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

by Will Patching

  Just go away, you odious man.

  Then he realised the gun appeared shorter. Was it just the angle he was seeing it at? No... The cretin had cut the end off!

  The bloody heathen.

  Then the thought whistled through him. Was the maniac planning to shoot him now? He was sure the man could see the terror in his eyes, John once again wanting to live, not die here, like this.

  ‘You like it? My modification?’ He held the gun up for inspection, then aimed it at John’s head. The barrels appeared massive this close up. ‘Had to saw it off in your garage... You didn’t tell me you collected classic cars, did you? I take it they all work.’

  John nodded slowly, once, careful not to nudge the weapon with his forehead. This man was barking mad. Hadn’t told him! It’s not as if they’d been having little fireside chats, was it? His mouth was still taped, for goodness sake!

  Yet, John knew he could easily die over the ‘omission.’ Maybe they had been chatting, but only in the twisted mind inside that mad head. That was probably it.

  ‘I’m afraid your Jag needs a bit of attention!’ He held up the Cobra keys. ‘This one’s a beauty though. Must’ve cost you a couple of hundred grand. You certainly know how to spend it, don’t ya? Anyway, enough chit-chat. I’m going for a spin... And maybe I’ll fit in a little hunting.’ He giggled and then sucked air through his lips. ‘But what do I do about you? Shall I finish you now?’

  John shook his head, launching his brain into a whole world of pain. The barrels pressed into his nose, squashing until he could barely breathe. Was he about to die?

  The pressure released.

  Thank you God!

  ‘Tell you what. You promise to be a good boy and I’ll come back. Might even let you go.’ He crouched down, patted John’s head.

  Then John saw him rip something and drop part of it on the floor. It was the photo, the one of himself, Judy and Josh. A precious drop of moisture dribbled from the corner of his eyes as he saw it, just in his line of vision. The fragment was of him and his son. The man had pocketed the piece with Judy on it.

  The lunatic studied him, watching the tears form as John’s thoughts turned to better times, memories of his family life. The life he had allowed greed and lust to ruin. And right now, all he wanted was to see his son again. The picture reminding him that he had one very good reason to live.

  ‘You’re alright. Not a bad bloke... Got no reason to kill you.’ The words were gentle, but then John heard a hideous blast, as if the gates of hell had opened and the devil himself was braying at him. The lunatic was in hysterics, finally spitting out the words he had found so funny. ‘But no phone calls while I’m gone, eh? There’s a good boy.’

  He patted John’s head once more and left him transfixed on the torn photo.

  ***

  Doc’s escort slowed then stopped at the start of the Hammersmith flyover. The co-driver in the vehicle in front came to his window.

  ‘Please pop into the squad car sir. It’ll be quicker. I’ll take the Saab and follow on.’

  The patrol car following them had tucked into a police observation lane, set back from the road, invisible to speeding drivers until it was too late.

  Doc was relieved, exhausted from driving for an hour or so at the speed of a racing car. At each county boundary his escort had changed, one pair of cars peeling away as the new patrolmen joined him. He marvelled at what Carver had pulled off. He felt like royalty.

  And now his police driver was definitely able to navigate his way through London at a faster pace than Doc could. They arrived at the Barbican apartment complex in just minutes.

  Carver, alone now, was waiting in the Judge’s flat. He was tired and cranky.

  ‘I used up every favour I have with the provincial boys to get you here. Yet the more I think about it the less suspicious I get. He killed himself Doc.’

  ‘Show me... please.’

  Carver led him through to the Judge’s study. The room was larger than average and included a TV and DVD player, bookshelves lining the walls with legal journals and reference manuals, a sofa, an antique desk and a matching chair.

  The chair had been placed in the middle of the room, facing the TV. The Judge, pallid, his waxen skin sagging in grey folds, was semi-naked, sitting on the chair. He was wearing suspenders, stockings and a bra. No other clothes.

  His feet were tucked under the chair, tied to a rope that extended up the back and looped in a noose round his neck. Doc crouched down, peering closely at his old friend and mentor, inspecting the rope, noting the bruised skin and indentation where the ligature had cut into the Judge’s neck.

  The hands were cuffed and folded in his lap, clutching his penis. The Judge’s head was bowed, as if ashamed of his terminal sin.

  ‘His daughter found him... She ran out, shocked. Called an ambulance. Refused to come back in. The paramedics called us... But you’ve got to admit Doc, it is suicide.’ Carver grumbled, ‘We’re wasting our time.’

  ‘I don’t believe the Judge was a pervert Jack.’

  ‘We found a stack of porno DVDs. Young teens. Probably illegal... One was in the DVD player. His wife’s been dead for several years. Plenty of time for an old codger to go off the rails.’

  Doc did not like the lack of respect in the detective’s voice, but let it slide. He now understood why Carver had been reluctant to discuss the case over the mobile network with so many tabloids and amateur sleuths potentially ear-wigging in.

  Suicide? Only inasmuch as he had killed himself. But by accident... Which is what had thrown Doc. The Judge was no suicide candidate. But, then again, he was no pervert either.

  ‘I’m not convinced. This could have been staged. What did the ME say?’

  ‘Only that he appears to have throttled himself. His feet were positioned to enable him to put tension on the rope round his neck, allowing him to choke off his air supply. Never seen anything like it myself. But the ME has.’

  ‘Yes.’ Doc was not sure whether he was allowing his personal view of the Judge’s good character to get in the way of his professional opinion. ‘AEA. It’s more common than you might think.’

  ‘AEA? Is that what you call it?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Doc swallowed back the emotion. His boss, his good friend, now being labelled an accidental suicide, a pervert.

  Labelled.

  His synapses sparked a connection, already racing to another conclusion, but he continued his explanation to Carver anyway. ‘Auto Erotic Asphyxiation. Practitioners experience enhanced orgasm by restricting the flow of oxygen to the brain. Trouble is, it is very easy to overdo it. Literally masturbating yourself to death...’ Doc checked the knots holding the Judge’s feet, went on, ‘It’s possible that as many as one in three of all suicides resulting from hanging are a consequence of AEA.’

  ‘You serious?’ Carver had seen many things, but this was news to him, and it showed. ‘You know some really weird shit, Doc, I’ll give you that. So, case closed. Accidental suicide.’ He blew air through his lips, then asked, ‘Why the cuffs?’

  ‘Bondage. Part of the sexual fantasy. The transvestism. The video. Who knows what’s in someone’s mind when they’re in the throes of fantasy?’ But it still did not feel right to him. He glanced at Carver and said, ‘Any poppers?’

  ‘Amyl nitrate? Not here. Why?’

  It did not fit.

  ‘They are invariably used to further heighten the sensation. Any other drugs?’

  ‘None. Doc, for chrissake. He wanked himself to death. It’s a sorry end for the old man, but he chose it. Let’s go. I’ll get the coroner’s boys in to remove the body. I sent them for a drink. Let’s hope they’re not too drunk to do their job.’

  ‘Jack.’ Doc called to him as Carver headed for the door, the detective’s face darkening as he stopped and turned to listen. ‘There’s one thing we should do... Just to be sure.’

  ‘What now Doc?’ Carver trudged back. ‘You’re rapidly running out of favours, y’know?’ H
e was reluctant, shaking his head, but continued, ‘Okay, I know he was more than just a boss to you. So, tell me.’

  ‘The video cameras. They’re on the corners of the building.’

  ‘No fucking way! What? You want us to go through hours of video footage.’ His head was jerking spasmodically now, a rapid side to side motion. An emphatic negative. ‘Have you any idea what that’ll cost? In overtime? For what? It’s not going to happen.’ He settled down, his eruption over, possibly mollified by the sorrow in Doc’s eyes.

  ‘He was a great man Jack. I don’t believe this!’ Doc gestured at the corpse. ‘I think someone wanted to ruin his reputation. To label him this way, in death. To devastate his good name, to wreck his daughter’s image of the good father. Someone out for revenge...’

  ‘Leech? Are you suggesting he came here? Did this?’ Carver fingered his chin, head dipped. ‘It’s too elaborate for him. Why not just stab him or beat him to death? I don’t see this as Leech’s MO.’

  ‘He wanted to label the man who labelled him. The Judge called Leech a beast at the trial.’ Doc acknowledged to himself it was a tenuous connection, and in reality he agreed with Jack’s assessment, that this would not be Peter Leech’s way of dealing with the man.

  Carver was still unconvinced, rubbing his brow, the head shake back again as he listened.

  Doc tried one last appeal, for his dead boss’s sake. ‘Please check the tapes. Only from this evening. He was always late home, probably not much more than an hour’s worth of tape to check before his daughter found him. And if Leech was here...’

  That clinched it.

  ‘Okay. Okay. There’s several cameras. I’ll see what I can do. We’ll check for Leech.’ He was on his way out. Again.

  ‘Jack.’ He was at the door, his hand on the handle, and he held on to it, just looking at Doc, now visibly pissed off with his friend. ‘Both Leech boys. Check the tapes for either one of them. Peter or Shaun.’

  ***

  Unlike the Jaguar, the Cobra was difficult to drive, it had a manual gearbox and a clutch designed for a gorilla. The bloated tyres spun and smoked as Leech wrestled the machine on the winding roads.

  By the time he reached the M4 and joined the London bound carriageway his confidence in the vehicle had soared. It was awesome. Freedom incarnate. And great fun. He used the car to intimidate other drivers, soaring along, revelling in the responsiveness and the power he controlled. It was definitely the best sensation he had ever felt in his entire life.

  He gave no quarter, often zipping onto the hard shoulder to overtake on the inside and then veering back across the lanes of traffic, fishtailing in a cloud of burning rubber. Car horns bleated at him, but he was oblivious. The thrill of the race, the danger and possibility of violent death, combined to boost his spirits.

  This was nothing like racing go-karts or old bangers. This was a real man’s car. He felt alive. The king of the road.

  He glimpsed the blue lights way behind him and slowed to seventy, pulled into the middle lane to let them pass. Lucky! It was some sort of escort, two squad cars either side of a big Saab. They were shifting – he wanted to tuck in behind them, but thought better of it. No point tempting fate. The cars disappeared from view and he let his own speed increase again.

  Before long he was almost at the end of the motorway, joining the elevated road section at Hammersmith. He didn’t notice the patrol car until it was too late. A siren whooped as the hidden vehicle emerged and accelerated behind him.

  Leech had been doing eighty, overtaking on the inside. But now he had to slow for the press of traffic ahead, the bottleneck of the motorway entering the city an effective roadblock. There was no hard shoulder to escape onto, and the patrol car was on his tail.

  Shit. That’s all I need.

  He pulled in to the left and stopped, the police car thirty feet behind him. One officer got out, the other had his head down in the cockpit. Leech guessed he was checking the car registration.

  Oh well. Time to go to work.

  In a liquid movement he stepped out of his car, opened his coat, levelled both shotguns and blasted them simultaneously. The policeman walking toward him was thrown backward as he buckled at the waist. The one in the car disappeared from sight in a shower of blood and glass.

  Leech switched his attention to the traffic bearing down on him. He turned all four barrels onto the lead cars and let off the two remaining shells. The result was spectacular. The cars slewed and struck each other, one hit the central barrier, the other spun round to face the oncoming vehicles. Everyone was travelling too fast, cars and lorries piling up, smashing into the two stationary vehicles, turning the motorway into a breaker’s yard in seconds, replacing the potential bottleneck in front of him with an actual one behind him.

  Leech watched, awed at the power he had unleashed.

  Then he returned to the Cobra, ignoring the squeals of the policeman squirming on the ground, trying to stuff his guts back into his belly cavity.

  He took one last look at the scene of devastation he had created, sucking in the thrill and satisfaction, then uttered just one word.

  ‘Snakebite!’

  ***

  He parked the Cobra near Hammersmith tube station in a resident’s zone, and gave the bonnet one last lingering touch. He vowed he would buy one of these magnificent beasts when he settled abroad. It occurred to him that the roads in the Caribbean might not be as much fun as the motorways of Britain, but he decided it didn’t matter. He just wanted to possess a thing of such beauty.

  He needed to get to Chelsea and, at the entrance to the underground station, he picked up an A to Z of London and checked the address.

  Within fifteen minutes he was walking through the streets of select Georgian townhouses that screamed money. The property he wanted was nothing special, just another fancy townhouse amongst the many. He wanted to blow a hole in the door and kill his brother there and then. But was Shaun even home? No sense going in guns blazing, alerting him and the police if the bastard wasn’t there.

  Darkness was almost complete now, the air cooler and his long coat no longer out of place. There were few people on the street anyway, a dog walker, a courting couple, an old lady with a Harvey Nichols shopping bag. He didn’t think anyone would pay him any attention.

  Leech went to the end of the road to see if there was rear access. There was none. The end of terrace property had a three metre wall topped with broken glass protecting its rear garden. Leech reckoned there would be a series of walls like this separating the gardens, a series of hurdles, some sixteen of them between him and his target, each two or three metres high.

  No way.

  He went back down the street, monitoring the few pedestrians, scanning the vehicles. Still no sign of his brother’s car. Or the police.

  Leech climbed the steps of the next door neighbour’s house, and knocked. A long-haired, middle aged man answered, reefer in one hand, a bottle of beer in the other. Leech double checked the street, hoisted the guns and stepped inside.

  The man stumbled back at the sight of him, jaw jerking silently as Leech followed him inside, guns held at the man’s face. He hoofed the door to behind him, and said, ‘Evenin. You home alone?’

  The man, pale and trembling, nodded. Leech noticed a dark patch appear on his victim’s crotch, spreading down the trouser legs as he soiled himself.

  ‘Don’t be scared mate. I won’t hurt you.’ Leech released one gun, letting it swing back inside the coat, reached out and took the reefer. ‘But you really shouldn’t open up to strangers.’

  The ageing hippie found his voice. ‘What do you – ’

  Leech smashed the other gun barrel against the man’s ear, knocking him unconscious. He caught the beer bottle as the man sagged to the floor.

  ‘I didn’t say you could speak though, did I?’ He took a drag on the joint. ‘Not bad!’ Then he sucked down some beer, let go the gun and rummaged in his voluminous pockets.

  ‘Ah! Gaffer tape! N
ever travel without it.’

  ***

  Leech was enjoying the moment. He had helped himself to another joint from Shaun’s neighbour’s stash, having gagged and bound him to the downstairs toilet, then stationed himself at the upstairs window. He had his feet up and was watching, waiting for Shaun. His excitement was mellowed by the dope, but even so, he could visualise himself crushing the life from his brother’s throat. The thought had given him an enormous erection.

  He pulled out the picture of Judy. Touched her face with his thumb, stroking her image... She was so like her. Suzie. His Suzie. Stolen by his brother. Possessed by Shaun.

  But not for long.

  Yes. Tonight he would take back what was his due.

  He stroked the photograph again and resumed his vigil. Waiting for his brother’s car to arrive and take up position in its bay. He did not have to wait long.

  ***

  The moment Shaun entered his house, Suzie rushed him, held him tight.

  ‘Oh my God! I’m so glad you’re home.’

  ‘Hey, it’s okay sweetheart.’ He kissed her forehead. ‘I just got held up.’

  She stepped back, flushed. ‘Your phone was off. I’ve been so worried... I kept calling you.’

  ‘Sorry honey, I was in a meeting... Must’ve forgotten to put it back on.’ He pulled it from his pocket and showed her, surprised at her agitation.

  ‘Peter’s been on the news this evening. He’s wanted for murder...’

  ‘I heard.’ He did not tell her he had spoken to the detective on the case, had refused to consider protection. ‘Don’t worry darling.’

  She wept as she spoke, tucking herself into his arms again. ‘He’s only been out five days and he’s killed two people already. He’s a lunatic.’ Her snuffles were pathetic.

  ‘They can’t be sure darling. They only have some circumstantial evidence.’ Peter was no killer, of that Shaun was certain, and he let the thought slip out. ‘He’s not capable of killing anyone.’

  She pushed him away. ‘How can you say that? He murdered your parents...’

  ‘I mean he’s never killed anyone else.’ She was still looking at him with a strange expression, so he went on, ‘Perhaps the police are exaggerating. Automatically assuming he’s responsible because of his history.’ That would be a familiar theme, he thought, allowing himself some satisfaction.