Gruber’s eyes slid away and he shifted some papers as he spoke. ‘Sadly he is an immutable choice. Personally appointed by the Chairman of the Parole Board himself. This document is for you to keep too.’ Gruber held up a green brochure entitled Report and Accounts of the Parole Board for England and Wales. ‘You’ll recognise the man, I’m sure.’ He tossed the booklet to Leech, folded open at the Chairman’s statement, a picture of Justice Potter sneering down at the reader.
Leech’s fist hammered down onto the face, the skin of his knuckle rupturing from the uncontrolled power, blood spattering the photograph.
Gruber spoke into the ensuing silence.
‘As I said, Peter. We have to accept the possibility that you may not get parole this time round. I’ll give you a minute.’ He tapped the door and left Leech sitting, brooding over the injustices of his world.
***
‘Coffee Peter?’ Gruber returned holding two plastic cups of what passed for coffee in this place. He sipped his and moved behind Leech, placed a hand on his shoulder, then hastily withdrew it.
‘Don’t ever fucking touch me.’ Leech snarled at the solicitor. ‘And sit where I can see you.’
Gruber returned to his side of the desk, sat, leafed through some files and then asked, ‘How do you get on with the Chief Warder?’
‘Dire Mud.’ Leech spat the words out, a foul taste on his tongue. Then he laughed, a mirthless, hollow noise. ‘I’m well and truly fucked!’ He took his coffee and returned to pacing the room, head down, shoulders rounded.
‘Tell me about him.’
‘He hates me. Seems to think I’m a bad man.’
‘What could possibly give him that impression?’ Gruber was sardonic, but Leech took him literally.
‘Accidents happen in here. You know?’
‘Indeed I do. I get to help clean them up sometimes. But your record is clear Peter.’
Leech flopped into the chair and explained. ‘A few years back one of the cons, guy called Riggs, was bad-mouthing me. I slapped him. Just the once, nothing much, with my open hand.’ Leech could see the scepticism in Gruber’s face. ‘Really... Trouble is, it was at the top of the stairs and he fell backwards. Bounced down them like a ball. Broke his back. Diarmud was there.’
‘But I don’t see anything?’ Gruber leafed through his files again, searching. ‘And why wasn’t I involved in the inquiry? As your lawyer?’ He looked up, confused now.
‘Everyone said he slipped and fell. Then some slag grassed me up. My word against his. Fortunately he committed suicide a few days later.’
‘Suicide?’
‘That’s what they said. Found him hanging in his cell, bed sheet tied to the bars. Wrapped it round his neck and jumped off his bed they reckoned.’ He grinned, sly humour in his voice. ‘Sadly missed. Not.’
‘And the inmate with the back injury?’
‘He was in a coma for a week but when he woke up he confirmed it was an accident, that he slipped and fell. Sued the prison service for a small fortune. He’s in a wheelchair but was released on compassionate grounds and is living it up in Marbella now. Sent me a card. The lucky bastard.’
Sounds like he wasn’t the only lucky one.’
‘What are you talking about. I’m still in here.’
‘Indeed you are. Is there anything else about this Diarmud I should know?’
‘He fuckin hates me.’
‘I meant anything more material?’
‘That not enough?’ Leech stood and paced again. Then sat and said, ‘Jesus, I’m gonna be stuck in here.’
‘Quite possibly. We need to be realistic, and not build up false hope.’ Gruber took a hefty manila file and plopped it in front of Leech. ‘However, you have the right to read everything in the dossier that has been presented to the parole board.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Take your time. I need to make several phone calls, but I’ll be back. I think lunch may be served in here – I requested sandwiches as I knew it would be a long session. Oh, and Peter.’
‘What?’ Leech was already studying his file.
‘Don’t do anything stupid. Let’s stay positive, assume we still have an evens chance.’ His hand hovered above Leech’s shoulder, about to pat him, but Gruber left before making the mistake of completing the gesture.
***
Leech became engrossed in his dossier. He was fascinated by the details of his life inside, pleased that he was, quite rightly, the centre of so much attention.
It went right back to the court case, and that slime-bag Potter’s summing up. Apparently Leech was an ‘evil monster’, the perpetrator of a ‘vile deed’, the gruesome nature of which made him an ‘affront’ to families everywhere. He had stabbed his parents to death in a ‘frenzied’ attack of such ferocity that his mother’s neck had been perforated to the point of severing. Blah. Blah.
But it’s not all bad, he thought.
Potter had also stated that he hoped a lengthy period of incarceration would allow him to return to society as a useful member.
Well, he had learnt his lesson. Hadn’t he?
The Prison Assessment Report was even better. It detailed the courses he had attended, commented on his positive attitude, his intelligence, the progress he had made. He barely recognised himself, wondered who the creep was, checked the front of the file to confirm the name. It was his! He loved it.
The Prison Psychiatrist’s report was also positive. He had managed to pull the wool over that idiot’s eyes. The courses in psychology had been a godsend. He thought then, maybe Powers wouldn’t be the kiss of death after all. He studied the document, stowing it in his memory.
Only the probation officer’s report had any significant negatives as far as he could see. The man said he would be concerned about him after release. Called him unemployable. Not well socialised. An unstable loner.
The cunt!
He flung the papers across the room. Started pacing again, wondering, where did the twat get that from? The psychiatrist’s report had not said that?
Then it came to him. His last interview with the probation officer in the open prison had not gone well. Leech had been dismissive of the man. A pompous, puffed up moron. Leech had become frustrated, then shouted at the officer. Had told him he could take care of himself, that he did not need assistance from some bloody social worker. That he did not need to work as he was rich.
Rich!
He had yelled the word into the man’s face, prompting him to terminate the interview. Leech had taunted the officer as he left, told him he would never have as much money...
Damn.
He would have to think how to handle that.
The last file was marked Interviewing Officer’s Report. And above the date, her name, JUDITH FINCH.
Judith. Judy. My Birdy.
He held the papers to his nose, sniffing, hoping to catch her odour, disappointed that he could only smell cigarette smoke.
He read the report twice, certain there were hidden meanings aimed at him, and him alone. He was not sure it reflected everything he had told her – sometimes he confused himself, he had woven so many lies into the faction of his life – but it was punchy, well written, and extremely favourable. She was openly on his side.
Of course.
She wanted him.
And he would not disappoint her.
***
‘I want to read his book.’ Leech munched on his beef sandwich, spitting flecks of partially chewed food, his open mouth a cement mixer. ‘This grubs good. Best I’ve had in ages. Can you get me a copy?’
Gruber fished in his briefcase. ‘Here.’ He spun Doc’s book across the table to Leech, Insights into the Criminal Mind. ‘Don’t underestimate him, Peter. He’s quite brilliant.’
‘Yeah, but so am I.’ Leech opened the Prison Psychiatrist’s Report, and pointed at it. ‘Says so right here. An IQ of 138. I’m right up there with Bill Gates apparently.’
‘Indeed. Let’s hope you’re up to it on the day. Are you absolutely
certain you do not require my services? You have the right to professional representation.’ Gruber’s beady little eyes reminded Leech of a gaming machine with pound signs rolling into view.
‘Nah. The barrister screwed things up for me at the trial. I prefer to do this myself.’ Besides, Leech was convinced the lawyer was always trying to rook him for a bigger fee.
‘Fair enough. Have you checked the Interviewing Officer’s report. You need to sign a copy if, that is, you agree it’s a fair representation.’
‘It’s not bad. She’s got a bit of a thing for me that bird, Finch.’ He licked his top lip suggestively at his solicitor, while Gruber frowned back.
‘I doubt that very much. A member of the Parole Board is hardly likely to – ’
‘What? To fall for a prisoner? A con? A lifer? A murderer?’ He flared at Gruber, growling now. ‘Plenty of women do y’know.’
It was true, he and others regularly got letters and sometimes visits from admiring women attracted by the extreme violence they had committed. It never failed to amaze Leech, though the nutters did not really appeal to him. But Finch, well she was different. Quality totty.
‘She knows I’m innocent. She’ll be waiting for me when I get out. Guaranteed.’ His posture and expression challenged Gruber to dare say different. He did.
‘I don’t think so. If you approach her, in the event your parole license is approved, you will inevitably be in breach of the conditions.’
‘Not if she doesn’t tell them.’
‘Peter, please listen to me. The Parole Board will insist on conditions that you must abide by. Any failure to do so could lead to recall. They can revoke the license and put you back in here to serve the remainder of your sentence. Life.’ He shook his head, as he emphasised the words, ‘It is not worth the risk.’
‘Life’s a game of risk. And I’m a winner.’ The irony of his comment, made in these circumstances, in this environment, escaped him.
Gruber gave up. ‘Okay. Final matters. Your property purchase was due to exchange, but I have held back, despite your instructions to go ahead.’
‘Why?’ Gruber was starting to really piss him off. ‘I told you I want that apartment.’
‘I thought it prudent to await the outcome of the hearing. We’ll know within the next few weeks. I’ve stalled the developers, and we can exchange and complete the same day we know you are successful.’
‘No! Do it. Push for completion now. I want to rent it out in the future anyway. I don’t plan to live there for long.’
‘Parole conditions will require a permanent abode. That was the whole point – ’
‘Just fucking do it. Are you deaf? You have Power of Attorney. Sort it. And don’t you dare overcharge me again.’ He would throttle the little turd if he tried that on.
‘Very well. I have given my advice, I can do no more. Is there anything else?’
‘Yup. I want a passport.’
‘A passport?’
‘Are you a fucking parrot now? Yes. A passport. So I can piss off abroad.’
‘There’s no point Peter. You will be unable to travel abroad... Unless you’d like me to – ?’
‘Yeah. Not in my own name. You’ve got a few weeks. Plenty of time, and they’d better make it perfect.’
‘That’ll be expensive. I’ll have to transfer some funds from your offshore trust – ’
‘Just get it for me.’ Leech could see Gruber mentally rubbing his hands at the prospect of ripping him off again. The greedy shite. ‘And I want a breakdown of costs, for you managing my affairs since I’ve been in here. Detailed.’
Gruber was standing, packing files into his case. Leech had finally got to him, broken through the placid, detached, professional air the man perpetually exuded. The solicitor froze at the threat in his client’s voice. Leech saw sweat glisten on his forehead and for a moment, just a second, Leech wondered if Gruber would prefer his parole denied.
‘I can assure you there are no irregularities... I will admit that my time does not come cheap, but then again, you do enjoy, shall we say, additional services others in my profession fail to provide. All in all I think you’ll find I have been, and will continue to be, exceptional value for money.’ He recovered his composure as he completed his speech, only the tell-tale sheen of sweat on his brow giving away his tension.
‘You’d better be. I may be stuck in here now, but soon I’ll be able to take control of my own affairs. Manage my investments myself.’
‘Peter, my track record speaks for itself. I’ve turned your trust fund into millions while you’ve been in here. Around a fivefold increase, net of my charges. I doubt you’ll do better elsewhere, or even by investing yourself.’
‘We’ll see. Make sure I have that cost breakdown.’
Gruber headed to the door, knocked to signal the guard.
Leech said, ‘One more thing. I want her address too.’
Gruber was puzzled. ‘Whose?’
‘My little Birdy of course. Judy Finch.’
The door opened and Gruber said nothing more, just nodded and left.
***
Leech lay on his bed and, despite himself, was fascinated by Powers’ book. His own studies in psychology were superficial – he’d exaggerated when he told Judy he had studied to degree level. The truth was that he bored easily and never bothered going further than reading the juicy stuff. He had learnt much more about criminal psychology from studying his fellow inmates.
Yet this forensic psychiatrist, whatever that was, who had assessed him eighteen years before as a psychopath, also had plenty to say about the criminal mind.
By all accounts Powers had been involved in the early research that helped lead to the development of a checklist for measuring psychopathic personalities, pioneering the shift from the label used previously, Anti-Social Personality Disorder.
The man was a liar. Leech could see that. The book claimed psychopaths had no depth of emotion. And, according to Powers, he was one. What bollocks. He felt as much as everyone else. He could tell that from their reactions.
Okay he was different. Stronger. Better. But he had passionate feelings, he suffered rage, his jealousy knew no bounds.
He thought of Shaun. His brother. Oh, how he hated him.
That emotion was real, not imagined.
And he had loved his parents. All kids love their parents. If he had not loved them so much, how come they could make him so angry?
He consumed the pages. Delving into the mind of the man who had tried to peer into his own, questions in his head now, demanding to know – who are you Powers? What drives you?
The chapters detailing Powers’ time as a criminal profiler were incredible. It was like a manual for anyone who wanted to confuse the police! The idiot. And did he really believe all this stuff?
He sniggered as he thought about his interviews with the prison psychiatrist. How he had dissembled and lied, pretended to feel things he did not, piling on the bullshit by the ton. Even fooled him by manipulating those pathetic psychometric tests. Supposedly infallible yet he had convinced the so called expert he was not dangerous! These academic types were a piece of piss to fool.
He went back to the book.
The very best was the section on his own case. The details had been altered a little to disguise him, but Leech immediately knew it was himself being described.
A savage attack. Both parents killed. The young man labelled a psychopath. Definitely not psychotic. In other words, sane but capable of evil. The frenzied attack, the dozens of puncture wounds, purportedly his handicraft.
And the brilliant profiler, the man they called Doc, bragging that he knew the killer was a close friend or relative of the victims, the passion of the attack testament to it.
Yet, if I did it then, smart-arse, I do have deep feelings. Passionate feelings. So, Doctor, how does that fit with your assessment that I’m a psychopath, a man with stunted emotions?
Leech had to laugh at that.
A
ccording to Powers a murder occurring as a result of say, a robbery, would result in the victim being stabbed once or twice, just disabling blows, to allow rapid escape.
Leech thought that was interesting. He read on.
The perpetrator turned out to be the son. Yet he claimed to have amnesia, his purported memory loss a result of a blow from his brother that rendered him unconscious at the time of the murder. Doctor Powers concluded he was not amnesiac, but many would consider him bordering on stupid.
‘STUPID?’ Leech roared the word as he read it, flinging the book at the wall.
‘I’ll show him who’s stupid.’
He calmed himself, and then thought again: See Powers, I do feel extreme emotions, I’m no psychopath. I’m normal.
He picked up the book and found the paragraph. The genius doctor continued to say that his subject, if not stupid, was prone to flights of fantasy, and had the ability to mix fact and fiction to the extent of confusing himself.
Leech read on, at times angered, at times laughing aloud at the man’s idiocy, at others absorbed with the uncanny insights.
His cell door opened. Time for some lunch and free association, prisoners’ social time. He was gobbling his food when he spotted Diarmud. He felt his hatred well up, and he visualised himself killing the warder – not for the first time. The fantasy was a regular diversion for him.
Later, Leech was idly standing near some inmates playing pool while he leafed through a magazine, not reading, just observing. The prisoners had dispersed after lunch and Diarmud sat at a table, filling out papers. Two other warders were laughing and joking in the canteen, their line of sight to the Chief Warder blocked.
Leech sneaked toward Diarmud, the man oblivious to the approaching Snake.
And he wanted to strike. To kill again.
He closed in on his prey. His focus was on Diarmud’s neck, his attention riveted on the delicate pulse fluttering beneath the skin, the vulnerable carotid arteries exposed by the very mechanism that gave life.
The Snake wanted to kill the man. Silently. Instantly. Without trace.
Some years before, an old lifer, a martial arts fanatic and one of the few cons Leech had ever admired, explained the move to him. ‘You have to get it just right. Just enough pressure on both carotid arteries.’ His guru had touched his own neck, demonstrating the exact location to apply pressure, warning Leech, ‘Don’t try it on yourself. Unless you’re suicidal.’ Leech listened, wanted so much to try it on someone. ‘If you hit the pressure points exactly right, at exactly the same time, the brain reacts by shutting down the heart... You need to deliver a rapid squeeze rather than a blow – if you don’t want to leave any bruising.’
Remorseless: A British Crime Thriller (Doc Powers & D.I. Carver Investigate #1) Page 13