Remorseless: A British Crime Thriller (Doc Powers & D.I. Carver Investigate #1)

by Will Patching

  ‘And then Josh came along?’

  ‘Yes. Both of us were throwing ourselves into work, desperate to impress our respective bosses. I’ve always wanted to be better than the rest, you know? I don’t know how I got pregnant...’

  She almost sprayed her wine as she sipped it, and simultaneously laughed at the apparent naivety of her remark. Doc surprised himself as he found himself laughing aloud with her, spluttering into his glass too as she went on.

  ‘Of course I know! What I mean is, we weren’t exactly trying, and we were like ships in the night. Then Josh arrived. We settled into a routine. I was back at work within three months, much to the disgust of my mother. She wanted me to stay home, you know, and pop out a few more grandkids for her.’

  ‘And she still makes you feel bad about it? Working mum?’

  ‘She can’t help it. She’s from a different era, but I’m a double failure by those standards. I couldn’t even keep my husband!’ She grinned and shrugged at him.

  Doc’s professional side, unprompted, decided she was handling it all rather well. She was a tough girl all right, but not hard. Sensitive but resilient. ‘So, not Superwoman. I’m surprised. You gave me that impression yesterday.’

  ‘Not at all. The only super woman in my home is my mum. I’m terrible. I slag her off but I have no idea what I’d do without her. No, she’s my rock. She just happens to be helping me build a massive guilt complex though, and I do find that difficult.’

  ‘About Josh, with you working full-time?’ Doc lit the two giant candles at the corners of the patio as he explained. ‘Keeps away the mosquitoes.’

  ‘Exactly. For dereliction of my maternal duty. For the fact that I was too proud to bleed John dry. He can afford plenty, but I took just half the value of the family home, and Josh... John’s paying for Josh’s education from now until he graduates. Private of course. He also invests money each month for our little boy, who will be a very wealthy young man eventually.’ She sighed, ‘I don’t know whether that’s such a good thing but I could never afford private schooling let alone put money away for him. I’m just trying to provide a happy home for him.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re doing brilliantly.’

  ‘Try telling that to my mother. Anyway, thanks for the therapy session Doc.’ She pouted at him. ‘I feel much better, though I think it may have something to do with this excellent wine.’ She held out her glass and waited while he opened another bottle. ‘Oh dear. I’m going to get a little tipsy tonight. I’m a derelict mother, a failure as a wife and something of an alcoholic to boot!’ She giggled as he poured another glass for her.

  ‘A failed wife? Come off it Judy. It was him who was screwing around. He’s the guilty party, not you!’

  ‘Ah. Except a good Catholic girl like me, well, lapsed Catholic actually, really knows how to do guilt. And if I’d been a better wife, a mixture of Katy Price and Nigella Lawson, maybe John wouldn’t have strayed would he?’

  ‘Look, I don’t know him but I know his type. And he probably would. Some men are just wired that way, the sort that count their conquests. Especially extremely competitive men. It’s all to do with testosterone – at least that’s one theory. The act of competing raises testosterone levels, which in turn leads to a higher sex drive and the desire to spread one’s seed as it were. It’s probably in his genes.’ Doc paused, thinking he was in lecture mode rather than conversing, but she was staring at him again, though this time with a warm fuzzy sort of woman look about her. Or was that just the wine? ‘Sorry. I’m rabbiting on a bit – ’

  ‘No, don’t stop. I don’t even care if it’s bullshit. I’m feeling better. You’ve no idea... The only other person I’ve talked to like this is my mother and, well – ’

  ‘She just lays yet more guilt on you.’

  ‘Precisely. She was brought up at a time where women knew their place, didn’t have career expectations, certainly didn’t expect to compete with men. Women were only fit for one thing in her day. Procreation. And I certainly am not a bloody baby factory!’

  Doc felt the blow to his heart, his mood burst by her words. Baby factory. Hideous images tumbled into his consciousness and he tried to cover his feelings by clearing the plates. He struggled to speak, just managing to croak out a few words. ‘I’ll put these in the machine and get some coffee on.’ He avoided her eyes as he stumbled into the kitchen, trying to concentrate on the task he had set himself, to steady himself, the wraiths of torment threatening to engulf him.

  He had been standing over the coffee machine for several minutes, frozen in time, the sludge of depression oozing through him when she spoke.

  ‘Penny for them, Doc?’

  He started, then turned to look at her. She was radiant, framed in the doorway, hair willowing around her face, concern written on her features, her forehead furrowed.

  He tried to force a smile, but the muscles seemed to be paralysed. He muttered a response, his voice cracking as he spoke, ‘Just give me a minute. I’ll be fine.’

  She studied him for a second, hesitating, clearly uncomfortable, unsure what to do. After a moment she shrugged and said, ‘Okay.’ Then she went back outside.

  Doc, in slow motion, his movements hindered by his emotions, eventually managed to make the coffee. He tried to breathe deeply and focus his mind back on the vibrant young woman he was finding so fascinating. He prepared a tray and finally shuffled his way out to the garden.

  He poured the coffee in silence, then tried to get back on track, though his light mood was lost now.

  ‘So, without plugging into that same nerve your mother keeps prodding, have you considered working fewer hours? There are plenty of part-time opportunities these days.’

  ‘Oh Doc. You certainly know how to build a girl up and then knock her down again!’ She gave him a brilliant smile, taking any sting out of her words.

  ‘No, I’m serious. Ever ask yourself why you push yourself so hard? Why you try to be better than the rest? Those are your words, not mine.’

  ‘Ambition I s’pose. Competitiveness? Wanting to be the best you can be? The usual.’ She looked pensive, her chin on her palm, elbow on the table.

  ‘Can I give you a word of advice? It’s well meant and not a stab to your conscience. I think you should maybe take some time to consider it.’

  ‘Mmm. Maybe.’ He could hear she was not convinced as she diverted the conversation. ‘We’ve hardly mentioned Leech. I’m not exactly a workaholic, am I? Alcoholic tonight maybe!’

  ‘This should perk you up.’ Doc poured her another coffee. ‘So, tell me about Leech.’

  ‘To be honest Doc, I felt really down yesterday after I met him. In fact I had no idea what prison was really like... It was so... oppressive. A soul destroying place. Barbaric.’ Her shoulders quivered, almost imperceptibly, but Doc noticed and realised how deeply she had been affected. ‘You see it on TV or at the cinema, hear the right-wingers bleating about prisons being more like hotels and so on. Yet, until you’ve actually been inside. Felt it. Smelt it. And then left it behind. Tried to scrub it away...’ She seemed to have run out of words, floundering as she tried to describe the experience.

  ‘Oh, I know Judy. I’ve been interviewing and assessing criminals in prisons all over the UK since the year dot. I still haven’t got used to it.’

  ‘Don’t tell me that, please!’ She stared at him, horrified. ‘I really want to do this job. Mind you, yesterday, my confidence was wrecked. And that man, Leech... Really freaked me out.’ She sipped at her coffee, held the cup and saucer to her chest, relaxed back, eyes closed.

  Doc watched her and found himself thinking what a catch she would make for some lucky guy. A lucky young guy. He let her sit in silence, waited for her to continue.

  Eventually she put her coffee down and said, ‘Frankly, I don’t want to talk about Leech tonight. I feel so good, so relaxed that yesterday seems a lifetime away. Let’s not spoil it?’ Her eyes shone, appealing to him in both senses of the word.

&nbs
p; ‘No problem. If you change your mind you’ve got my number. Just call me. Any time.’ He surprised himself by adding, ‘Please.’

  She grinned, her light mood returning, then yawned. ‘I should get a cab, it’s late.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll call for one.’ He used the kitchen phone then returned and said, ‘Sorry they reckon at least thirty minutes. Could be longer. Fancy a nightcap? Cognac, port, Cointreau – ’

  ‘Cointreau! Just a small one, please.’

  He found some miniature glasses and poured.

  Judy continued, ‘I’ve had a lovely evening Doc. It has been great to talk to an adult. I mean, someone who understands, but doesn’t judge.’

  It was Doc’s turn to be embarrassed. ‘Thanks for coming. I’ve really appreciated it. I’m still struggling. I tell myself to take baby steps every day. It’s hard though.’ He felt the tears well and excused himself to the downstairs loo.

  When he returned he put on some music and they relaxed in the kitchen as Judy waited for her cab.

  ‘I love this stuff.’ Judy popped her little finger in her glass and then sucked at it.

  Doc was stunned. It was one of the most erotic things he had witnessed, yet she seemed oblivious, almost childlike in her appreciation of the rich liqueur. She was quite something.

  The doorbell rang, and he walked her to the taxi. She surprised him again when she said, ‘I’ve not had food that good at a dinner party for years. Everyone seems to be into pasta and sun dried tomatoes these days. I’d like to return the favour, but please say so if you’d prefer not, okay? I won’t be offended.’ She was rushing her words, slurring as the booze tripped her tongue. ‘My family, my mum and Josh, well, we are going to Brighton next Saturday or Sunday. Would you like to join us?’ She squinted at him in the yellow light of the streetlamps, then backed herself into the cab, eyes on him, searching for a reaction. ‘No pressure. I’ll understand if you prefer not, after all, it’s not most men’s idea of a fun day out, but I thought...’ She tailed off, her expression questioning him, sounding him out.

  For some reason Doc’s stomach swooped, a pleasant sensation although unsettling, and he found himself beaming at her. ‘I’d be absolutely delighted. I’d love to meet Josh and your mother! Thanks Judy.’ He leaned into the cab, grinning as he answered.

  She reached forward, grabbed his neck with her palms and brushed a chaste kiss on his cheek.

  ‘No. Thank you Doc.’ She released him, pulled the door to and disappeared into the night.

  Doc stood there for some time, bathed in the golden glow of the street lights, a soppy grin creasing his face.

  ***

  He looked through the window, watching his brother playing with their new puppy, Sam. Shaun was in his bedroom, peering down as Peter teased the dog into a frenzy of yelping and yapping. Peter was not being gentle, and Shaun was uneasy, jealousy snaking through his insides, coiling into a knot that threatened to rupture his guts.

  The labrador bounced around the garden, tail flapping, trying to reach the stick. Peter held it a few inches from the dog’s nose, occasionally clouting Sam on the head with it before pulling it just out of reach again.

  Then the dog, in its excitement, nipped his brother’s hand. But somehow Shaun felt the teeth sinking into his own thumb, felt the surge of madness and anger at the puppy.

  The need to punish. To hurt back.

  He saw Peter react, furious, and anticipation crushed Shaun’s insides. He knew what was going to happen.

  Peter screamed at the puppy, grabbed it by the scruff of the neck, shaking it like a baby’s rattle. Shaun wanted to run downstairs, but could not. His feet were welded to the floor. His mouth opened to shout at his baby brother, but no noise came.

  Peter tossed the squealing pup into the kettle barbeque and slammed the lid on it. He disappeared into the garden shed and Shaun, anticipating the horror to come, started quaking uncontrollably.

  Peter reappeared, a bottle of lighter fluid in his hand. He danced a little jig around the barbeque, Sam’s muffled barking testament to the puppy’s confusion and panic, Peter’s voice joining in, wailing with excitement, nothing recognisable as words, nothing human.

  But was it Peter? Shaun was confused. He could feel himself dancing wildly yet his feet remained stuck to the ground. He was just an observer. Wasn’t he?

  Peter poked the nozzle through one of the holes in the kettle lid, squirting liquid over Sam, the yelping and yapping increasing in pitch as the fuel stung the dog’s sensitive nose and eyes.

  Shaun panted, his head light, not able to do a thing to help, raw emotion locking him in its grip.

  He watched as Peter dropped a lighted match through the hole.

  ‘Nooooooo...’ Shaun was finally free, his feet whisking him down the stairs, Sam’s screaming agony goading him on, telling him he was already too late.

  Peter was leaping round the barbeque, manic features contorted into a wicked grin, a sickening display of his true inner nature.

  Shaun pulled the lid off and Sam leapt at him, but he fumbled and the dog crashed to the ground. The brown fur was blackened and smoking, Sam’s breath was blue vapour, his lungs seared and ruined. The squealing finally ceased as Sam lay broken and scorched on the concrete patio.

  ‘What’s up Shaun? Thought you liked hot dogs!’

  Peter’s laugh was ugly and tore into Shaun, stirring him to action. He stepped towards his brother, grabbing the lighter fluid with one hand, his brother’s throat with the other, not sure whether to choke him or burn the tormenting bastard. But the younger boy’s laughter dissolved to tears, driven by horror and shock.

  Peter was hysterical now, yelling at him. Accusing him of killing the dog.

  Shaun was confused. He hadn’t killed Sam.

  Peter bellowed, his high pitched voice boosted by fury and pain, an unearthly sound that deafened Shaun. ‘Daddy! Daddy! Shaun burnt Sammy!’

  He let his brother go. The boy was pointing at him, accusing, tears streaming down his grubby cheeks.

  Then Shaun wondered if Peter was right as he re-lived squirting the fluid over Sam’s head. Dropping the match. The sensation of power. Of life and death.

  He shook off the memory, tried to visualise his brother doing it, tried to convince himself he was innocent.

  He turned as he heard his father roar his name. The flat of a massive hand connected with his face and hurled him to the ground. His father bent down and checked the charred remains of their pet as Peter hopped around, pointing at Shaun, repeating over and over, ‘Daddy, he burnt Sammy!’

  His father gave Shaun a disgusted glare before he picked up the distressed lad, cooing to him to calm down.

  The boy’s face dissolved into a grin. But it was no longer Peter staring back at him over his father’s shoulder. It was his own son’s face.

  Billy!

  Mouth contorted, sneering at him.

  Shaun screamed.

  His father turned – but it wasn’t his father. It was Peter, now the eighteen-year old convicted of killing their parents, his face swollen and front teeth missing from Shaun’s blow. He hugged Billy to him, one hand on the boy’s throat, squeezing. Billy’s face was puce and his eyes bulged as Peter said, ‘You’re the guilty one Shaun.’

  Shaun heard himself screaming again as he sat bolt upright, found himself in his bed, arms outstretched, sweat cascading, eyes wide and unfocussed.

  Suzie called to him, her voice soft. ‘It’s okay honey. You’re here with me.’ Her arms wrapped around him, her head nuzzling his face.

  Shaun slumped against her, his pyjamas saturated, their duvet tangled round his legs.

  ‘God almighty. I haven’t had that nightmare since I was a kid... Sam...’ He croaked, his throat crusty and dry.

  Suzie just held him, caressed his neck with her lips. ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘I didn’t want to tell you just yet...’ He moved his own lips closer to her, whispering into her ear.

  ‘What..?’ She continued ki
ssing him, a butterfly brushing his throat, calming him as ever.

  ‘It’s Peter.’ He felt her go rigid, her soothing actions ceased. A beat passed, then she pulled her head back to peer at him in the half light.

  ‘What about him?’ Her tone was flat, no emotion, but he knew how she felt about his little brother.

  They never mentioned Peter. To them he really had died eighteen years before. And gradually the nightmare memories had subsided – for them both.

  Until that letter arrived.

  ‘They’re considering him for parole... I’m sorry babe. I just hope they refuse him.’

  He could see the memories replaying on her face. And fear there too. He thought how weak she was. He wanted to push her away but stopped himself.

  Suzie’s head collapsed forward onto his shoulder. She was silent, her hot breath erratic on his neck, mingling with the soft warm trickle of her tears.

  Shaun spoke into the night, more to himself than his distressed wife. ‘Don’t worry. If that sick bastard comes anywhere near us, I will kill him. I swear it.’

  ***

  The Hemson Banking Corporation helicopter hove into view and Josh bounced with anticipation, the steady whump of the rotor blades thrilling his little body.

  John patted his son’s shoulder and told him to stand still and wait for the machine to land. Their view was already spectacular, the day had turned out fine and the cobalt sky was flecked with white fluff balls of cloud. John felt his own excitement soar to meet the aircraft as it hovered and sank to the roof top. The helipad was on the thirty-third level of the Hemson UK head office, and the express lift would whisk you to this level only if you were in possession of an exclusive Managing Director’s pass.