-pitched screeching flushed the residue of sleep from his brain as he bounded across the bedroom while yelling a reply down the stairs.

  ‘I’m coming, my love!’

  A sickening lurch in his chest warned him that he had leapt into action too fast, and he forced himself to slow down as he dragged the dressing gown from its hook on the back of the door. He was still getting used to his medication, and at moments like this, tachycardia and dizzy spells still caused him some distress. The last thing he needed right now was to have a heart attack or black out and tumble down the stairs to where Judy was waiting, staring up at him.

  Even dressed in her running kit, she looked stunning to Doc, and his heart did a little jig at the sight of her, bathed in yellow dawn sunlight as she stood in the hall. Her lovely face, pale and distorted from shock, was still enough to send happy hormones cascading through him, boosting his mood immediately. Despite the accompanying surge in energy levels, he was cautious and used the bannister to aid his progress down to her.

  ‘What’s wrong, sweetheart?’

  ‘The neighbours’ cat!’ She raised a trembling hand and pointed at the front door, her violet eyes still on his.

  Although the door was ajar, Doc could not see outside and wondered whether Judy’s hyper alertness was caused by something real or imagined.

  ‘I’m sure the cat’ll be fine. Why don’t you just go for your–’

  ‘It’s not going to be bloody fine, Colin!’ She took a pace towards the oak timbered door, hauled it back on its hinges and stepped away as the object of her horror swung into view.

  Doc arrived at the foot of the stairs at the precise moment the accuracy of her comment hit him. A brick between the eyes might have had less impact than the sight suddenly confronting him. He staggered back, his ankles tripping on the bottom step, throwing him off balance and on to his butt with an agonising crunch of the coccyx.

  The yelp at the back of his throat failed to reach his lips. He was struck mute, though his mind immediately went to work and conjured up a number of explanations for the travesty adorning their front door. None of which would he share with Judy.

  ‘Who’d do such a thing, Colin?’ Judy’s face started to crumple and Doc knew the tears would be flowing again this morning. Internally, he raged at the idiot who had sparked her grief, but was still winded and unable to reply, so she filled the silence. ‘And why? She’s just a harmless animal…’

  Doc finally managed to speak as he raised himself up, although he had no answer he was willing to mention to her. Instead, he gave her a reassuring hug, all the while inspecting the feline corpse.

  Stapled, spread-eagled to the woodwork.

  Crucified.

  ‘It’s okay. It’s just a stupid prank. Probably the Dooley boys and their gang of thugs again.’ The lie felt uncomfortable on his tongue, but the local farm lads were the go to suspects for any such acts of mindless vandalism or senseless cruelty. He felt her nod as he went on. ‘I’ll take Flossy down. Poor Mrs Bunting will be devastated… Are you still up for your run?’

  As he held his wife, Doc couldn’t help but think back to the sparrow with a broken wing he had found after it had thudded against his study window a week earlier. Its hollow bones, its apparent fragility, almost weightless, as it squawked in outrage at being lifted from the ground, pecking at his thumb as he rescued it. Judy’s quivering body vibrated against him in much the same way, the tears soaking into his dressing gown before she grabbed a handful of his lapel to dry her eyes. The very same cat now affixed to Doc’s door had made short work of the wounded bird soon after the rescue, having sneaked in through the kitchen window.

  Karma?

  Hardly.

  Nature was often cruel, but humans had easily exceeded the worst she could offer, as Doc knew only too well.

  ‘I’m okay. I just get so tearful somet
imes.’ Judy shrugged herself out from his hug and nodded to herself, her face rearranged into an expression Doc recognised as one of determination to get on with her life, as best she could. ‘Please take her down before I’m back.’

  After one last glance at the offending body, and a wan smile offered in an attempt to reassure Doc, she jogged away without a backward glance.

  On closer inspection, Doc began to assess the differences between today’s unexpected arrival and the only other similar instance he was personally aware of, and he did not like the conclusions crowding into his mind.

  As ever, there were many people who had read his books detailing the misdeeds of the criminals he had assessed and helped catch over the years he had worked as the senior Forensic Psychiatrist for London’s Metropolitan Police. Many more had watched his TV series, now on its fifth season, in which he tried to relate unsolved murders to serial killers already serving time. Any one of those readers or viewers could have taken the simple details he had relayed and done this for some nefarious purpose.

  Over the years, he had been the target of many cranks and pranksters, but nothing so serious that he had ever lost a night’s sleep. But today felt different.

  And the attack on this animal was different, he realised, as he compared the circumstances with that other occasion.

  No nails this time, just staples. Mrs Bunting’s cat was obviously dead long before being pinioned to the door – the stench of decomposition was enough to confirm that – unlike the similar case he had heard about, rather than witnessed, during an investigation several years before. Just someone trying to mess with him, without properly mimicking the event. Probably found the cat already dead, and only thought of the prank after discovering it somewhere, road kill from a careless driver perhaps.

  Another bloody ‘anti-fan…’

  Without further thought he went to the cupboard under the kitchen sink, found a bin liner and a screwdriver, pulled on his gardening gloves and returned to the offending object.