He tasted bile, burped a lump of half-digested lunch into his throat, the clogged food almost suffocating him. He sucked at the air, wheezing, feeling faint, the clot of cheesy bread, tainted with stale Guinness, finally shifting back to his gullet.
He stood in the doorway, unable to think, not aware of the passage of time.
Then his brain stung him to action. Maybe she was still alive.
He went to his mother, rolled her over, his gorge rising at the sight of her disembowelled guts spilling to the floor. He checked her pulse. She was dead. Warm, but dead. Her head flopped and he could see her neck had almost been severed.
Sliding, kneeling in the pooled blood and filth, he crawled to his father, also lying on the tiled floor, checked a carotid artery for signs of life, his brain avoiding cataloguing the numerous puncture wounds he could see. He gulped down air as he sobbed, the smell of faecal matter and lifeblood assaulting his nostrils, threatening to overpower him.
Nothing.
Both dead.
He turned back to the hall, fumbling for his mobile phone. Automatic pilot drove him to make the call, summon assistance. Somebody. Anybody.
His quaking fingers missed the digits before finally jabbing in the three numbers. A steady, placid female voice asked him which service he required.
‘Police.’ It sounded like a stranger speaking. A composed stranger. Not the hollowed out, devastated child residing in his body right now.
The calm adult voice spoke, using his mouth again, baffling the frightened boy within. ‘My mother and father have been hacked to death. Please hurry.’
He turned back to the kitchen, vaguely hearing the woman speaking. She was insistent. What was she saying?
‘ – need your address.’ He gave it, ended the call just as she added, ‘Are you sure you are in no danger sir?’
Danger? It had not occurred to him.
Burglars?
Hardly likely in broad daylight.
Enemies of his parents?
But they had none. Everyone loved them.
Then a light flipped on in his mind.
Not everyone.
It was his brother’s eighteenth birthday. And today his parents would have told Peter he was not getting his trust fund money for seven more years.
That little bastard Peter had killed them.
And today, returning early from university, his parents lying dead but still warm on the kitchen floor, Shaun had unwittingly stumbled over his little brother’s crime.
He opened the backdoor, his feet sliding in the blood, his ears recognising the thump of angry heavy metal music. It was Peter’s favourite band at full volume, the din pumping out from the granny annexe just beyond the pool.
Shaun, his mind in turmoil, was wondering if his pathetic kid brother, little shit that he was, could really be capable of such an act. His feet floated him across to the annexe, through the open door, the screeching vocals spewing hatred, thumping from the speakers, drilling into his skull. He entered the bathroom, ears now focussed on his brother’s whining imitation of the lead singer, the noise of the shower like raging snakes hissing inside his head.
The hissing stopped and Peter stepped out of the cubicle, his face registering shock as Shaun’s fist, smeared with their parents’ blood, shattered his little brother’s front teeth.
Shaun left his brother unconscious on the shower floor, made his way to the kitchen, and sat with his parents until the police arrived.
***
‘You had no doubt? That he was responsible? You didn’t consider he might have been another victim lying elsewhere in the house?’
Doc was impressed by Shaun’s account, his recollection of the details. He wondered how often Shaun had relived the experience since that day.
‘No doubt whatsoever.’ Shaun covered his mouth with his hand, thumb and fingers squeezing his nose, sniffing as he did it. Then he looked up. ‘You see, my brother was sick in the head as a child. I knew it. I saw what he was capable of. But my parents...’
Doc could see the wrench of mourning revisited twisting his features. ‘They thought he was a little angel. For years he convinced them it was me that was sick. That I was the one responsible for the terrible things he did... And he did some evil things.’
‘He got away with it? Blaming you for everything?’ Doc felt the shadow of doubt, that niggling thought that maybe Shaun was not as innocent as he made out.
Psychopaths, and he was certain Peter was one, are expert dissemblers, but to fool his parents for year after year? Convince them his older brother was the bad egg? That Peter was an angel? Doc was not so sure.
‘Only until he was seven or eight, then they started to believe me. Before then, they sent me for therapy. For two bloody years!’
‘What prompted that?’
‘Peter of course. I had a pattern developing, misdeeds my brother performed became my track record... Then he burnt our puppy. Of course, I got the blame.’ Shaun went on, describing the hot-dog episode.
‘They thought you were responsible and decided it was time for therapy, to help you? Then what happened to convince them it was Peter who needed treatment?’ Doc could feel something was not adding up, but wanted to hear Shaun’s version.
‘Fortunately I was around less, with schooling and therapy, so he finally showed his true colours. My dad caught him torturing our neighbour’s cat. It had scratched his arm. It was nothing really, but Peter has this temper, and when he loses it...’ He gave a rueful shake of his head. ‘He crucified that kitten. Nailed it to the neighbour’s back door. The row the poor thing was making brought my father to its aid. Caught Peter red-handed, hammer in his hand. Peter still tried to blame me! Can you believe it?’ He shook his head, as if mystified at his brother’s machinations.
‘After that? Did things get better for you? Now they knew you were innocent?’
‘Not immediately. They thought we were both evil. Blamed me for being a bad influence on Peter! They cried a lot over us. Wondered where they’d gone wrong.’
Doc still had the twinge of doubt about Shaun, but wanted to focus on Peter. He was the immediate danger.
‘I believe that people like your brother are pre-disposed to these actions from birth. They think differently. And they don’t feel guilt.’
‘So what? Surely feeling guilty after the event is a bit late!’ Shaun sounded smug, once again causing a ripple of doubt to disturb Doc.
Doc explained. ‘The guilt mechanism is usually a force for the good. It’s our internal policeman. It stops us doing things that harm others. We don’t want to feel bad about what we have done to them. The prospect of suffering guilt controls our behaviour.’
‘And this mechanism is missing in my brother?’ Shaun was fascinated, as if Doc was helping him understand something profound, esoteric even.
‘Exactly. He can behave without fear of punishment from within, from his conscience. He is guilt free, no matter what crime he commits.’
Shaun was avid now, concentration furrowing his brow, as if Doc had lifted a curtain and allowed him to get a clear peek at this aspect of his brother’s nature for the first time.
‘I feel guilt. Every day, I wonder what would have happened if I had arrived home an hour earlier. Would they still be alive?’ Shaun’s eyes shone at Doc. ‘I had a few beers with my lunch that day – celebrating finals being over. If I had been a better son... If I had come straight home instead...’ He shrugged.
‘And the police. Did they believe your story, right from the start?’
‘No. They thought we were both in on it. When they pitched up I was covered in my parents’ blood. But then they found traces in the shower drain in Peter’s annexe, his fingerprints were all over the knife, and his bloodstained clothes were smouldering in the barbeque. Even so, it was lucky I’d been speaking to my girlfriend on my cell phone only a couple of minutes before I made the emergency call. It confirmed I couldn’t have been in the house long enough to kill them.’
/> ‘Yet Peter still insists he’s innocent, that you were the killer.’
‘I think he’s got False Memory Syndrome. I’m pretty sure his therapist – we both ended up seeing the same guy – confirmed that to my parents. Peter had been blaming me for his actions for so long, from very early on, he would replay the events in his mind. Until he believed the false version.’
‘I do know what FMS is... I have some experience.’ Doc thought back to the many cases where convicted felons had convinced themselves they were innocent, even in the face of unimpeachable evidence. He asked, ‘Is that why he accuses you still?’
‘Either that or he really did lose his memory when I slugged him.’ Shaun’s face turned mean as he remembered.
‘You knocked his teeth out. In the shower?’ Doc remembered Peter had tried to claim amnesia from the blow.
‘I should have killed him then.’
The sheer venom in the delivery of that sentence spiked Doc’s heart. Could Shaun kill? Had he killed?
As if reading Doc’s mind, Shaun explained. ‘Not only do I carry the guilt, for both of us it would seem, I suffer nightmares about that day, along with many other awful events from my childhood. I doubt you’d understand. But I also wonder about myself... Peter and I, we share the same genes, you see. That’s the thing that gives me the worst nightmares.’
Doc felt he was well qualified to understand nightmares, better placed than most psychiatrists. Was Shaun trying to tell him something? That he too was capable of terrible things? Blaming his genes?
Shaun went to his desk, picked up a framed photograph, brought it back and showed it to Doc.
‘This is my son. He reminds me of my brother when he was that age. They are so alike in looks they could be identical twins, just thirty years apart. So far my little boy doesn’t seem to be like him in character. But I find myself looking at him, wondering. You know?’
Doc did know, could see this man was in turmoil, and his conscience tweaked him. By allowing Leech to be released he had opened the floodgates for Shaun’s memories and negative feelings. He hoped these emotions would be the worst Shaun would suffer as a consequence of the parole panel’s decision, but he thought not.
‘You should go away. Take the family abroad. Give us some time to find him. At least then we can be sure you are in no danger.’
‘I can’t. My work is already suffering.’
‘If you don’t, it may be more than your business you lose.’ Doc picked up the photograph and handed it to Shaun. ‘Think about it.’ He gave him his card, ‘Call me if you think of anything that may help... Or if he contacts you.’
‘If he comes for me, I’ll deal with him in my own way.’ That deadly determination was back in his tone.
‘He may telephone you. Send you notes or items. He may try to confuse us by using you. Or your family. You really should take them away. But please, let me know if you hear anything from him.’
Doc’s hand was already turning the doorknob, but stopped when Shaun spoke again.
‘He’s raped before, you know?’ Shaun was holding the photograph to his chest. ‘It was a schoolgirl. She was sixteen, he was fourteen. Came up behind her, knocked her unconscious, then raped her. She didn’t know who did it. Didn’t see him. I did.’
Doc vaguely remembered reading something on the file.
‘The case was dropped. Why? If you saw him?’
‘No one would believe me. Peter accused me of course. Then said we were both in on it. Both raped her.’
‘And the evidence?’
‘Oh, the girl was in shock. Showered and scrubbed herself. There were no traces. Just two boys, with a history of trouble and therapy, arguing over who was responsible. My father, a very wealthy, influential man, squashed it. Had the police drop it. The girl never fully recovered.’
‘I’d like to talk to her.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t.’
Doc was confused, wondering why. Yet Shaun sounded adamant. Could he be hiding something? Again Doc was diverted. He had to remind himself it was Peter he needed to catch.
‘And why would that be? After all these years?’
Shaun explained. ‘You see, she was my girlfriend at the time. Peter always wanted my possessions. Envied me for everything I had. Hated for me to have something better than he had. She was the school beauty queen.’
Doc remained puzzled. He could not make the connection between a girlfriend from over twenty years before with Shaun’s assertion, I’d rather you didn’t, as if he controlled the woman. He looked askance, wanted to tell Shaun to go to hell. That he would talk to whoever he wanted. But knew it would not help.
‘I’m afraid that’s not really your concern.’
‘Her name’s Suzie, Doctor... Suzie Leech.’
Doc’s jaw dropped at that.
‘She’s my wife.’
***
Doc needed some time alone, to think. He walked along the Embankment reviewing what he had heard.
Shaun was smooth, sophisticated, articulate and intelligent. Doc had spoken briefly to the man’s secretary and she’d confirmed her boss, although a cactus at times, was usually charming and well thought of by those he met. However, she admitted she had only been in the job a few months, his only permanent staff position, as he had a history of hiring and firing his secretaries.
Doc pondered the enigma that was Shaun Leech. What if...? What if Peter had not killed his parents? Could it be that Shaun was in no danger at all? He remembered Sophie Pugh’s summing up of Leech’s lack of motivation for killing anyone...
And if it were the case that Peter was innocent, what did that make Shaun?
No. Peter Leech is a violent psychopath, now out of control. A court found him guilty. Stick with the realities, he told himself.
Given their history of animosity, Peter’s accusations levelled at Shaun, the matter-of-fact statement that Shaun was a dead man, everything indicated that Peter would attack his brother.
Doc wondered how Carver would feel about protection for Shaun Leech and his family. He soon found out.
The voice detonated in his ear, and Doc wondered if his mobile phone actually had sufficient volume to burst an eardrum.
‘There is absolutely no bloody way I can do that. We have absolutely no reason to think the brother’s a target. I’ve got no men available, two of them are tied up babysitting that bloody whore, but at least we know Leech threatened her life!’
‘He said his brother is dead.’
‘Who did?’ Carver, quick to explode was also always quick to recover. His voice was back to normal.
‘Well... both of them. But the important thing is I remember, at his parole hearing, thinking Leech was making a threat. You know, My brother’s dead.’ Doc tried to inject the right emphasis to make it sound like a warning, a threat.
‘C’mon Doc. You’re reaching. I don’t believe he said it like a bad actor from the Sopranos. Otherwise even your mob would have kept him locked up and tossed the key.’
Your mob? The Parole Board. Doc did not like to feel he was on a different side, but the way Jack said it, he could have been.
‘Not enough then?’ He knew it was not.
‘Not nearly enough. Sorry Doc. And don’t try tugging my guilt strings on this one.’
Doc knew when he was beaten.
‘Can I see the original files for a rape that occurred twenty-two years ago?’ He gave Carver the details.
‘I’m not hopeful, if the case was dropped. But... I’ll see what I can do. Interesting though, if he has a history of rape. Oh, and I’ve hit a roadblock on the birdy thing.’
‘No one in the frame?’
‘Not a single female visitor for several years. The last was from one of those volunteer groups and she stopped after one meeting with our boy. Said he really freaked her out, but I doubt Leech would be interested in her. She was already in her sixties when she visited him.’
Doc did not hear Carver’s last words. He had made the c
onnection, knew that his nightmare was now real, that the hallucination had materialised and entered his personal life.
Freaked. Leech had freaked her out.
His birdy.
‘You still there Doc?’
Doc’s voice quavered as he answered. ‘He did have one female visitor Jack. Very recently.’
‘No Doc. I’ve checked it out.’
‘The Interviewing Officer for the Parole Board. Judy Finch.’ His birdy...
***
Leech was sick of the noise. The constant hammering, as if someone wanted to get inside his head.
He surfaced from his half-wakeful state, his face throbbing. It was his third day in bed and he had never felt this rough in his life. Until now there was only one person who had got away with laying a hand on him. His brother. And he had plans to put that right.
Yet here he was, laid up like some animal licking its wounds. He sipped some milk through a straw. He had vague flashbacks to Friday night. He could not remember where it happened. The name of the bar. Nothing. And as for the vicious bastard who mashed his face, he didn’t even know what he looked like!
He punched his bed, pummelling harder and harder, rage building, his frustration goaded by the pain. Then he heard the banging again. It was the door. He wanted to bellow, to tell whoever it was to fuck off. Leave him alone. Instead, he sagged back on the bed.
Friday night... at least that cabbie had brought him back. Leech had even managed to ask him to stop at an all night store on the way, to buy him some soap and medical supplies, some food and drink. He didn’t get any change from the fifty quid he’d handed the driver, but at that point couldn’t care. He had just been glad to get back home. His own home.
The noise stopped. At least that was something. He rolled off his bed and staggered to the bathroom. He could smell himself.
That made him think of the prozzie.
‘Fuckin tart.’ He said it to himself as he stepped into the shower and soaped his battered body.
He checked his wounds. Not too bad really, some purple, green and blue swelling on his face where the bouncer’s boot had stomped him, and numerous bruises over his body. But he was hard, and knew he would be right as rain in a couple of days.
Remorseless: A British Crime Thriller (Doc Powers & D.I. Carver Investigate #1) Page 21