Gaslighting (DP, DIC03)

by Will Patching

  Be careful, Billy boy…

  His uncle’s voice, both reassuring and cautioning him.

  ‘And the other part?’

  ‘Your mother has told me – us –’

  ‘She’s an alcoholic junkie. You can’t seriously believe a word she says. Here. Look.’ Billy pulled from his pocket the papers he had found in her wardrobe drawer. ‘This letter came in the post this morning, from a clinic she went to yesterday. Had blood tests done.’ He slid the documents across the table. ‘Go on. Read it all. She’s hooked on morphine, drinks herself stupid, and swallows sleeping pills like Smarties. She’s demented. They said she should go into rehab. It’s all there in black and white.’

  Powers glanced at the contents and passed the paper to the copper, his face inscrutable. ‘Your mother told us you’ve been drugging her, Billy.’

  ‘Ha!’ Billy said nothing more. Waited.

  ‘She said you admitted it.’

  ‘I never did. She talks such bullshit.’ He tapped his temple with his index finger, then twirled his wrist in a circular motion. ‘She’s barking mad. She also claims she found a load of stuff in my annex – but I have no clue what she’s yapping on about. She’s off her head most of the time. I’m sick of it.’

  Powers sat back, silently passing the baton to the detective. Billy had heard of the technique – good cop, bad cop. He sniggered.

  These two are just so transparent.

  ‘I saw you.’ The detective placed the letter back on the table as if the content was of no account. It was pure theatre, and Billy’s confidence grew. He could outwit these two fools. Then the detective said, ‘Watching Doctor Powers’ home on Sunday. When his boat went up in flames.’

  That was unexpected.

  There’s no way this pig can be sure it was me.

  Okay, the copper had been in the garden in his ridiculous Hawaiian shirt, looking directly at the lookout post.

  No one has eyes that good.

  ‘I dunno what you’re on about.’

  ‘You killed a red setter, too. Some poor family’s pet, stabbed to death while they were out for a nice Sunday lunchtime walk.’

  ‘Me? I’ve no idea–’

  ‘On your way to meet the taxi. Before coming home to get the bolt-cutters. The ones I found under that tree you were sitting in.’

  Shit!

  Billy did some quick mental gyrations, considering whether to lie or admit to being there at all. On balance, sticking to a partial truth seemed best.

  ‘Yeah, I was in the tree. Watching the firemen. So, what of it? And I didn’t kill a dog.’

  ‘Watching the firemen?’

  ‘Yeah – it was exciting. Nice boat, by the way, Doctor Powers. At least, it was…’ Another snigger.

  ‘But you were there before the explosion, weren’t you, son?’

  More mental calculations, to decide if the detective knew this for a fact, or was bluffing. Again, Billy decided to tell a version of the truth – one that fitted his narrative.

  ‘Yeah. But I didn’t see it. I was there for a bit, then planned to go home, but my bike lock busted. That’s why I came back for the bolt-cutters you found. I want them back, by the way.’

  ‘So, you admit you were there to watch the boat being blown up.’ The detective was getting visibly agitated, and Billy saw the psychiatrist put a calming hand on his knee for just a second.

  This is personal.

  Billy wondered then – who the bloke was who’d died in Powers’ place that day, and what he meant to this angry copper.

  Careful, Billy boy. Killing’s easy… But getting away with it… Well that takes a special sort of skill…

  His uncle again. Whispering inside his head. Guiding him.

  Calming him.

  ‘I admit I was there to see something. Something spectacular.’ Billy let the sly smile slither into place as the detective bristled again. The psychiatrist pushed himself forward, motioning with his hand, gesturing to his colleague to relax. Time to throw the dog a bone. ‘Smiffy actually used that word. Spectacular… Roland Smith. My tutor. He told me to be there at lunchtime. He said there’d be a firework display. One he’d arranged, just for me…’

  ***

  ‘Do you expect us to believe you knew nothing about this spectacular firework display your lover had arranged?’ Jack wanted to throttle the little shit. He was on a very short fuse, and this kid, just sixteen years old, who looked and sounded like he was twenty or so, was confident to the point of cockiness. His sneering grin was another invitation to a bunched fist, just like Hammond, so it was tough to stay calm thinking about how Sally had almost died… And Doc had just excused himself to go and chat with the mother so there was no calming influence to steady him. Jack was on his own with the psycho-brat. ‘You’re saying you had no idea what he was planning for Sunday?’

  ‘Of course not. I would’ve tried to stop him if I had.’

  ‘Yet you didn’t report Smith after the event. Why not?’

  ‘He’s like a father to me.’ He shrugged. ‘And he didn’t actually admit that he did it. If you have proof, why don’t you arrest him?’

  ‘What I do have, is this.’ Jack held up Billy’s copy of The Anarchist Cookbook, flicked it open at a page on turning a fuel tank into a fire-bomb. ‘These days, people get arrested for even thinking about making bombs–’

  ‘It’s for my studies – volatile chemicals. Smiffy encouraged me to read that book to show how common household products and other easily obtained chemicals can be dangerous in the wrong hands. In fact, I made most of those notes in class, with him.’ A sneer. ‘I doubt you study much of anything, do you, Officer? Some of us are academics and aren’t interested in politics and terrorism.’

  ‘If I find out you knew about Smith’s plans in advance, I’ll have you for conspiracy, at the very least…’ Jack changed tack, expecting to wrong foot the lad. ‘Your mother said she found a load of trophies. From the animals you tortured.’

  ‘That’s bizarre… The woman’s clearly certifiable.’ Billy leaned forward, a giggle dribbling from his lips. ‘She read that,’ he tapped his finger on his journal, ‘and obviously created another fantasy based on the fiction I wrote in there. If she found any of these things – other than inside her demented drug-infested cranium – where are they then?’

  Jack wanted to believe the mother, but the lack of evidence – evidence an admitted addict claimed to have found, that had suddenly gone missing – was a major issue. Even the notes in the journal were inconclusive, though Jack flipped it open and said, ‘So this is all fiction, you say?’ He grunted. ‘Funny. It tallies with a lot of what’s been going on around these parts.’

  ‘I heard about some awful things, jotted about them as if my fictional narrator had been doing them. That’s all part of the art of storytelling – taking actual events and fictionalising them. It’s called using your imagination, Detective. You know, like what your lot do when fitting up a suspect.’ Another self-satisfied grin. ‘Anyway, perhaps you should ask the Dooleys and the Richardsons about these incidents. They’re the ones who told me about them.’

  ‘Where were you last night?’

  ‘Here. Sleeping. Why?’

  ‘Take a look at this, Billy.’ Jack picked up Doc’s tablet computer from the cushion beside him and selected the images they had prepared while drinking coffee before heading to the Leech household. ‘Is this you?’

  Billy looked appropriately shaken by the photograph of him on his bike. It was clearly him, pedalling along, wearing his green kit. The image was time stamped and Jack slid his finger under the digits as he asked, ‘Is this you? Today, at dawn. This was taken not far up the road. Looks like you were on your way home.’

  ‘I’m an early riser–’

  ‘How about this one then? Going in the opposite direction. Last night. Shortly before dark.’ The cocksure kid was beginning to melt down. Billy’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he tried to recover, but Jack was relentless, gravel in his voice
. ‘You were out all night, son. Don’t lie to me. Where were you?’

  Billy sat back, massaging his closed eyelids with his knuckles, and Jack wondered what little story he was fabricating now. The boy’s voice had lost its confidence as he asked, ‘Where did you get those pictures from? There are no CCTV cameras around here.’

  ‘Oh, but there are, sunshine. We’ve got lots of snaps of you, coming and going in the early hours. So where were you, last night?’

  ‘I met up with Smiffy… In the woods. We often meet at night. To make love under the stars.’

  A sickly, perverted grin accompanied that. The bastard was obviously on firmer ground, but Jack could not fathom why.

  ‘Made love, you say? Does he rape you?’

  ‘It’s not rape It’s consensual. I’m very mature and advanced for my years, as you can probably tell, you being a detective an’ all.’ He winked, gave Jack a lascivious grin. ‘But yes, we do enjoy oral sex. And anal.’ That smirk again. ‘You should try it sometime.’

  ‘Strange that. He gets an erection, does he?’

  ‘You’re a bit of a perv, Detective. But yes, he does. He has a very big–’

  ‘You’re bullshitting me.’ Jack had him now, and waited a moment, scrutinising the boy’s reaction. ‘Smith has to have regular, court ordered injections, attends a clinic once a month. Part of his release plan. It’s impossible for him to get hard, and his libido’s down in his boots… Tell me the truth, Billy. You aren’t lovers, are you? What’s really been going on between you two?’

  The boy’s eyes narrowed, thinking that through. Surprisingly, his composure was unruffled despite being caught in a lie. Was quiet for a moment. Then he threw Jack a curved ball with his answer.

  ‘Are you really that stupid? Smiffy got a double first at Cambridge. I take it you know what that means?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s a smart fellah. So, what of it?’

  ‘Chemistry and biochemistry. His forte. He created an antidote for the drugs. Injects it the day after his clinic appointments and then he’s good to go.’ A leer. ‘Rock hard every time.’

  Was it true? Jack was not sure, though sensed it was another fabrication. He was having trouble reading Billy’s expression and body language, would have liked Doc’s opinion. Grudgingly, he acknowledged to himself that the boy was good, better than a lot of the scrotes he interviewed.

  ‘Sex. Is that all it is?’

  ‘It’s not just about that. He cares about me. He loves me. Last night, I told him my mum had found out about us, that she’d threatened to call the police. He flew into a rage, said he would have to disappear. Told me he’d let me know when it was safe for me to meet him, and where. She totally fucked up our plans.’

  ‘What time was this? And what did you do when he left you?’

  There was a moment’s pause before Billy answered, his eyes flicking up and to the side, and Jack knew there was yet another lie on its way, even before he heard it.

  ‘We were together until just before dark. I was devastated, so waited, then dozed under the trees after he left. I do that a lot. I hate living here.’ Were those tears in his eyes? The boy glared at Jack. Trying to convince him he was both angry and distressed? ‘It’s torment, having a lunatic for a mother. You can’t imagine how it’s been for me.’

  ‘He left you there. In the woods. While he did what – drive off? In his motor?’

  ‘Yes. His Volvo. He never did come back, so I cycled home when I woke this morning.’

  ‘You know what I think, Billy? I think those are crocodile tears, and you’re full of shit…’ Jack had had enough of this lying tosser, but they had no concrete proof of anything. It was all circumstantial and totally frustrating. He did have another surprise for the boy, though. The enhanced image Charlie had sent him. With a flick of the wrist, he slid the tablet across the table to Billy. ‘This was taken by the Kennet, also this morning. Not long before you were seen coming home on your bike. Take a good look at this one, Billy. It’s important.’

  Billy lifted the tablet and said, relief in his expression, ‘What of it? Who is it?’

  ‘I think it’s you. Wearing a parka, with the hood up, to disguise yourself.’

  ‘You really are desperate, Detective.’ Billy dropped the device on to the table, none too gently. ‘That could be anyone!’

  ‘Maybe… But this person is riding a very distinctive bicycle. Limited edition. I’m sure you recognise it. After all. It is your bike… Isn’t it, Billy?’

  ***

  The instant Billy saw the first picture the detective had shown him, his gullet twisted and somersaulted, his whole plan now in jeopardy thanks to his carelessness. He had scouted the area around his home, scouring the streets for signs of CCTV cameras, and had made a note of all the locations he should avoid. Yet here he was, on a crystal-clear image taken just up the road – where there was no sign of a camera.

  Covert surveillance.

  He recognised the location from the background, and knew then he was in trouble. The royal in-laws must have hidden cameras all around their place.

  Bollocks.

  Billy was good at making shit up, but this had thrown him. How many more images did they have of him? And over what timescale?

  Then the bastard detective had grinned at him as he unveiled that last picture. Billy had missed that camera too, though it was a long way off, going by the grainy photograph. He had tried to dismiss it as irrelevant, but the copper had a very valid point. He would have to bluff his way out of it.

  ‘That’s not my bike. Mine was with me. All night.’

  ‘You know how many of these ten grand bikes were sold in the UK in the last twelve months, since this particular model was launched, Billy? Not many…’

  ‘So?’ Billy pointed at the tablet. ‘This person must have bought one, too.’

  ‘Yeah. We thought of that. That’s why we’re contacting all the owners, to check with them whether they were riding along the Kennet this morning. Most of ’em live in the south – after all, this bike costs a fortune, and that’s where the money is. Won’t take us long to narrow it down.’

  Billy shrugged it off. Even if they did conclude it was definitely his bike, he would claim it must have been stolen and returned while he slept… Better to say no more about it right now. It was time to divert the copper’s attention.

  ‘I have no idea who that is, or why you’re asking me about him, but I do want to talk about Smiffy. I think he did something terrible last night.’

  ‘Really? What did he do?’

  ‘He was angry when he left me. He said there were people he wanted to hurt. I assumed he meant Doctor Powers. That he must’ve known he missed him when he blew up that boat.’ Sceptical eyes interrogated him, but the detective sat completely still, so Billy dropped his own little bombshell. ‘But last night, he told me he was going to destroy a property in London…’

  That got a reaction.

  ‘He told you that? And again, you didn’t think to inform the police?’

  ‘What was there to tell? He could’ve been bullshitting. And he didn’t say which property – it could’ve been a building he owned himself, for all I knew. Anyway, by the time I heard the news about the Maddox place, well, Smiffy was already named as the main suspect.’

  ‘You expect me to believe all this? Billy Liar… That’s what your mum called you. I think she’s right, too. Admit it. You and Smith were in on all this together.’

  Billy sighed, as if no one in the world had a high enough IQ to properly understand him. ‘Let me show you something, Detective.’ He pulled out his throwaway phone, punched in the password, then, as if unwilling to do so, handed it over. ‘Messages. He’s been texting me. You can read exactly what he had to say, and my replies. I’ve done nothing wrong. I have nothing to hide. And unless you have something else, something to arrest me for, I’d like to go back to bed. I’ve had a crappy day, and the man I love is on the run.’

  The detective was suitably put out, fra
ntically flicking through dozens of texts Billy had been sending himself from Smiffy’s phone, and the responses he had carefully crafted. He wanted to laugh at the idiot copper, but he kept his face sombre as he stood, ready to leave.

  ‘How do I know this is really his phone number?’ Carver peered up from the device and then punched the call button and held the phone to his ear. ‘If it really is his, and he replies, you just tell him to give himself up.’

  ‘Okay, glad to be of help… I had no idea he was capable of killing. Then again, I suppose we all are, Detective.’

  ‘Unobtainable.’ The copper, frustrated, went back to looking at the texts. ‘Must be turned off.’ Then he glanced up at Billy with suspicion. ‘Why no texts from before yesterday lunch time?’

  ‘I delete them every day or two in case my drunken mother pokes her nose where it’s not wanted. Now, can I have that back?’

  A calculating look, then feigned reluctance as Carver handed it over. ‘Yeah, alright then, kid.’

  Billy could read his thoughts and would whip the battery out as soon as he got to his room.

  ‘Good luck, Detective. And goodnight.’

  Billy managed to get out of the door before cracking a brilliant smile as he reflected on his animal cunning.

  Uncle Peter would be proud of him.

  ***

  Doc left Jack with Billy and went in search of Mrs Leech – he had heard her weeping after he’d led her from the room – and was still trying to fathom the boy, especially the nonchalance he displayed as he answered all their questions. Doc was certain he was weaving a pattern of deceit, and had heard enough by the time Billy mentioned the spectacular fireworks his ‘lover’ had supposedly arranged for him.

  Like a swimmer, coming up for air, he was glad to be out of the room. He climbed the stairs, ears alert for the sounds of crying, and homed in on a tearful Mrs Leech in the attic. Billy’s room was a mess, and Doc guessed she had been frantically searching for the bag of evidence she had claimed to have found in his annex. Unsuccessfully, going by the racking sobs escaping through her fingers while she sat on her son’s bed, head in hands.