The boxes in the cellar? Or did Dad tell him before he died? Worried that I was not fit to manage his affairs?
There had been several occasions when her father had scolded her for her drinking, told her to snap out of it, to be a proper mother to her boy. But she had not. Could not. Like many people who have never suffered the depths of depression, he was unable to empathise with her, to understand the sense of desolation and emptiness, the hopelessness, she had to contend with each and every day…
So, what now?
Suzie could not face that last file, though suspected it was important. More photographs of perverted acts between a grown man and a young boy? She decided to start at the beginning, so sat on the floor and began to work her way through the contents of each, flicking through the sheaves of documents, incredulous at what she was reading. The false driving license was as good as the real thing, showing his age as nineteen, and she began to wonder if he also had a car secreted somewhere.
The devious bugger.
Her son’s journal made little sense, and read more like a horror story, but the other items were easy to understand. Billy had become complacent, and must have assumed no one would poke around in his secrets, locked away here, in his private annex.
Mind-blowing as it was, she began to build a picture in her mind of what he was planning, and how he could achieve it. By the time she had reached the passport file, she knew his threat to run away with his tutor had not been so much hot air, created spontaneously during their argument last night. He meant it, alright.
Good grief… I’ve lost him.
Possibly not.
She went to his dojo locker by the shower cubicle and found his old gym holdall. It was empty, so she took it to the drawer and scooped out everything she had discovered there, and dropped the entire concertina filing system into the bag. She would finish perusing the contents later, she was too stunned to do so right now.
One last thing to check. The bottom drawer.
Having discovered so much, it seemed unlikely there would be more files with anything worth reading, and as she opened it, the contents seemed jumbled, with no hanging folders, just a lot of seemingly random items, mostly in ziplock transparent plastic bags, casually dropped into the bottom of the deep drawer, with ostrich feathers tossed on top.
Strange, as Billy was always such a fastidious person.
Suzie reached in, pushed the feathers aside and pulled out a bag with what looked like a decorative horse hair ornament. Then she saw the cut end, the flash of white bone, and dropped it to the floor in disgust.
What in God’s name...?
With the feathers and tail out of the way, she could see the rest of the contents more clearly. A single pig’s ear in another resealable plastic bag, dark brown but identifiable from the metal clip embedded in it, just as she had seen on the local farms on many occasions. Plus dozens more similar clips also in a clear plastic container, but without pig’s flesh attached. She pulled out a pouch containing a bundle of furry ears, from various sized dogs from the look of it, some cat’s ears and the tip of a cat’s tail. Below that, there was a pack of rabbit’s feet, another with feet from what Suzie assumed were sheep, and then a bushy red fur tail, from a fluffy dog or maybe a squirrel, that appeared to be much fresher than anything else, going by the colour of the crusted blood on the end of it.
In a daze, Suzie scooped all the items out, and dumped them in the gym bag, struggling not to vomit. As she zipped the thing, she put the back of her hand to her mouth, then heaved as her insides revolted in protest. A thin stream of tea, bile and drool trickled over her slippers as she stood up, the room spinning around her.
She slammed the empty drawer closed with her foot, and squeezed her brow between her fingers and thumb, her world spinning as she tried to recover from the shock of this latest revelation about her delinquent son.
With her head bowed, she whispered the Lord’s Prayer, but her mind still worried at the things she’d discovered. The black candles had taken on new significance, along with the kindly Doctor’s words about Billy channelling his evil uncle, conjuring that foul specimen back into their lives. Thoughts of demonic possession entered her mind, but the simple words of the prayer helped push them out.
By the time she reached Amen, the room stopped rotating around her. With a silent thanks to her maker, she picked up the bag and went to the house, unable to think any further, her mind refusing to co-operate. On autopilot, she made herself more tea, dumping in extra spoonfuls of sugar to help her recover. She sat at the table, sipping slowly, gradually coming out of her trance, still staring at the holdall, placed on the worktop where she had left it.
The kitchen clock ticked at her, the noise loud, urging her to do something. Anything.
The Business Pages.
With that single thought, Suzie grabbed the directory and searched for a list of local emergency locksmiths open for business twenty-four hours a day. It was only a quarter past seven, but she called the first five numbers in turn, finally satisfied when she found one who agreed to come immediately, equipped for the jobs she had in mind. By the time Billy hauled himself out of bed, his annex would be secure. With his important documents, including his passport in her possession, Suzie finally felt she was regaining some control over his life.
While waiting for the locksmith to arrive, she made one other call. To that lovely psychiatrist. Doctor Powers. The man who had promised to help her and her son.
***
‘This is about as close as we can get, Doc.’
Jack parked on a yellow line at the junction of Harley Street and Devonshire Street, unable to turn the corner to the Caduceus Clinic as access was blocked by the police who had cordoned off the area. Doc could see the rear end of a fire engine parked in the middle of the narrow one-way street just beyond the blue and white tape, and was glad Jack had managed to get them both here before the traffic started to build up.
Doc let go of the grab handle above his door – his left hand had been glued there since they left Pangbourne. Jack had driven them both in his Jaguar to the centre of London, and Doc had stopped looking at the speedometer the first time the needle hit one hundred and forty miles an hour. Jack had seen Doc’s face and given him a grim smile, claiming, ‘Don’t worry, mate. I’m a trained professional. I’ve passed all the Met’s advanced driving courses with flying colours, and I’m current.’
The reassurance had not done much for Doc’s stress levels and his heart had objected to this abuse, banging on his sternum such that he thought Jack might hear the noise, and maybe slow down. No chance of that.
Doc sighed and followed him from the car, under the tape and past the uniformed officer who clearly knew Jack by sight, as he merely nodded them both through. The smell of smoke and petrol, mixed with a hint of burnt chemicals, hung in the air. An oppressive reminder of the heinous murder of their friend. And Felix.
Although the body had not been formally identified, Doc had called both Dickie’s home and mobile phones and left several messages for him. All with no response. The man was an early riser, and there was no way he would ignore Doc’s urgent requests for him to call back as soon as he woke.
Doc had been hoping they were wrong, but they had both been silent for much of the journey, quietly mourning their friend, trying to come to terms with their grief. He plodded after Jack, then followed him into the mobile incident suite parked in the road outside the clinic.
Where Dickie’s Bentley should be.
Doc squeezed into the narrow unit, peering over Jack’s shoulder. They shook hands with one of the four plain-clothes policemen already inside, all seated at work stations, each with a PC screen, two on each side of the trailer. The man Jack spoke to swivelled his chair to face them, and slurped at a paper cup full of Costa coffee. It smelt good to Doc, especially after the acrid stink from outside.
‘It’s not official yet, but we are pretty certain it’s Professor Maddox… I’ve already had a call from the Com
missioner. Maddox was very well connected, went to school with our last Prime Minister, she reckoned, so the pressure’s on for us to wrap this up as rapidly as we can. Any help you can give us, Jack, would be most welcome.’
Doc wondered just how welcome it would be when Soundbite heard that Jack and he had been here this morning, poking around. Especially as Jack had told his boss he didn’t have his warrant card with him when she demanded it last night while suspending him. He was on holiday, he’d said, so claimed he didn’t have it with him. In fact, it had been in Doc’s lounge – he had poked it down the side of the sofa cushion moments before Hammond regained consciousness, and had recovered it last night.
Jack bent forward, eyes on the other detective’s screen as some CCTV footage rolled. Doc stretched his neck to see the images, then one of the other officers pushed past him and let himself out of the cramped unit. With more room, Doc got a better look at the video, and listened as the detective gave them a full briefing on the Met’s activities since the first emergency call from a neighbour, including what had happened during the dawn raid in south Reading.
‘This doesn’t make sense to me.’ Jack squashed a finger on the screen as the detective froze the view of the Volvo’s registration plate, with the man in the parka stepping from the car to the kerb immediately adjacent to where they were right now. Doc agreed with the point he made. ‘Why disguise your face but not bother to nick a car? That parka. It wasn’t exactly brass monkey weather last night, either, was it?’
Freeze the balls off a brass monkey.
No, not that cold, Doc thought.
‘Yeah, well, the bloke wasn’t home when our CT boys knocked on his door this morning. The car is registered to a Mr Smith, can you believe? First name’s John.’
‘Seriously?’ Jack tutted his disbelief. ‘John Smith?’
A name that common, the man might as well have been anonymous, but the other detective added, ‘Middle name’s Roland. He’s got previous.’ He punched at some buttons on his keyboard and the man’s criminal records appeared on screen, with a mugshot at the top of the page.
Doc gasped. The name John Smith had not set any alarm bells ringing in his mind, until the mention of the middle name.
Doc knew a paedophile called Smith, who went by the name Roland, as he preferred it to his formal Christian name of John. They had met two decades before today, although the face on the screen immediately confirmed to Doc it was the same man. As a forensic psychiatrist, he had assessed Smith at a judge’s request when the offender was first incarcerated at a secure psychiatric hospital while awaiting formal sentencing for molesting a young boy – one of his pupils at a very exclusive private school.
And more recently, Dickie had called Doc about the same man, long since released for that first transgression, but in trouble again, this time for storing obscene videos of young boys on his laptop. Dickie had been treating Smith, also at Broadmoor hospital, had emailed Doc the man’s file for his advice, and they had discussed the possibility of repeat offences if he recommended Smith was released.
‘What?’ Jack’s voice penetrated Doc’s mind at the exact same time as the man’s history. ‘A bleedin paedo. With no history of arson? Fire-bombs a London Clinic for no apparent reason? I’m not convinced.’
‘He knew Dickie.’ All four faces turned from the screens, attention on Doc, as he announced his conclusions. ‘Roland Smith was being held at Broadmoor, and Professor Maddox eventually recommended releasing him, but only after he agreed to take an experimental drug. One being tested on paedophiles who have reoffended… A form of chemical castration that dampens their libido. Smothers their criminal sexual desires.’
‘Motive.’ The seated detective nodded to himself, delighted to hear this unexpected news, a welcome piece of the jigsaw puzzle. ‘Well you just saved us some time, Doctor Powers. We’d have found that information eventually, but it’s good to know we’re on the right track with this bastard.’
Jack was shaking his head, his crumpled brow quizzing Doc for more, desperate for this unexpected insight to be wrong. Jack had already made up his mind about the identity of the perpetrator.
‘Possibly…’ Doc was thinking about Billy, too. And the correspondence the boy had probably stolen during their sessions together. ‘Is there any chance you can get the technicians to enhance the facial features from the CCTV video, and then use recognition software to confirm it’s Smith?’
‘Not likely from the local tapes, Doctor. Though we are checking everywhere along the route back to his home, gathering any video available.’
‘You’re checking motorway service stations too? On the M4?’ Jack was animated as he made the suggestion. Keen to be proven right, Doc thought. ‘He had to fill those jerrycans somewhere. We might get a better headshot from one of their security cameras.’
‘We’re already on it, Jack. There’s one other interesting thing, though.’ The detective searched through several video clips on fast forward. All were shot from different angles and locations, none of them directly overlooking the clinic entrance. ‘Unfortunately, the security cameras on the premises were destroyed, so we don’t have a view from within looking out at him. But we do have this.’ He set the film rolling. ‘Look.’
Although the video was grainy, they could see the man pouring something into the jerrycan and then giving it a shake to mix the contents.
‘Some form of chemical accelerant?’ Jack’s voice was sharp. ‘Mixed with the petrol?’
‘That’s what the fire officer reckoned – they haven’t identified it yet, but hopefully they’ll let us know what it is later today.’
Jack explained about Doc’s boat, the potential similarities between the crimes, and then left the detective following up with the Reading fire officers to get more information. He did not mention Billy Leech, much to Doc’s surprise, especially after what they had read last night. Some of Billy’s neat annotations in his copy of The Anarchist Cookbook indicated he had more than a passing knowledge of bomb-making and Molotov cocktails. As they walked back to the car, Doc asked him why.
‘They think they have the right guy, with this Smith pervert. You’ve just confirmed the man’s motive – Dickie turned his balls to jelly. They won’t seriously consider Billy as a suspect–’
‘What about the Molotovs? And the powder? His history of arson, blowing up that car with the Dooley gang?’ It was unlike Jack to hold back from his colleagues like this, though Doc could have mentioned their suspicions just as easily. He wasn’t even sure why he did not.
Jack opened the car door, voice impatient, clearly desperate to get going as he answered. ‘If I did manage to convince them, they would only get in the way of my investigation. If they’re right, and this was done by Smith, then fair enough. If I’m right, and that little turd has been doing more than blowing up nicked cars and burning down school buildings, well, I want to deal with him. Personally.’
‘For Dickie and Felix?’
‘For Sally, mate… Get in. I want to get back and talk to the brat, and his mother.’
‘Speaking of which…’ Doc held up his phone, softly buzzing and vibrating, and held it out for Jack to read the caller ID. ‘Looks like Mrs Leech is also keen to talk to us.’
***
Billy woke with a start, eyes wide. A glance at the bedside clock told him he had slept for less than four hours since his mother had come knocking on his door. A dreamless period of unconsciousness, enough to refresh him for the day ahead.
For a few minutes, he reflected on his achievements, checking the news on his smartphone, luxuriating in the pleasant afterglow of his murderous actions. Powers may not yet have been confirmed dead, but the night’s efforts had yielded an unexpected bonus.
Maddox.
Another crispy critter…
He giggled and reached for his erection, then masturbated furiously until he came, all the while thinking about his victims.
I hope the pair of them suffered.
It
was a shame he had been unable to witness their agony, but so be it. His birthday would put things right, as he would make sure he had a prime spectator’s seat for his grand finale.
He jumped out of bed and went to the bathroom for a shower. On the way, he stopped outside Nana’s door and heard his mother talking to her. She was becoming even more of a pain in the arse than usual, and he wondered what the two of them were yakking about.
Probably me…
With them both unsullied by his usual medication, there was a slim chance that they could upset his plans. Unlikely as it was, the idea set his jaw muscles pulsing.
Inferior beings, the pair of them.
No. They wouldn’t – couldn’t stop him. He was superior in so many ways.
Billy showered in a perfunctory manner, then darted back to his room to put on a tee shirt and jeans. He spent a few minutes sculpting his appearance with a hair dryer and some gel, thought about shaving the stubble on his chin and jaw, but thought he looked more rugged with it, then went to the kitchen in search of sustenance.
His mother was still with Nana, but she had left some pancakes for him, so he smeared Nutella on four of them, piled them high and began stuffing the food in his mouth as he went out to the annex. He choked up a clod of semi-masticated chocolate flavoured dough, and spat it to the grass as he took in the new additions to the building.
What the actual fuck...?
Steel security grills were now affixed to the walls, like prison bars preventing access in or out of the windows. This was not good, but worse was the realisation that the person who had done this – and it certainly wasn’t his mother as she could barely operate a screwdriver without supervision – had been inside the building, and secured the steel frames from within.
The remaining pancakes slid from his fingers and dropped to the floor unnoticed, as he took in the new additions. He screwed up his toes inside his trainers, checked to see if he was dreaming. He was not.
Gaslighting (DP, DIC03) Page 28