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

by Will Patching

  Prison. That would have toughened the young boy-man like tempered steel. And now he was killing... He had moulded himself into the thing he was accused of being. The system had created a beast – the raw material was there already, but even with a personality disorder he could have led a near normal existence.

  Only he had been convicted of a heinous crime. And Doc had labelled him a dangerous psychopath.

  Which is exactly what he had become.

  How could this have happened?

  Henley returned, rattling the tea tray as he entered. Doc wondered if his drink would arrive safely as Henley teetered in the doorway.

  ‘Did you get to know Shaun well too?’ Doc did not wait for him to sit and pour before asking, but had to wait while Henley did so before answering.

  ‘Know him? Why, of course. He was in therapy too. In fact, I met him first.’

  That did not tally with what Shaun had said, but Doc was getting used to that phenomenon. Shaun said he was forced to see Henley after the burnt puppy episode, because Peter had convinced his father of his own innocence. ‘He consulted you after Shaun cremated their dog? Mr Leech wanted the older boy to see you, was convinced he had done it.’

  ‘And so was I... He hated animals. I caught him tormenting my dog on two separate occasions. He had a lot of anger in him.’

  ‘He was jealous. Of his brother?’

  ‘Very much so.’ Henley relaxed back, cup and saucer rattling in his palsied hands. It appeared to Doc that the man’s shakes had worsened during their meeting. Probably needed some herbal relief. Doc suspected the psychologist’s tea may have had an additive.

  Henley went on, ‘Mr Leech first brought Shaun to me as a small child well before that episode, I think he was about five years old. He had tried to smother his younger brother. Peter was barely walking at that stage. He was a late developer and still spent a lot of time in his cot. Shaun was found sitting on a pillow. On Peter’s head.’ Henley shook his head at the memory, slopping his tea in his lap. He glanced down, as if he had forgotten it was there. He took a sip, closing his eyes as he inhaled the aroma.

  ‘The parents saw this?’

  ‘Mr Leech caught him. They put it down to sibling rivalry and a lack of understanding on Shaun’s part. Not many people can believe a five-year old is capable of murder. Perhaps he really did not know the consequences of his actions... He tried to drown him too.’

  Christ! ‘Drown him? In a pool?’

  ‘No. Bath time. Mother left the two of them alone for a few minutes, to fetch a towel or some such. She came back and found Shaun holding Peter’s head under the water. Had to revive the poor mite.’

  ‘What age was this?’ Doc was now pretty impressed with Henley’s recall from some thirty years ago.

  ‘I think they were three and six or so. Shared bath time was supposed to be fun. It was almost murder.’ Henley gave Doc a look, one that said Shaun was bad from the off.

  ‘You said he was angry, in therapy.’

  ‘Always, until his brother was made to start. He was a changed boy then. As if his problems had vanished... Thinking back it’s obvious why.’

  ‘He’d managed to have his brother labelled as the bad apple.’ Doc remembered Peter Leech’s little speech, his appeal to the parole board not to label him.

  ‘Yes. Their father, having seen a dramatic improvement, took Shaun out of therapy soon after Peter started. They dismissed the early attempts on Peter’s life as aberrations. High jinks. Growing up. Humph!’

  ‘But not you?’ Doc was intrigued. After treating him for a couple of years Henley seemed adamant.

  ‘Definitely not. Shaun was the bad seed. I knew it, even before he told me, but what he said merely confirmed it.’

  Had Doc missed something? ‘What did he say?’

  ‘The words that eventually ruptured my brain.’ He let the ghost of a smile quiver on his lips. ‘He actually said, One day I’m going to kill them all.’

  ***

  Doc was at the door, keen to get back to London, to Judy and Josh. He must call her, it was past seven o’clock already.

  ‘You’ve been very helpful Dr Henley. Your memory is remarkable.’

  ‘Hardly. I barely remember most of my clients. Those boys though, they were different... I knew things would go bad. I just thought it would be Shaun. By the time I had recovered sufficiently from my stroke Peter had been convicted... I sometimes wonder if I could have helped him. At the time.’

  Doc wondered too. The stroke had taken Peter’s one and only ally out of the frame. But the reality was that ‘Doctor’ Henley was not actually qualified, and would have had no credibility on the stand, was no ‘expert’ witness. Henley had been ashamed when he admitted it as Doc stood up, ready to leave, justifying it as part of the culture at the time, the rapid growth of new-fangled therapists unregulated by government. It was all history now and Doc could not find it within himself to condemn the old man. In a way he had helped young Peter for a while, if a little unconventionally.

  They shook hands and Doc went to the car, breathing in the evening air, the scent of roses relaxing him. Clearing his mind.

  There was no way the police would re-open the investigation into the parents’ murder. Peter Leech may not have been guilty, but he was certainly a killer now. Why create problems by pursuing Shaun Leech on the basis of an unqualified old man’s opinion? That would be the response from the PTBs. Doc hated to admit it to himself, but Shaun had got away with murder. Case closed.

  Then again, was there some way he could get them to listen, to consider the possibility that a double murderer was walking free? That an innocent victim had been jailed and brutalised as a consequence?

  He got into Carver’s car and turned on his phone. It told him he had missed several calls, so someone was desperate to speak to him.

  Carver five times and Judy once.

  Damn.

  He called her first. Re-assured her he was okay, checked she was fine and at home in his house. Then told her he was on his way, almost told her he loved her, but could not.

  He finished the call, tried to shake away the vision of her filling his mind, when a vague memory clicked into place.

  The photos on Shaun Leech’s office desk. The picture of his wife, Suzie. It had struck him at the time, but he had ignored the thought as irrelevant. Now he wondered how important it was...

  Suzie was quite similar in looks to Judy. Could that explain Peter Leech’s obsession? Doc groaned. The recording had given him false hope, that maybe Leech was less focussed on Judy than he thought. There had been little in the way of flirting, yet Leech certainly felt there was a connection. And this explained it.

  It was a disaster. Judy was most definitely in danger... And Suzie? Probably her too. Then his laser brain carved through the mass of data, the muddy thoughts on Shaun and Peter, their history.

  She was bait. Suzie. Shaun wanted his brother to come for her. Then Shaun would kill him.

  Doc was absolutely certain now, was about to enlighten Carver, had his phone in his hand, when the detective called him.

  ‘Where the hell have you been Doc? I’ve called a dozen times – ’

  ‘Sorry. I was with Henley. We need to – ’

  ‘Doc. I’ve very bad news. You’re not driving are you?’

  ‘No. I’m about to leave Henley’s.’ Doc dreaded what Carver had to say. What could be such bad news that Carver was worried about Doc hearing it while driving? And Jack’s voice was riddled with stress.

  ‘It’s Justice Potter. He’s dead Doc. Sorry to have to tell you like this.’

  ‘Dead?’ Doc’s mind fizzed and popped. He had not seen this coming. ‘Murdered?’ Leech? Was it revenge?

  He was sick to his heart. He liked the Judge, had appreciated his friend’s support during his time of crisis. Had thought the man indestructible.

  ‘No. Looks like suicide. A ritual or something similar...’

  ‘No way! Impossible.’ Doc punched the words at
Carver. ‘Ritual suicide? Never. Not the Judge.’

  ‘I can’t say more... Not on a mobile phone.’ Doc then realised there was something very strange here. Why would Jack be worrying about eavesdroppers?

  ‘I’m on my way. Where are you?’ Doc started the engine.

  ‘At the Judge’s home. The ME’s almost done, then they’ll take the body – ’

  ‘No! I’m coming. I want to see it exactly as it is. Do this for me, Jack. Please.’

  ‘C’mon Doc! It was suicide. You’re two hours away. These guys have got homes to go to.’ And so have I – Doc got the implied point.

  ‘I’ll break the speed limit. I’ll be there as soon as I can... Please wait.’

  Carver muttered something inaudible and sighed. ‘Okay. You’ll need some blue lights. You’re coming M5 and M4?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Doc was easing the car away, desperate to end the call, tuning Carver out. ‘Where are the switches for the siren and lights in here?’ He was scanning the dashboard, could see nothing obvious.

  ‘It’s not a police vehicle. It’s my personal chariot, so be careful.’ With that, he hung up. He sounded mightily pissed off to Doc.

  Too bad.

  Doc joined the M5 ten minutes later and wound the engine up until he was touching one hundred miles an hour. Much of the traffic was moving at a similar speed, though generally a little less fast. Doc stuck in the outer lane, flashing slower movers, closing his mind to the possibility of another accident. He felt bad enough as it was.

  The Judge.

  It was unthinkable the man would take his own life. Okay, he had been stressed out when they last spoke, but the Judge thrived on the challenges of work.

  Was he supposed to have committed suicide in response to the political fallout from Leech’s parole?

  Never!

  Doc’s heart sank as he focussed on his rear view mirror. ‘Oh Christ! That’s just what I need.’ A blue light was flashing, the police car behind him with headlights blazing at him, indicating him to pull over. To stop.

  Doc had been doing ninety-five. This would delay things. He just hoped Carver could sort it.

  He pulled into the middle lane, slowing, intending to slip across to the hard shoulder. The police car pulled alongside, the officer in the passenger seat gave him a cheery thumbs up and jerked a finger in a follow me gesture.

  ‘Jack, you bloody genius!’

  Blue lights.

  Doc pulled behind the patrol car, realising that another was right behind him. He had a police escort, sirens wailing. Doc saw his speedometer wind all the way up to one-hundred and twenty, and stay there.

  ***

  Peter Leech had been busy that afternoon. He had left Judy’s ex-husband and decided to take the man’s Jaguar to Reading. Although he had noted two other cars under canvas covers also parked in the massive garage, he plumped for the big cat.

  He had never driven anything with as much power, and he thrilled as he pumped the throttle, filling the garage with the V12 engine’s roar.

  Fortunately the car was automatic, given his limited experience, so gear changes were one thing less he needed to worry about. As it was, he almost wrote the rear end off as he shot out the garage, clipping the nearside panel as he misjudged the triple doorway.

  Wow!

  He found the remote for the gate, blipped it and then meandered through the leafy Berkshire lanes. He soon got used to the feel of it, enjoying the surging acceleration and the sure-footed handling of the modern sports car.

  He opted to join the M4, and was surprised at how much traffic there was – and how fast it was moving.

  He was soon travelling at over a hundred, swerving and cutting up other vehicles, enjoying himself immensely, laughing manically at the horrified faces as he played his own version of high speed dodgems.

  This driving lark is a piece of piss, he decided. He was fearless.

  He cut off on the motorway spur and headed for his old stamping ground. Reading. He was amazed to see how much had changed since he had been away, new developments had sprung up everywhere, and the town centre was unrecognisable.

  He followed signs for parking and wandered round a riverside shopping complex that hadn’t existed when he’d last visited. The Tuesday afternoon crowd was bearable... Maybe he was finally getting used to the tempo of life outside prison, no longer feeling insecure around the throngs of shoppers.

  He peered into people’s faces as they hurried by, checking for signs of recognition, to see if anyone made a connection between his current appearance and the lunchtime news photograph.

  His face felt a lot better today, his lips were no longer flaps of rubber, his bruising, though colourful, no longer ached. Sometimes he thought people made too much fuss about pain. It was not so bad.

  Those people who did look at him soon glanced away, intimidated, the beaten features a perfect disguise. Even so, he wanted a store that stocked a wide range of contact lenses.

  The third optician he tried had what he wanted and he was on his way again.

  He was going home. As he drove he was stunned by the lack of recognisable landmarks on this side of town, overwhelmed by the clusters of booming high technology businesses, the smoked glass temples to mammon.

  When he arrived at his old village he realised he must have driven past his family home. He turned the car, scuffing the bumper on a low garden wall as he swung onto the pavement, startling a young mother pushing a child in a buggy. She yelled at him, but he was oblivious, wondering how he could have missed his own house.

  He followed the road back, slowing at the bend where his home had been. He now knew why he had missed it. A courtyard development of mock Tudor farmhouses stood where he had played as a boy.

  What the hell?

  So they had knocked down the old house... Was it because of the murders? Perhaps no one would buy it, knowing the history. He thought that must be it. People were so squeamish.

  And Shaun. The bastard! He must have made a fortune flogging the old place to the developers. Peter had only a vague idea of current property values, but he knew this was one of the most expensive areas in the UK.

  Shaun. Fallen on his feet again. A house he could not sell bulldozed into a fortune.

  It made him sick. The golden boy. Always coming out on top. Well not any more. Not today. It was time for the Leech boys to have a reunion.

  With his thoughts goading him on, he headed back to his current residence, ramming the beautiful car into the rear wall of the garage as he parked, buckling the sweeping bonnet, re-shaping the majestic Jaguar into a bull-nose terrier.

  Fuck it!

  He got out, slammed the door. Now what? He needed a car. He eyed the canvas clothed vehicles, wondering why they were under wraps. He tore off the first cover, exposing a flawless red Ferrari. He got in, fiddled with the controls. Nice.

  Then he unveiled the second car and what he saw made his day. It was the car of his dreams, the vehicle he had hankered after since his father had taken him to a classic car rally at Windsor racecourse when he was eight. He had been happy that day. One of the few days he could say that about when recalling his childhood. Just him and his dad. Shaun was at his martial arts club, practising karate blows. Would test them on his punch-bag brother that night...

  The car sparkled under the fluorescent lights. It was immaculate and he decided it was quite simply the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. The AC Cobra. The original muscle car. The vehicle responsible for the introduction of a speed limit on the UK’s roads during the early sixties, instigated by parliament after the car had been reported tearing down the M1 at one hundred and sixty miles an hour.

  He caressed its metallic blue flank. He would use this car and even try to take care of it. He was in love!

  ***

  Leech had explored the whole house earlier, and inevitably found the gun locker with the two matching shotguns fitted snugly inside. He now sawed them both down to make them more manageable then strung them toge
ther with nylon twine, first threading the string over his shoulders then through the sleeves of the Barbour huntsman’s coat he’d found in Finch’s wardrobe. With the guns tucked inside, he checked they would stay hidden until he wanted to swing them into view.

  Perfect.

  He felt great. Ready to meet his bully boy brother.

  ***

  John wanted to die. He was struggling to breathe now. His position, arms folded back unnaturally, was restricting his chest and, as he weakened from the lack of food and water, with the grinding pain in his dislocated shoulders and ravaged back stripping him of reserves, he could feel himself slipping away.

  He was sometimes irrationally exuberant. It was the lack of oxygen, hypoxia, fooling him, tricking him with light-headedness. Then he would have a spell like this, coherent and suffering in the most dreadful way. His neck screamed at him, his throat ached with the strain, mouth ablaze, long ago devoid of moisture. His feet and hands had lost sensation, at first tingling and then shutting down. Lack of blood flow, and therefore lack of oxygen, he reasoned. If he ever did get out of this alive, what sort of state would he be in?

  He had heard the madman coming and going all afternoon, and now he re-appeared. John watched him come through the door, his hair different this time, much darker from John’s dye. But something else too. Then it came to him. The nutter was wearing his clothes.

  It deflated him entirely. He had hoped for some water, some relief maybe, but instead, this. A view of the man, from the feet up, wearing his things.

  ‘What d’ya think?’ He did a twirl, as if he were on the catwalk at a Paris fashion show.

  Unbelievable.

  ‘Bit tight across the shoulders, had to find your baggiest tee shirt. Levis are almost the right length.’ He peered down at the bottoms, a few centimetres above his boots. ‘No matter. But I love this coat!’ It was John’s brown Barbour. The lunatic looked as if he was about to join a shooting party.

  In his right hand he held a shotgun.

  One of my Purdey’s.

  John thought it, but could not find the energy to care.