‘Let’s go.’ He stood.
‘Mike. Got an envelope for me?’ Mike slipped a plain brown one to her. Leech could see it was empty as she held it out to him. ‘Okay Mr Loverboy, just pop the cash in here. See, Mike looks after it for me. I never carry the readies and there’s no dosh in me room either. Some nasty bastards don’t like to pay, y’know. And some try to steal a working girl’s hard earned cash.’ She handed him the envelope.
‘Whatever.’ He slid a note inside then passed it to Mike.
She was as good as her word. She led him to a scummy bed-sit right behind the pub.
‘House rules,’ she began to say, pulling her top over her head, manoeuvring the cigarette from her lips and back again in a well-practiced motion. No bra. She dropped her skirt and kicked it off, slipped off her knickers and stood before him naked, apart from her heels. It took seconds.
Her body was as good as he imagined, though her skin was pockmarked in some tender places.
‘You’ve got fifteen minutes. Don’t just stand there...’ She tugged at his shirt. ‘It’s another fifty if you take longer. Even if you can’t get it up.’ She pulled the tee shirt over his head, though he stood unyielding, not helping. She continued explaining her rules. ‘I only kiss me boyfriend. And you get rubbered up.’ She had discarded his belt and was undoing his flies. ‘Blowjob’s an extra twenty.’ She bent as she pulled his jeans down, this time he helped by lifting his feet in turn to let her get his jeans off. He stood in his boxers, shoes and socks, as she finished her spiel. ‘If I’m not back in the bar thirty minutes from now, Mike’ll call the police and then he’ll be straight round here so don’t go getting any funny ideas.’
Leech doubted the barman would take that much interest, but let her spin him her line. She dropped his boxers to the floor, her cigarette dangerously close to his dick.
‘Not much happening here.’ She grabbed his penis, started pulling and squeezing, as if she were milking a cow, now kneeling before him. ‘I’ll give him a suck, wake him up, but it’s an extra twenty. Don’t worry love. A floppy dick’s a common thing when you first get out. But as I said, I don’t get no complaints.’
Leech couldn’t believe this tart, trying to rook him out of more money. He watched her tits jiggle, angry that he wasn’t getting hard. She let go, turned and grabbed his jeans from the floor, started searching the pockets. ‘I’ll get your wallet – ’
He’d had enough. He grabbed her bun, yanked her back, bellowing at her. ‘You fucking thieving bitch!’ He hauled her to her feet, almost lifting her off the ground by her hair. She had her hands over his, trying to stop the tension ripping her scalp off and suddenly he felt the stinging pain as she stubbed her fag on his thumb. It sent him ballistic and he bellowed his pain. ‘Cow!’
‘You stupid bastard.’ She screamed back. ‘I’m not nicking nothing. I was just – ’
He spun her round and slapped her, such a vicious blow that she somersaulted backward onto the bed, a tangle of limbs.
Leech’s balls were throbbing now, the naked flesh finally doing its job, his lust kick-started by the feel of her jaw breaking against his palm.
‘Telling me I stink? That I took it up the arse? Let’s see how you like it, you filthy nigger whore.’
***
When he finally finished with her he pulled his clothes on. Calm again, he considered putting her out of her misery like the mangy bitch she was, but a half remembered conversation with an old con bubbled up in his mind. What had he called prozzies?
Oh yeah, that was it. Disposables. Reckoned the police didn’t bother too much with the odd dead one.
But Leech was smarter.
The man was inside for rape and murder, wasn’t he? Rape a prostitute and no one will believe her. Kill her and they might just come looking for you.
No. I’ve got more important things to do.
He crouched over her. She was in a foetal position, moaning and whimpering. He wasn’t sure she was fully conscious but he whispered to her anyway.
Then left.
***
At least the day had ended on a high, he thought, the last few drops of his ninth beer of the night in front of him. He had moved on, found a new pub away from the area, just in case Mike the barman really did give a damn about the whore.
He was confident she wouldn’t call the police. In her business a bit of rough sex was just an occupational hazard, and he had paid her, hadn’t he? It wasn’t even rape.
Anyway, he didn’t need to rape anyone. He had prospects. One prospect, at least. He fingered the paper the old lady had given him, Birdy’s address scrawled in shaky script in blue ballpoint. The dopey old bint had probably forgotten to forward his letters. Which was why Birdy had not come to meet him today.
Even so, a doubt nibbled at his confidence in her love for him... Birdy worked for the parole board. Surely she must know he was being let out today. He decided it could be difficult for her if her husband was around. That would be it.
He needed to see her, but the place was just too far. And he was too far gone.
He pulled his list from his pocket. It was tempting to see someone... So many to choose from. And he needed to add Gruber’s name.
He had difficulty focusing.
No, not tonight.
He refolded the paper, slipped it into his pocket, but his elbow caught his beer mug, knocking it from the table to the floor.
The explosion of splintering glass silenced the bar, a number of trendy youths turning to stare at him, to check out the source of the commotion. Leech was swaying, the glass crunching underfoot. He reached the bar, steadied himself against it and heard the barman tell him, ‘I think you’ve had enough mate. Time for beddie-byes, eh?’
The buzz of drinkers chatting started up again, the incident over, Leech sent to bed. He was slow, figuring out what to say in reply, considering whether to leap over the bar to give the lippy prick a pasting. Then one of the lads in the group next to him commented, voice overloud, ‘Tosser can’t take his drink.’
Enough!
Leech slammed a hand onto the boy’s shoulder, planning to spin him round, when he felt two mammoth arms trap him from behind in a bear hug and lift him off the floor.
‘You really don’t want to make any trouble do you son?’ The bouncer murmured in his ear, his arms crushing Leech against his chest, all the while shuffling backwards towards the exit.
Leech could not comprehend what was happening. He was being carried! Like a baby! He may be pissed, but he was ready to kill this man. He controlled himself until they reached the exit, then he lashed back with his head, expecting to burst the man’s nose.
Nothing there. Just air.
‘Unless you fancy a right kicking I suggest you calm down and run along. Playtime’s over.’ This time Leech could not stem his anger. He kicked out, his feet flailing wildly, again connecting with nothing. He felt the man’s arms release him but the unexpected sensation of falling was immediately halted by the bouncer’s knee connecting with his coccyx.
The pain was excruciating, the blow paralysing his legs. He went down, the bruised base of his spine thumping the pavement, the jarring agony winding Leech, cutting short his scream.
‘I warned you, you scrote.’
The last thing he remembered was the underside of a massive Doc Marten bludgeoning his face.
***
Light. Bright. Burning his retina, he tried to shut it out, but it still hurt. Then his body started firing messages to his brain, his pain pathways on overload.
He wanted to howl his agony, but his mouth would not work. Something was inside, hard and sharp, cutting his gums. He spat. His bloody fractured denture exploded from his swollen lips.
‘I think he’s alright.’ The light went off and his eyelid could close again. He could still see the white circle, but it no longer burnt. ‘Looks like he’s taken a beating. Nothing broken though, except his dentures.’
Leech tried to stand, vomited a gush of beer and a little blo
od. He could see his denture in close up, now coated with sour booze and partially digested food.
‘I should take a minute sir.’ A hand pushed his shoulder blade, encouraging him to lie back down. The touch sent a bolt of mind-numbing pain to his brain, dazzling him.
He stayed on all fours for a few minutes, gathering himself. His nose wasn’t working properly and he could see lumps on his bruised cheeks below his eye sockets. He heard the voice again, finally realising it must be a paramedic.
‘We’ll get you to the hospital for an x-ray, check the old cranium, but I reckon your pretty tough, eh?’
‘No ambulance.’ His lips were rubber, raw with pain as they flapped. ‘No ambulance.’ He repeated himself, tried to make it sound more like the words. Another gout of puke jetted from his throat.
‘We’ll just put you on a stretcher...’
With all his effort he thrust his arms straight, forcing himself halfway to his feet. Another rush of stinking beer cascaded to the gutter, then he hauled himself upright. Lights flashed inside his head, pain bombarded his befuddled brain. But he was standing, if a little dizzy, and steadied himself with a hand on the medic’s shoulder.
‘I really think – ’
‘Puck op!’ With that, he tottered away. The air was reviving him, every breath clearing his head, but sharpening the claws of pain inside, shredding his senses. He propped himself up against a lamppost, tried to take stock of where he was. He had no idea. The bouncer must have dumped him in this backstreet well away from the bar.
He stumbled on, people avoiding him as he zigzagged along the pavement. Finally he saw a kiosk with a sign advertising minicabs. He fell in through the door.
The faces were Asian. They surrounded him, and none of them appeared friendly.
‘Tashi!’ He propped himself by a wall map and pointed to where he needed to be.
‘Sorry mate. You ain’t worth the fare. You stink. And it costs a bundle to clean if you puke in the motor.’ The accent was pure cockney, not a hint of Asian roots.
Leech had finally had it. He wished he could just kill every one of them. But his body was not co-operating.
Instead, he took out his wallet, peeled off four fify-pound notes and put them on the counter. He flopped forward, wanting to lie down, to get some relief. As his forehead touched the cool plastic surface a brown hand scooped up the money.
‘If you chuck up in my motor it’s another hundred.’
Leech closed his eyes and let them carry him out.
***
On Monday morning, three days after Leech was released, Doc arrived at the Parole Board office feeling better than he had in over four months. Just telling Judy about the hallucinations had diminished their power over him.
They had not gone completely. The clacking would start unbidden, and he would still get flashbacks, freeze frame shots of Natalie’s death, vivid and cruel. Even Leech re-appeared, usually with his son’s under-developed flesh.
The difference was that he was now able to confront the visions. Instead of dying inside by degrees, screaming and huddling himself, he would push through it. Focus on Judy and a positive future. He could even talk to Leech now, tell the image to leave him alone.
He was moving on, healing. Gradually the frequency had diminished and he no longer sought refuge in pills and alcohol.
Yes, he was doing well.
The weekend had been idyllic. He’d spent both days with his new family. He had delighted in Josh’s boisterous good humour, in Judy’s obvious and growing affection for him, and Gran’s homely warmth. It was his new comfort blanket, something to smother away the nightmares. The hallucinations.
He could get through this.
With Judy.
Their attraction for each other was ever more powerful and, although still chaste, the sexual tension was building a head of steam that had them both fizzing when they were together.
He grinned to himself as he thought of her, his mood soaring. Given time, he would be whole again. Enjoy life, live it to the full.
The Judge was finishing a phone call when Doc walked in, and within moments Doc’s bonhomie was destroyed.
His boss’s bald dome shone in the sunlight, his dark suit and crisp white shirt an advert for Armani. But his head was shaking, his expression thoughtful as Doc walked in.
The words, ‘Morning Judge,’ died on his lips as the Judge pierced him with eyes of ice while dropping the phone back in its cradle.
‘I’m afraid we made a mistake with Mr Leech.’
Doc’s heart skipped a few beats at the name and the ominous words. He hoped it was nothing serious.
‘Has he failed to contact his parole officer? That’s minor – ’
‘Worse. Much worse.’ He indicated the telephone. ‘That was your old friend DI Carver of the Met. Leech beat and raped a prostitute on his first night of freedom. Threatened to kill her. The police have visited the address he gave, but there is no response, and the neighbours have not seen or heard him since Friday afternoon.’ The Judge smoothed his scalp with his palms, let his hands rest there for a moment, his mind elsewhere.
Doc saw him turning his thoughts over and wondered what personal nightmares his boss experienced when things went wrong. He waited.
‘I know I don’t need to tell you how serious this is Doc. If the press get hold of it...’ He shook his head and added, ‘I’ve offered the police whatever assistance we can give. It is, after all, our mess... and we should help clean it. I’ve told Carver to expect you at his office this morning.’
Doc knew there was no point arguing. He nodded and left.
***
In the taxi, heading to Carver’s office, Doc was raging at himself internally. He should have resisted Leech’s release more forcibly. He could have destroyed Pugh’s arguments if he had been on form. And he knew the outcome would’ve been different had the hearing been scheduled for today – just a few weeks later.
But at the time, his own confidence had been sapped, his professionalism at a low ebb. He knew Leech was a dangerous psychopath. Yet he allowed them to release the man against his own better judgement.
Doc, though sympathetic for the woman Leech had assaulted, was certain the attack was just the tip of a very destructive iceberg.
Leech had become institutionalised. The killer could be translating the behaviours he had learned inside prison to the free world outside, without modification or amelioration. And now his boundaries were no longer rigidly defined. Doc was acutely aware that, with an unreformed psychopath, this presented a terrifying scenario.
Or, rather, a terrifying experience for those who encountered him.
DI Carver was waiting for him. ‘Hi Doc. Good to see you again... At least it would be if not for this Leech character.’
They shook hands and Carver waved Doc towards his desk. They sat. Doc wondered what Carver had done to be rewarded with such a lowly crime. He had worked with the detective many times in the past on high profile murder cases, so much so that he considered him more of a friend than colleague, and had always been impressed by his acumen. He decided he would find out the reason, if and when Carver wanted to share it with him. Right now he was more interested in what the detective had to say about Leech’s victim.
As Carver described the girl’s ordeal, Doc’s dread escalated, peaking when the policeman finished the tale with Leech’s whispered warning to his victim.
‘Told her not to call us. Said he wouldn’t just kill her if she did. He threatened to abduct her and keep her alive as his own personal sex toy, warned her that cigarette burns would be nothing compared to what he’d do to her before he put her out of her misery.’
‘Cigarette burns?’
‘Yeah. Seems the poor kid has had a rough life. Her pimp used to burn her belly, underarms or breasts if she wasn’t making enough money for him. Unbelievable. Eh?’
‘And what? He thought that would make her more attractive? Enable her to make more money? That’s crazy!’
‘God.’ Doc had studied the depths of depravity plumbed by the most evil of men, but the more shallow yet disgusting perversions of so-called normal men still had the capacity to shock him.
‘So how is she? Can I see her?’
‘She is one tough cookie. Her jaw’s wired but she can talk. I’m afraid I can’t come with you right now though.’
‘No problem. I’d prefer to see her alone. Thanks Jack.’ He took the address and left his old friend and colleague, his sense of foreboding growing.
He had worked with Carver on many occasions, respected the man’s dedication, had become close to him over the years. Carver, in turn, had always treated Doc with immense respect in his role as consulting forensic psychiatrist on the Met’s cases. Now Doc was back, slipping into the role he had come to despise.
Hunting a man Doc should never have allowed to be released.
What a bloody mess.
***
The address Carver had supplied took Doc to a down-market pub. A bulky giant, probably the landlord going by Carver’s description, was half-heartedly pushing a broom over the sticky floor. Doc could feel his soles gluing and then ungluing themselves as he walked through the bar.
He handed the man his card and explained. ‘Although I am not a police officer, I am here to help with their enquiries and I need to speak to Sade.’ Pronounced Shah-day, like the singer, Carver had told him.
‘I’ll get her. She’s in bed upstairs. I’m Mike.’
Before Mike could leave Doc said, ‘Do you mind if I ask what your relationship is to Sade?’
The man, lugubrious features sagging, jowls dangling like a bulldog, let out a harsh laugh.
‘What? You think I’m her fucking pimp?’ He towered over Doc, a jellied mountain of blubber, but one exuding menace all the same. ‘Didn’t protect my whore?’ He pressed a finger into Doc’s shoulder and dug at the flesh. ‘I’m her boyfriend. I wanna marry her. We want our own pub. I don’t like her doing the job but she says it’s the only way to get decent money quick enough. She’s her own woman. You’ll see that. Alright?’ The finger was withdrawn and Mike disappeared up some stairs behind the bar.
Remorseless: A British Crime Thriller (Doc Powers & D.I. Carver Investigate #1) Page 19