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

by Will Patching

  Nice. Imposing. She’ll be weak at the knees when she sees me. Lucky cow!

  He was almost ready, but needed to prepare a few props first. He went through the man’s study, found brown paper, tape and a big black felt marker. He picked a few random books from the shelf and then wrapped them into three parcels. On one he scrawled Judy Finch in bold script above her address. He picked up a clipboard, some papers and a pen, then peered out the window to check the road was clear. There had been a lot of activity earlier in the day when a mobile Serious Crimes Investigation Unit trailer had been parked opposite his brother’s home, and he knew there was a risk he could be spotted when he left the neighbour’s house.

  It looked clear. Not a copper in sight.

  Good. And if that prat Powers thought he was stupid then he was going to get a big surprise.

  If the pigs have set a trap for me, now they know I want to see my Birdy, they will regret it.

  He grabbed the key with a Ducati fob from the rack in the kitchen, and left, slamming the door behind him.

  The bike was parked right in front of the house, a beautiful piece of machinery that he estimated must have cost twelve grand or more. He wiped rain off the seat, swung a leg over the saddle, tucked the clipboard and parcels in a side pannier and searched for the ignition. It took several precious seconds and he knew he was vulnerable. If the police saw him leave the house or spotted him now, they would be suspicious, wondering why he had not answered when they knocked. And that would mean he would have to use the gun again.

  He finally found the ignition, congratulated himself, twisted the key and revved the engine. He roared down the street, wheels skidding in the wet. He was very rusty on bikes too, but he loved the thrill. He really didn’t give a shit about the police now, two of whom, house-calling at the end of the road, turned to stare as he zoomed past. He was on his way, confident he would soon be with his Birdy.

  The only fly in the ointment, apart from the possibility the police might be watching her place, was her son. He really didn’t know what to do about the kid. Maybe the boy’s old man would take him in, then he and Birdy could head abroad.

  Yeah. That would work...

  He got lost. The traffic was heavy in the fine rain, many mums on the school run clogging the roads, and it seemed there were no-entry signs and one-way streets everywhere he wanted to turn. His patience soon ran out so he roared the wrong way down one anyway, weaving through honking cars, tempted to stop and give a few of the idiots screaming at him the benefit of a quick blast from his shotgun.

  The short cut worked but he was confused now. He pulled the A to Z from his pocket and checked.

  Yes, not far now.

  He found the road and scanned the blocks of flats for Judy’s. He stopped the bike just past the building, and made a show of pulling out the parcel, inspecting it and the clipboard, as if to check he had the right address. Satisfied, he dismounted.

  All the while, his eyes roved, checking the pedestrians – an old man and some kids – the windows overlooking her door, and the cars parked nearby. Nothing remotely suspicious.

  Except the BT van with its little workers’ tent covering a manhole in the road. Directly outside the path to Judy’s ground floor apartment.

  One of the engineers was sitting, legs dangling in the hole, another passing tools, yet another had a fancy laptop with wires trailing while a fourth man stood watching. The tent was crowded, covering all but the man in the hole, as if they were sheltering from the rain.

  Leech was suspicious. It was too much of a coincidence.

  Fuck it! He should never have called Powers. And Birdy should’ve kept her trap shut and not talked to him either.

  He wanted to see her. It wasn’t her fault they were watching her home, was it? She wouldn’t collude with the filth against him. Would she?

  He had come this far, had waited too long to get here. He was not giving up now.

  Fuck them! I’m going in.

  He strolled toward the path, acting his role, as if uncertain of his ‘delivery’ address, striding past the van, the tent and the path, then spinning, turning back, apparently comparing the address on the packet with the number on the door. Nodding to himself as he walked down the path.

  He put a thumb to the buzzer and held it there until the door opened, alert for any movement from the BT outfit.

  He felt the anticipation as the door swung wide, a petite strawberry blonde standing there, then a massive disappointment as he realised it was not his woman.

  Several possibilities flooded his mind. Sister perhaps? Looked vaguely similar. Visitor? Lodger? Baby minder? But she was staring hard at his face, trying to identify him he decided, and he did not like that one little bit.

  He took in her bulky sweater, saw sweat beads on her upper lip, then smelt her fear. Simultaneously he heard a man’s voice from the hall behind her, a low murmur, almost inaudible through the helmet, and sensed movement from the BT van. It was enough. He made a decision.

  He thrust the parcel and board into her stomach, driving her back, slipped his fingers round the shotgun and swept it forward as she fell. She was scrabbling behind her back for something, mouth opening to shout an alarm.

  The shotgun blast drowned out everything. He had aimed at her knee, speed essential, convinced her pullover hid body armour. Another old lifer had once told him, Shoot their heads or limbs if you ever have to deal with armed coppers.

  The WPC collapsed as Leech threw himself forward, kicking the door shut with his foot, slamming it in the face of one of the BT team. The man in the hall, similarly dressed in inappropriate clothes for a damp summer’s day, was turning, a pistol drawn, the muzzle sweeping towards Leech. The shotgun was almost up, searching out the man’s head, but now in line with the policeman’s gun.

  The sawn off erupted again, at exactly the same moment the pistol fired. Leech’s head snapped back from the impact, the explosion rattling his skull, his legs buckling.

  The officer fell backwards into the kitchen, squealing in agony. The pistol flew through the air over his shoulder, along with an emulsion of gore, his hand and forearm now crimson fragments and droplets misting the air.

  Leech landed on his knees, rolled to the side, part of his mind detached, wondering if he was dying, trying to understand why he could still control his body if he had been hit in the brain. Meanwhile some feral part of him was assessing the status of the girl and the position of her weapon. She was busy, struggling to control the arterial blood geysering from her severed leg. Leech was well impressed with the damage his weapon had created at such close range.

  He pushed himself up, punched her in the face, rolled her unconscious body in front of the door, like a human doorstop, and grabbed her gun. It would be quicker than reloading his weapon. He leapt to the kitchen and shot the other officer in the head.

  It was all over in seconds, but he knew time was not on his side. He yanked the bloody headset and mic off the dead male officer and listened. He imagined the rest of the stake-out team would be outside the front door already, probably about to smash it down to get in.

  ‘...status report?’

  He answered that one. ‘Don’t come near the flat. Just listen.’

  ‘Leech?’

  ‘Don’t talk or I’ll kill them both. Their status is that the pretty one won’t be doing any more marathons and the ugly one won’t be playing the guitar again. But they’re both still alive. For now.’

  The policeman was very dead, but that was no big deal for Leech – he’d killed one yesterday, according to the news.

  He heard a gasp and continued with his commentary.

  ‘So, you and your mates are going to get back in your little tent. Right away. No helicopters, or they’re dead. If I see anyone who even looks like a cop, if anyone approaches this flat, your buddies are dead. Now you can speak, but only to say, I understand.’

  A pause, then, ‘I understand, but – ’

  ‘No buts. Call your Commissi
oner. Tell him I’ll negotiate with him. No one else. I want him here within half an hour. No flak jacket. Just in his fancy uniform. I’ll only talk to him. Tell him if he is not here in thirty minutes, I will start blowin more bits off his boy and girl. Don’t call me. I’ll call you.’

  He then stamped on the headset, searched the two inert bodies for weapons and ammunition, stuffed what he found into his voluminous pockets, then grabbed the other gun off the floor, wiping bloody bits of copper off the handle with a tea towel.

  He slipped off his helmet, a clock now ticking inside his head, advice from yet another con flitting through his mind. The man had taken hostages, killed one, and had been banged up because he was too slow getting away. His advice: Don’t hang around. Make them think you’re still there. But find a way out, and do it quick. Two minutes tops. Or you’ll be dead or back inside.

  As he dropped the helmet to the ground he saw his own blood on the entry and exit points from the policeman’s bullet. Another inch to the left and the bullet would have pierced his eye and come to rest in his brain. Instead it had creased his scalp above his ear. Blood was hot and sticky on his face. He wiped it with the tea towel and it started stinging.

  ‘You cunt!’ He kicked the corpse, stamped on the face. ‘I got you though. Fuckin SNAKEBITE!’

  Control.

  He had to get out. Now.

  He ran to the backdoor and into the garden.

  Fuck!

  It was a tiny brick courtyard. He leapt at the wall, hands clutching for the top. He screeched as the broken glass embedded there lacerated both hands. Yet he would not let go, knew it was his only chance. He hauled himself up and over, into the next garden. A three storey block of flats backed onto Birdy’s apartment. He ran to the patio window, booted it, expecting it to shatter. It didn’t. His foot bounced off and he yelped as pain jetted through his ankle.

  He was bleeding from his hands and head, and he hurt. A lot. He was furious. The frustration of missing Birdy again welled up and he yelled at the door to open. After a moment he pulled the shotgun up, slick with blood from his ruined palms, slippery as he tried to reload.

  ‘Get in!’ The shell flew to the ground.

  In his mind the clock had reached the magic two minutes and he wanted to be away. He lifted the gun and hammered the stock into the door. The glass curtained down, the fragments glittering and crashing as they landed. He was in! The alarm was pealing though. He ran through the apartment, the noise deafening, found the front door and tried to open it. Double locked, and a mortise too.

  ‘FUCKFUCKFUCK!’

  He ran into the lounge, overlooking the street, fumbled for another cartridge, managed to load it then fired at the window as he leapt through, landing in the front garden in a cascade of glass. Airborne shards had pricked his face and neck but the heavy coat protected his body. He was out. The rain was a fine drizzle, almost stopped now.

  He sprinted across the lawn, vaulted the wall into the road as a woman was opening her car door to get out. She started to scream as the gun butt smashed into her throat. He grabbed her by the hair and threw her to the pavement, jumped in the car and started it up. After a quick scan of the street for police activity – there was none – he juddered away, cursing the old crate and its knackered clutch.

  Less than five minutes after arriving at Judy Finch’s address he was almost half a mile away, safely lost in London’s traffic.

  ***

  ‘Bitch! Bitch! Bitch! Fuckin bitch!’

  Leech thumped the wheel as he drove, aimless now, his brain in turmoil. His wounded hands screamed pain back at him, creating a vicious circle, winding him up all the more.

  It isn’t fair. None of it!

  His brother. The torment of his youth at Shaun’s hands. The loss of Suzie. The alienation from his parents who labelled him a bad kid.

  Then the big one.

  Eighteen fucking years. Half his life in prison for something he did not do.

  And now the one woman he wanted to be with was beyond his reach.

  Worse.

  She was a traitor. She must have let the police in, let them use her home as a trap.

  Like he was some sort of vermin, a rat to be put in a cage.

  Why? She definitely had the hots for him... There’s no way he could have misread the signs. She’d been practically drooling over his body at the interview.

  So what now? He could get a flight with his false passport and never come back. Try to live happily ever after.

  Or he could exact revenge.

  Birdy.

  Powers.

  And then fuck off abroad. Oh yes. That’s a much better idea.

  He dumped the old lady’s banger near Earl’s Court tube station and started walking. He stopped at a pharmacy and asked for bandages for his hands and head. He told the friendly young shop assistant he’d had an accident with a patio window, that it had shattered and cut him. The girl was kind and helped dress his wounds, though she told him he should see a doctor and get some stitches. Fifteen minutes later he was on his way.

  To see Powers. At the address Gruber had provided. Let’s hope he’s not moved, he thought as he opened the A to Z to get his bearings.

  ***

  Doc was having a rough afternoon. He spent much of it with a police negotiator deciding how best to handle Leech if he phoned again. At one point they decided to call him, but his mobile was off. After two hours going over their approach and trying to absorb all the advice, Doc had had enough. He and Carver went for a late lunch. They strolled to a café near the station, Doc wanting to avoid the canteen in a bid to get some air.

  It was drizzling and Carver had objected. ‘What’s wrong with our canteen?’

  ‘Nothing. I just need to get out.’

  ‘It’s pissing down.’ Carver grumbled some more but Doc had lured him out with the promise of paying for them both.

  Doc’s thoughts were with Judy. She would be in court now and he had tried to call her to wish her luck, but to no avail. Her mobile was off too.

  It should be pretty cut and dried with the drug abuse on John’s part, but she had told him the opposing barrister always had tricks up his sleeve. He might ask for a deferral if he knew of John’s medical status, or he may have found out about the threat from Leech and Judy’s subsequent displacement from her own home.

  They arrived at their destination, a greasy spoon, much frequented by the bulkier policemen who were addicted to lard, and ordered full English breakfasts. It was after three-thirty, but the café served traditional fry ups all day.

  They settled down in a corner, mugs of tea in hand, when Carver’s phone rang. Doc ignored him, his own obsession on his mind again. Why hadn’t Judy told him Leech had propositioned her? It was important. There seemed to be no rational explanation.

  Unless... It occurred to him she might have been concerned about how he would react. It was sort of comforting, but also yet another slight on his professionalism.

  ‘Bad news Doc.’ Carver pocketed his phone. ‘I don’t know how close Judy Finch was with her ex...’ His eyes held Doc’s, flinty now. ‘But he died about half an hour ago. Leech is leaving a trail of corpses. The man’s remorseless.’

  Doc was silent for a few beats, the first thought was that Judy was wasting her time in court. Then he thought about Josh. He would try Judy’s phone again later, or he could try to call the court from the station. Their food arrived as Doc answered Carver’s implied question.

  ‘She doesn’t have any time for him. She’s in court now, trying to restrict his access to their son. And she has never taken drugs, Jack. She was astonished her ex was such a heavy user.’ Carver’s head was down, as if his food was the sole focus of his attention. Doc went on, chewing and thinking at the same time. ‘Remorseless is a good word to describe Leech. In both senses.’

  Carver stopped chewing and glanced up. ‘Both?’

  ‘Uh-huh. In the sense you meant – relentless, an unstoppable force. He is a man on a missi
on. A psychopath doesn’t give up. And if he feels harmed or slighted in any way he’ll never forget. He’ll find his moment for revenge.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Carver held some bread, hovering over his egg, ready to dunk. ‘And the other sense?’

  ‘Totally lacking in remorse. No guilt to trouble his conscience. He acts, and has no empathy or concern for any of his victims. His only focus is his objective. In Leech’s case, Judy.’

  Carver scooped the last of his yolk into his face, and said through a mouthful of egg, bread and beans, ‘I suppose it’s best not to piss him off then! At least, not until we’ve got him nicked.’

  Doc tried Judy’s phone again. No answer still.

  ‘When we get to the station can we get a message to Judy? Or the court clerk? It’s all a bit pointless now, and she’ll need to be with her lad.’

  ‘Okay, let’s go.’ Carver had eyed Doc’s uneaten food, but just belched and stood as he swallowed his last mouthful. A candidate for an ulcer, Doc decided.

  The rain had eased now, though the traffic was heavier than normal. The rain always did that.

  They arrived at the station and were making their way to Carver’s office when pandemonium erupted. A breathless PC grabbed Carver’s arm and said, ‘Leech is holed up inside the Finch place. Got our decoy and her baby-sitter as hostages – ’

  Carver’s face drained of colour. ‘You’re kidding me! What happened to the rest of the Tac team? Why the hell did they let him in?’

  ‘Sorry sir, I don’t know... He’s asked to see the Commissioner. The team is meeting to discuss what to do.’

  Doc spoke, ‘I’ll dip out now Jack. You’ve got the negotiator here. You don’t need me anymore. I’ll head over to the court and meet Judy if that’s okay.’

  ‘Sure. No problem... You were right again though Doc.’ Carver’s eyes glistened, and Doc wondered if Jack knew the team personally. Or maybe the girl intimately. Could she be the reason Jack was in the doghouse?