Gaslighting (DP, DIC03)

by Will Patching

  Doc sat beside her, put an arm around her shoulders and spoke as gently as he could.

  ‘I believe you, Mrs Leech.’

  She leaned against him, her tearful face turning to look at his, to assess his honesty. Her sobs subsided. ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes. I think Billy has some serious problems, but I’m also worried about you.’

  ‘I’ll be alright. You’ll find Smith, though, won’t you? After what he’s done to my boy.’

  ‘I’m sure the police will catch him soon enough. There’s a countrywide alert out for him – he can’t stay hidden forever.’ Doc had an inkling that all was not as it seemed between the paedophile and the lad, but that was something to discuss with Jack later. His current concerns really were for this broken woman. ‘Yesterday, when I asked if Billy had ever threatened you, you fobbed me off. I need to hear the whole truth.’ She stiffened and pulled away from him, her body language confirming his suspicion. ‘Please talk to me.’

  She did. Describing in horrendous detail, not just last night’s attack on her in the kitchen, but all her suspicions about her boy, describing his hateful behaviour, his lies and insults. Everything flooded out of her, along with more tears, before she ended her brief rant with the words, ‘But he has an excuse for everything. Every time I tackle him on something, he has such a reasonable defence. And I’ve been remiss too – using alcohol and so on, just to cope… I’m so sorry, Doctor Powers.’ She snuffled, and wiped her eyes with her sleeve.

  Her tale of woe wrenched at Doc’s sympathies, especially as he too had suffered depression, and had flirted with alcoholism in a vain attempt to cope. To discover that the woman’s own son, a budding psychopath, had been tormenting her daily like this, was beyond imagining.

  Yet there was little they could do to help her. Not without some concrete evidence of actual criminal wrongdoing on his part. There was one thing that could allow them to arrest him today, though for a relatively minor offence, and only then if she pressed charges against her own son. He thought it unlikely, but would offer her the option.

  ‘On Saturday night, after Billy attacked the chauffeur, did you give him permission to take your car, and drive it to the river?’

  ‘What? Of course not.’ She sniffed, dragged the damp sleeve across her upper lip to dry her nose. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘We have CCTV footage of Billy driving your car in the early hours of Sunday morning. With the canoe on the roof. He arrived back here a couple of hours later.’

  ‘No! Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. If you don’t feel safe, with Billy in your house, we could arrange for him to be arrested for forging your signature on legal documents. Or stealing your car. I gather he’s done it before, so a custodial term in a young offenders’ establishment–’

  ‘Prison? You want me to send him to prison?’

  ‘Well, it might be good for him.’ Doc was not a big fan of incarcerating young criminals, but in Billy’s case, it seemed the ideal place for him. ‘A short, sharp shock, as they say.’

  ‘No. He’s been so badly abused, Doctor… I can’t.’

  It was the response he’d expected. He just hoped Jack had uncovered something substantive while challenging the boy over the images Terry and Charlie had provided.

  ‘Come on, Mrs Leech. Let’s go and make some more tea. We’ll leave you in peace after that.’ Peace. Not the best choice of word. ‘But you do need to lock your bedroom door when you go to bed. And please call me any time, day or night, if you feel threatened or have concerns you need to share. Okay?’

  She nodded, trying not to look miserable, but failing, and followed him down the stairs. At the top of the final flight, Doc could see the door to the lounge as it opened. Billy appeared in the hallway. His face gloating. Victorious.

  Billy glanced up on hearing Doc’s footsteps, and his expression switched to furtive, then neutral.

  A consummate actor.

  A mendacious manipulator.

  And after listening to Mrs Leech, Doc couldn’t help but think her son might already be a proficient killer, too.

  ***

  Judy heard the phone vibrating on her bedside table and read the message Doc had just sent her. He and Jack were heading to Thatcham to meet a policewoman there, and planned to have a few beers too, but he would come home immediately if she was still not feeling well.

  Judy replied to say he should try and relax over a pint or two, and that she was fine, even though she was not. Her brain was woolly, and she was still tired despite dozing for hours. She stood to use the bathroom, but immediately noticed there were more red-brown stains on the sheet.

  A whole lot more…

  Oh no, please. Not the baby.

  After a quick trip to the loo to confirm the bleeding had stopped, she pulled on her clothes and debated what to do. She could call Colin, but he was miles away, and it would be quicker to jump in a cab and head to the hospital by herself. Their local taxi firm answered her phone call immediately, and said a car would be with her in five minutes.

  Perfect.

  Judy headed to the stairs, wondering what to say in a text to Colin. She was a little worried, but at least the blood wasn’t bright red, though there was plenty of it.

  Better safe than sorry.

  She started down the stairs, phone in her hand, tapping out a message to let Colin know she was going for a check-up.

  That was a mistake.

  Her coordination was not all it should be, and she twisted a foot under her ankle. She yelped as she pitched forward, head first down the remaining dozen stairs. The carpet cushioned her fall as she hit the lower steps, side on, having swivelled in mid-air, hands on her belly to protect her baby.

  Her phone went flying too, and bounced off the wall in a shower of pieces. Judy cursed her stupidity a fraction of a second before her head also slammed into the exposed brickwork, knocking her cold.

  With a deep gash on her forehead, she rolled off the last step and came to rest at the foot of the stairs in a bloody, crumpled heap.

  ***

  Billy saw the knowing look Powers gave him, but he pushed past the man and his mother without a word, and bounded up the stairs, silent as a cat. When he reached his bedroom, he let his anger scream out of him.

  ‘KEEP OUT OF MY FUCKING ROOM!’ He slammed the door, then thought better of it, pulled it open and yelled down the stairs again, for everyone’s benefit. ‘I’m going to bed. And I’m locking my door. Don’t disturb me until breakfast is ready – I’m exhausted.’

  His bloody mother.

  Obviously, she’d been searching his room, had left it in a right state. She had even pulled out all his DVDs, but hadn’t found his hidey-hole. Given that copper’s suspicions and the look Powers had given him, it might be best to conceal the bag somewhere else.

  Billy recovered it, then opened the Velux window, eased the bag through, and let it slide to the gutter before releasing the handle. With his usual feline grace, he followed, careful not to dislodge the concrete tiles as he shuffled down the roof on his backside. With his feet on the cast iron gutter, he tossed the bag to the garden below, then leapt into the tree outside his bedroom window.

  He caught a flimsy upper branch with both hands, and heard an ominous crack as it bent under the strain, but he swung his lower body towards the trunk, and landed with his feet on a sturdy parallel branch below. Without pausing, he hauled himself to the lowest branches, dropped to the ground and recovered his bag. He heard Powers’ voice from the front garden and then an engine start. Headlights swept across the side wall before the car purred away.

  Billy jogged to the cellar entrance, let himself in and changed into his tutor’s clothes. Smiffy was groaning, but Billy had nothing for him. No water. No food. Just more misery.

  Tough. He deserves to suffer.

  But what should he do with the bag?

  He’d outgrown the trophies – he’d killed two people this week already. His mother had found the flight
tickets a little earlier than planned, but that was no problem. The other papers were largely duplicates from the lawyers, and he had his passport. Why bother keeping anything else? He would destroy it all, tonight.

  The bag of ANFO contained far more than he needed for his upcoming sixteenth birthday celebration, so he scooped about ten kilos into the gym bag, dumping the mixture on top of the trophies and papers, and then re-zipped it. With the holdall in one hand and the parka under his other arm, he ran up the steps, locked the door and headed across the common towards Pangbourne.

  Billy set a good pace, trotting through the woods, using the light of the moon to guide him. Thanks to that detective, he now knew there were cameras along his road, and would not be caught out again. It took him twenty minutes to reach the picturesque village of Stanford Dingley, and he knew exactly what he would find here. Some scruffy farm buildings had been converted into workshops and his grandfather’s car – an ancient MG – had been serviced by one of the local engineers who specialised in looking after older vehicles. When Gramps had become too sick to maintain the classic car himself, he had come here instead, bringing Billy with him on several occasions.

  Hence, Billy knew the security was lax. Gramps sometimes left the vehicle the night before it was due for attention, with the key ‘hidden’ beneath the wheel arch, placed on top of the front nearside tyre. There were three cars outside the workshop, either awaiting attention or their satisfied owners, and Billy chuckled to himself as he pulled on his latex gloves then felt for the key for the vehicle he selected – a battered petrol-driven Land Rover. It was ideal – it even had a large jerrycan strapped to the rear, one not dissimilar to the two he had used in Harley Street, and a rap with his knuckles confirmed it was full.

  With the parka hood up, covering his face, he motored from the village to Powers’ home, cutting through back routes, and bumping along tracks and common land to avoid any cameras.

  The house was mostly in darkness with just the hall and landing lights blazing when he arrived. Even so, he parked a few car lengths further up the road, in front of their neighbour’s home – one surrounded by leylandii, an impenetrable hedge twice as high as Billy was tall. The plants were an effective barrier to nosey passers-by, but would also prevent the neighbour from noticing the Land Rover waiting in the dark right outside his property should he be awake.

  The road was on a slight gradient, with Powers’ home positioned on a bend. The plot sloped down to the river with the drive forming a tarmac semi-circle extending across the entire frontage of the house. Tonight, there were only two cars parked there – a Peugeot and a Mini Cooper situated near the front porch.

  A few mental calculations set the adrenalin pumping through Billy’s veins, his body tingling in anticipation of what he was about to do.

  Still wearing Smiffy’s parka, he placed the gym bag in the passenger footwell, then hopped out. It was dangerous, but Billy was a player – and had to be certain his bomb would explode – so he splashed most of the jerrycan contents over the rear seats. The smell of the fuel gave him an instant erection.

  With no time for masturbation, Billy merely stripped off the parka, and tipped the remaining petrol on to it, making sure just the arms and the hood were sufficiently saturated before twisting the entire garment into a length of fuse. With the tailgate open, he fed a third of his fire-starter inside the vehicle, then gently closed the door, leaving the rest dangling on to the road.

  As an experienced vehicle arsonist, he was pretty sure it would do the job, having used a similar technique on many occasions. Tonight, he just needed to be certain there was enough of a gap for the flames to breach the tailgate – but not too soon. Having inspected the rusty metal and the ancient rubber seal, he was prepared to risk it.

  The road was deserted and poorly lit, so Billy took his time, quietly humming to himself as he set about creating his improvised explosive device. The idea had occurred to him after Powers had unexpectedly pitched up at his house.

  A dead man walking.

  Although Billy could not be sure Powers was home, it was almost midnight, so he assumed the old bastard would be snoring in his bed by now.

  Just one last thing to do before he illuminated the night sky with the beautiful colours of combustion – every arsonist’s favourite.

  Billy tugged Smiffy’s phone from his pocket, placed it on the bonnet, and fitted the battery. He pondered what to say while doing the same with his own mobile – the one he had shown the idiot detective a couple of hours earlier – and sent a few brief messages from each before dismantling them both.

  Laughter erupted from his lips as he contemplated his stunning genius, then he hushed himself and looked around to check he was still alone. With his lighter in hand, he released the parking brake and turned the steering wheel to line the vehicle up with his target’s driveway, then leaned his shoulder against the front pillar to set the bomb in motion.

  The Land Rover was heavy, and moved at a slow walking pace on the shallow gradient. Billy strolled beside it, making minor adjustments of the steering wheel through the driver’s door window. The stench of petrol fumes wafting out merely increased his excitement, despite stinging the tears to his eyes.

  After a dozen paces he stopped walking and flicked the lighter into life as the vehicle rolled away. Thankfully, this most dangerous of moments had passed without blowing him directly to hell, so he touched the flame to the end of the trailing parka, saw it blossom with eager tongues of fire, then started back-pedalling away, his eyes riveted on his handiwork.

  The car continued rolling towards Powers’ front door, propelled by gravity and malice, with the flaming parka being dragged along the road behind it. The front wheel hit a stone, sending the car on a new trajectory, giving Billy a heart-stopping moment, but the Land Rover continued rolling towards the front door until it thumped a glancing blow against the front wing of the Mini.

  Bugger it!

  The impact set off the smaller car’s alarm. Billy knew the honking and flashing would bring the occupants out of their home, and the improvised fuse could burn for many more seconds before the vehicle exploded, giving them time to douse the flames. His erection died and shrivelled as the sound assaulted his ears, worrying him that his plan had failed.

  Desperate now, he waited a moment longer to at least confirm the Land Rover kept moving. It did, at an agonising crawl, but he was relieved to see it crunch into the wall underneath the front room window with flames now licking at the tailgate.

  Come on! Explode, you bastard!

  It did not.

  This was a severe disappointment – he wanted to watch the fireworks just as his sixteenth birthday ticked into existence. He may have been a ‘player’, but Billy was also a survivor. He turned away and jogged along the road for fifty paces, then on to the public footpath adjacent to a neighbour’s home, disappearing into the night as the percussive whump and roar of multiple explosions energised the air around him.

  ***

  ‘Like all good coppers, I’m never really off-duty, but I’d love to join you for a beer.’ Charlie’s laugh, amplified by the car’s speakers, put a huge grin on Jack’s face as he drove Doc to the pub in Thatcham. ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes or so. Mine’s a pint of Stella, in case you’ve forgotten.’

  Jack didn’t have a chance to reply – she had hung up already. He and Doc had just left the Leech home and the first thing he did was call Charlie with Smith’s phone number, to see if they could trace it. She was at home, having finished her shift hours before, but she was his unofficial liaison now, ever since Soundbite had suspended him.

  The boy’s mother had agreed that they could put a trace on his phone too – the one he had been using to contact Smith for their illegal assignations. Both mobile devices were on pay as you go contracts, and were used purely for the two ‘lovers’ to communicate, though most of the messages on Billy’s phone had been deleted. There was still enough on it to confirm his story – lovey-dove
y texts from the paedophile that had turned Jack’s stomach.

  ‘You tried Smith’s number from Billy’s phone?’ Doc squinted at him from the passenger seat, tired eyes avoiding the glare from oncoming headlights. ‘That was a bit risky, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Maybe. It was unobtainable, so Smith must’ve taken the battery out. Smart fellah. Most people think turning off a mobile phone drops it off the radar, but we can still track ’em. As soon as he gets on the blower again, we’ll have him.’

  ‘If he’s on long enough.’

  ‘Yeah, but with the fuss over Dickie’s death, they’ll probably get GCHQ on it.’ Jack had little time for spooks, but sometimes the UK’s premier spy agency had its uses. ‘They’ll pick up his location in seconds and get it to our boys immediately. So, what did Mrs Leech have to say?’

  Jack listened without interrupting as Doc verbally sketched out the misdeeds Billy’s mother had accused him of. As a homicide detective, he had experience of many seriously nasty teens, some already murderers and rapists before reaching the age of consent, so was not totally surprised to hear Doc say, ‘And I believe every word of it. He’s probably been up to far more than she knows about. It’s such a shame she didn’t have that evidence she’d found in his annex.’

  ‘Yup. We wouldn’t need her go ahead to arrest him, then. It wouldn’t take much to tie the dates of the animal attacks together with sightings of him on the road from Terry’s surveillance cameras. Still only circumstantial without the trophies, though.’

  ‘Mmm.’ An unusually non-committal comment from Doc.

  Jack spotted the pub Charlie had suggested, so pulled into the car park and killed the engine and lights. Neither man was in a hurry to go inside, and they sat in the gloom in thoughtful silence for a minute or so before Jack spoke again.

  ‘I still don’t understand why she won’t press charges against him… After nicking her car. Knocking her to the ground. Threatening her with a knife. Drugging her drink. That little scrote’s a proper bloody nightmare, mate.’