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

by Will Patching

  Since then Leech had tried it several times – and not once had he succeeded. Each time he had merely provoked a fight, which was no problem as he always won.

  He had started to doubt the man’s word, decided it was Bruce Lee bullshit, fantasy stuff from Hollywood.

  And then he had seen it with his own eyes. The old lag, sixty but as fit as many twenty-year olds, had been insulted by a new inmate. Leech was behind them, queuing for food, as his teacher delivered a blurred jab to each side of the inmate’s neck, felling him instantly. The coroner confirmed heart failure, and since that day Leech had hungered for a chance to deliver such a perfect death.

  He now stood, fixated on Diarmud’s arteries, the warder unaware of the Snake’s presence, within striking distance of a swift death.

  Baro-receptors. That’s what the old man had called them. Ultra-sensitive to changes in pressure, and capable of fooling the brain into killing itself.

  The temptation was almost too much. He wanted to make Diarmud his first success. He stepped forward.

  Powers’ words, read only minutes before, jangled in his head.

  ‘A psychopath is a hostage to magical thinking. He will act on impulse, without fear of the consequences and may give the impression he is stupid as a result.’

  Well, Powers was wrong about him. He wanted his parole. He wanted out now. He had things to do. And he had a woman waiting for him. His Birdy.

  He bent down and whispered into Diarmud’s ear, ‘Boo!’

  Diarmud jumped up and turned on him, face red, furious that Leech had managed to creep up behind him, yet unable to punish him or charge him with anything.

  And Leech knew it – he had been careful not to touch the warder. Diarmud would be laughed out of the Governor’s office if he accused Leech of abusive language, or unacceptable behaviour. For what? Saying ‘boo’ in a quiet voice?

  Leech was pleased with himself for his self-control but more so with the result of his prank.

  Diarmud was beside himself. ‘You evil shit Leech. You almost gave me a heart attack.’

  ‘If only you knew sir. If only you knew.’ He touched his middle finger to his forehead in a mock salute and sauntered back to his cell.

  ***

  As Vice Chairman of the Parole Board, Doctor Powers shared much of his boss’s enormous workload. Only the ‘political interface’ – the Judge’s term for the interminable meetings he spent with government bureaucrats and the Secretary of State himself – was outside Doc’s remit. He helped organise the hundred plus part-time members of the board and ensured the thousands of oral hearings and recalls were distributed evenly and in good time. It was an onerous task, trying to fit in the schedule to suit so many busy professional people. Additionally he was responsible for training.

  The workload was massive and only seven of the entire team were full-time, including the Judge, Doc, Judy, a couple of legal executives and secretaries.

  It was not difficult for Doc to immerse himself in the job, especially as the Judge had fallen behind while Doc had been away recuperating. Or, at least, mending his broken bones and innards. Complete recovery was something else, something more elusive.

  Doc was preparing for three hearings today, the first at lunchtime. Leech. A meeting Doc was not looking forward to.

  For each hearing for full parole, or for breach of the terms of the parolee’s license, the three person panel had to study the entire prisoner dossier. That in itself took an hour or more. In addition, there was the hearing itself. Recalls were speedier than full parole hearings as there was no prisoner representation, the parole panel made its decision on the written submissions alone. One team could clear ten to fifteen cases in a day, as long as they had studied the dossiers beforehand.

  Today, Doc had just the hearings. But all three were oral hearings with the prisoners present, along with their professional representative. Each hearing would take two hours or more in total. It was gruelling work.

  As Doc ate his breakfast and supped his coffee, he leafed through Leech’s dossier for the umpteenth time, wondering if he could be impartial in this case. The man’s inside my head, he thought.

  He re-read Judy’s report and it sent his mind reeling back to the weekend. The nightmares and the hallucinations were still featuring in his life, but at least now the sense of hopelessness was diminished.

  Judy.

  Just talking to her had lifted his spirits. Opening up to her had been therapeutic. But, even so, Doc had thrown himself into work, and here he was, Friday morning, worn out from the punishing schedule, drained by the pills and the booze that had been his refuge.

  I’ll see Judy tomorrow.

  He reluctantly pushed her from his thoughts and focussed on the dossier. Leech.

  Last night the man had appeared again, looming ever larger in his nightmare. Doc let out a troubled breath.

  Damn Leech! Why are you in my head?

  Was it just because he was dealing with Leech’s case right now? His first task from the Judge since the accident? His first discussion with Judy had been regarding this man. Was that it? Had his tormented mind sucked in memories from eighteen years before, to torture him yet more? To twist them like a knife in his own belly?

  He tried to analyse it. Could it be a demonized version of his own self-blame, coming to him in the form of this ‘monster’?

  Doc scowled at the boy-man’s photograph, taken at the time of the trial, wondering, Was I wrong about you? Is that why you’ve invaded my guilty conscience?

  Yet he knew, professionally, the most difficult person to psycho-analyse, to help with the problems of mental health, was himself. He shrugged the thought away, determined to discuss his feelings with Judy. Surely between the two of them they could work it through.

  For a moment he drifted. Luxuriating in the affection he had felt radiating from her. His own emotions, his own attraction to her, were strengthening. He was allowing himself to fall for her. And why not?

  Natalie.

  But she’s dead. Gone. I must look forward.

  But it’s only four months.

  Clack, clack, clack, clackclackclack...

  Oh God!

  The film filled his mind.

  No!

  He grasped his head with his hands, palms crushing his temples, fingers gouging his scalp.

  ‘Get out!’ He yelled and the words ricocheted around his house.

  But to no avail. The projectionist inside his head continued the replay of the accident, until Leech loomed into view, his hands outstretched and bloody. And, as the leering image expanded, came into ever sharper focus, Doc realised what Leech was holding.

  He screamed.

  Leech was offering him his son. Daniel. The ravaged foetus of Natalie’s unborn child.

  ***

  ‘So before we invite the others to join us, are there any questions or anomalies in the prisoner’s dossier? Anything anyone wishes to raise?’ Judge Jeffries sat at the head of the table, between Doc Powers and Sophie Pugh. They were in the Governor’s annexe, a sombre room adjacent to his own bright office, the mahogany table stretched before them with three empty chairs arranged at the other side facing them. A legal secretary was sitting to the side of the room, ready to take notes.

  Doc’s nervousness was mounting. The thought that the green eyed man-boy that haunted his dreams was about to enter his reality unnerved him. He needed another drink. Could taste the vodka he had swigged before attending this morning’s hearing. He had also slipped a valium in his mouth as he arrived at the prison. It was having little effect.

  He was certain his inner turmoil was visible to his colleagues. Jeffries had asked him how he was when they had shaken hands. Was he being polite, or was Doc’s appearance askew? He straightened his tie at the thought, trying to remember if he had brushed his hair.

  And the woman. She was something else. Barely concealed disdain as she shook hands. He thought he saw her wipe her palm on her trousers after. She was a severe one. Hai
r cropped, face devoid of make-up, and strong features, hard set, as if she had seen everything bad the world had to offer.

  Sophie Pugh.

  Doc had not selected her, the Judge had, along with Jeffries and himself, and notified them prior to Doc’s return to work.

  He dredged up her details from his memory. Social worker. Re-settlement officer. Prison Welfare Trust Director. Keen on radical reform. She had been working for the Parole Board for several months, but Doc had only met her during her induction training. She was intelligent, opinionated, and not the slightest bit worried whose feathers she ruffled. He had sensed some animosity then. Why? he wondered. Perhaps he would find out today.

  It did not take long.

  ‘Yes Judge. I’d like to talk about labels and how we address Mr Leech.’ Sophie Pugh’s attention was on Doc as she spoke and he felt the heat of her words scald him.

  ‘Well either Mr Leech, Peter or – ’

  ‘I’m not talking about his name, Judge. I am talking about labels.’ Her gaze was like the sun’s rays through a magnifying glass. Burning into Doc. ‘I’m a little confused. Doctor Powers seems wedded to the term psychopath. Yet other forensic psychiatrists, including the prison psychiatrist, whose report is in here,’ she slapped a hand on her copy of Leech’s dossier, ‘prefer the terms Extreme Anti-Social Personality Disorder and Dangerous Severe Personality Disorder. And he is not convinced Mr Leech is either.’ Her face, not unattractive in itself, took on an ugly expression, her eyebrows plunged down, her eyes slitted, her mouth a mean line, lipless. ‘It seems to me that if the professionals can’t agree on a label then we should disregard them all.’

  Judge Jeffries, a master of arbitration turned to Doc and shrugged. ‘I have no view on the subject.’ His frown quizzed Doc.

  ‘Well, without wishing to lecture – ’

  ‘Please don’t.’ Pugh was adamant.

  ‘I am a consulting forensic psychiatrist. My use of the term psychopath is based on over twenty years experience, empirical data and research. I use the Psychopathy Checklist which is recognised throughout the world as the definitive test for this disorder.’ He nodded to Jeffries, preferring not to engage Pugh’s powerful glare. ‘Leech is a psychopath.’

  ‘That sounds reasonable. Sophie?’

  She obviously did not think so.

  ‘My suggestion is that we dispense with all labels, and we treat each potential parolee as an individual. In my experience of these hearings, that approach works well for all involved.’ She sat back, arms folded.

  ‘Mmm.’ Jeffries appeared bemused, but came up with a solution. ‘My own experience is, that during hearings, the best approach is to avoid jargon. The prisoner concerned is, after all, no expert. And, so, discussions with regard to psychological terms,’ he checked with Pugh, ‘or labels, will be the preserve of our own private discourse, after the parolee has had his say. Agreed?’

  Pugh nodded. Satisfied. Jeffries turned to Doc, eyebrow arched.

  Doc was outraged. He was here in his professional capacity to act as an expert. Round one to Pugh, he thought. He fumed at what he saw as yet another example of liberal thinking bringing about more dumbing down. But he was not up to fighting. His own grasp on reality was just a shimmer from slipping away. He acquiesced.

  ‘Fair enough. Although I do want to probe this man, this psychopath, very carefully.’

  ‘Then let us continue.’ Jeffries motioned to the clerk to bring in the prisoner, his legal counsel and the Home Office representative.

  Doc wiped his brow with a tissue, then rubbed his sweaty palms. Pugh stared at him. He tried to ignore her, his heart racing as he anticipated the arrival of the boy-man. Dreading the clack-clack-clack in his mind. Desperate to maintain his professional facade. He glanced down. His hands trembled. He clasped them in his lap.

  I’m a basket case, he thought.

  He looked up as the secretary re-entered.

  A prison warder, probably in his mid-fifties and fairly senior, followed her in. Doc forced himself to check the agenda. Andrew Diarmud. Thirty-seven years service. Unblemished record. Doc watched him introduce himself to Jeffries, then Pugh. Doc felt the hand in his, the determination there. And a steadiness, a firmness, in the eyes. Doc liked him.

  Diarmud sat in the right hand seat facing them. Doc felt calmer now, the moment of trauma passed. Another warder appeared, an escort for the prisoner, and motioned someone to enter before him. Leech appeared and paused in the doorway, surveying the room.

  Only this was not the man-boy of Doc’s nightmares. The toothless, scrawny teenager had been replaced by this great bull of a man. Doc would never have believed it was the same person had it not for been for the eyes. Those piercing, hard green eyes.

  Leech was inspecting them! He was acting as if he was in control here, and using eye contact to intimidate. The emerald chips glowed at Doc. He could feel the man’s hatred. Those eyes made Sophie Pugh’s seem as soft as cotton balls.

  Any doubts Doc had about his diagnoses evaporated in that moment. His mind super-imposed the boy-man on the specimen before him, recollections of their interview boiling in his mind. How could he have doubted himself? Relief ebbed the tension from him. He could do this.

  And he certainly would not be intimidated by Leech.

  ‘Hello Peter. Please sit down.’ Doc sensed Jeffries frown at the breach of protocol – the judge was chairman of the panel – but kept his focus on Leech.

  The prisoner had blocked the entrance, his escorting warder shut out, peering round his charge’s head, clearly not wanting to push Leech, wrong-footed, unsure.

  Doc knew Leech had intended it. A way of subconsciously demonstrating his power, his control. He may be a prisoner here, it said, But.

  So, Doc punctured the illusion. Told him to sit. Politely, but an instruction all the same.

  Control.

  Leech’s jaw muscles twitched, then he smiled and strolled in.

  ‘I’m representing myself, so we won’t be needing this.’ He indicated the middle chair as he seated himself in the one opposite Pugh, distancing himself from Doc and Diarmud.

  Jeffries gestured for the escorting warder to remove the middle chair, and Doc could see how things were going. The prisoner should sit in the middle, facing the presiding judge. Leech’s little play had undermined the system, already declaring to their collective subconscious: I’m different, I’m better.

  Very clever. Very manipulative.

  Leech shifted his chair diagonally to better view the four people ranged around him. Passive yet confident. His hands on his knees, legs apart, but not so wide as to offend or threaten Pugh, his crotch now aimed squarely at Doc instead.

  Jeffries started speaking. Doc tuned out as the judge explained what the process entailed to Leech and Diarmud.

  Jeffries finished by saying, ‘Our aim is to assess whether you are a risk to the public at large and determine your readiness to re-enter society.’

  ‘I’m ready.’ Leech’s cheery face flicked between Jeffries and Pugh.

  ‘You’ll have your turn to speak Peter, as I have explained.’ Jeffries addressed Diarmud. ‘If you would like to lead off with the Home Office view based on the prisoner’s behaviour and attitude during his time in prison, and whether you feel he is fit for release on license.’

  ‘Of course your Honour.’ Diarmud rattled through the record of prisons Leech had attended, and confirmed that he had no ADAs – Additional Days Added – for infringements of prison rules.

  Sophie Pugh butted in. ‘So, in all the time he has been inside he has been a model prisoner?’ She got an appreciative look from Leech for that.

  ‘Hardly a model prisoner Ms Pugh.’

  ‘But you just said he’s never given cause for ADAs, he’s a trustee, a Listener, and gets privileges for his contribution to prison society. In fact he is at the highest level of earned privileges a prisoner can achieve, isn’t he? Has his own clothes, a single room, a TV, extra time out of his cell and so fort
h. Sounds like a model prisoner to me.’

  Doc was sickened to see Pugh glance at Leech, as if seeking his approval. And she got it as he nodded at her.

  Diarmud aimed his response at the judge. ‘In my mind a model prisoner is not only one who sticks to the rules, but is a positive force in the prison’s population. Someone the other prisoners can look up to in terms of good behaviour. I’m afraid Prisoner Leech does not fit that category.’ He turned to Leech, who was openly scowling at Diarmud now, and added, ‘His exploits as a Listener don’t fool me.’

  ‘Objection! That’s just his opinion.’ Leech thrust himself forward, angry, his bovine head switching between Diarmud and Jeffries, nostrils flaring.

  ‘Peter, this is not a court of law. Although you have opted to represent yourself please wait until I invite you to speak. You will have your turn to ask Officer Diarmud questions.’

  Leech settled back, muttered, ‘Sorry.’ He had made his point.

  Jeffries asked Diarmud, ‘On what basis are you doubtful? I gather the Listener programme is a remarkable success and helps numerous prisoners to adapt to prison life. It’s even reduced the number of suicides. Surely it is commendable that Mr Leech freely gives of his own time to assist other inmates.’

  ‘Well sir, Leech is not popular – ’

  ‘That’s just his opinion!’

  ‘Quiet please Mr Leech. No more outbursts or I will terminate this hearing. I have explained the process. You will have your turn.’ There was no arguing, Jeffries meant it, and Doc could see Leech swallow and digest the implication.

  Diarmud pressed his point. ‘He’s not popular. He’s a loner. Even eats alone and is rarely involved with other prisoners during association, never partakes in team sports, not even a game of pool or darts.’