No close relatives or family friends had come forward to support him and he had been languishing as his case was passed from one government agency to another. The wheels of justice had ended in him being incarcerated with prisoners whose crimes ranged from drug-dealing to aggravated assaults, murder and rape, while he awaited sentencing.
Isla had speed read the police report on Harley. He had pleaded guilty straight away. On the night of October 31 last year, a neighboring family out trick or treating had come upon the open door at the Carrolls. Assuming it was an invitation, they had stepped inside only to be greeted by a macabre scene they initially thought was staged. When they realized Andrea and Keith Carroll were actually dead, they had called the police.
On arrival, the police found Harley Carroll sitting on the floor next to his mother, holding his mother’s boning knife and his father’s penis.
When questioned about what had happened, Harley admitted to murdering his father, but claimed he could not remember killing his mother.
Tapping one manicured fingernail impatiently on the table, Isla addressed Harley with brisk efficiency. She intended to get this case sorted quickly so she could give Ryan a run for his money with their Hong Kong client.
“I’m Isla Standing, your new barrister.”
Confusion covered his face. “Where’s Grace?”
“Grace went into labor this morning. I believe she gave birth to a baby girl in the early hours, which now makes me your lawyer. First off, is there anything you’d like to add to your testimony or anything you’d like to tell me before we go to court for sentencing next Friday?”
While Isla waited for his response, she fiddled with her legal pad and tried not to let her exasperation show. After a couple of minutes’ silence, she spoke again.
“Alright, Harley, why don’t you tell me what you remember happened the night your parents died.”
The fingers of his right hand picked at the thumbnail on his left hand. He sighed wearily, the sigh of someone who had been over his story a hundred times before, and she was pretty sure that he had.
“Sometimes the details are blurry,” he said. His voice was more cultured than Isla had expected. Harley Carroll was no gutter rat. “I mainly remember the police arresting me. I was sitting on the floor in the hallway, near the front door. My mother’s kitchen knife was in one hand and my father’s knob was in the other.” To demonstrate he lifted first one hand and then the other as far as he could with his hands chained to the table. “It was Monday night. Mum was at her pub quiz. She goes every Monday. Never fails. Nothing can keep her away from it. So I knew dad and I had the whole evening to ourselves.”
“Right. You were alone in the house with your dad. What happened next?”
“He called me to his office. Like he did every Monday night. I knew this Monday was going to be different. This Monday, I picked mum’s boning knife from the block. Mum always said it was the sharpest knife in the kitchen. Dad was calling my name. He kept repeating it over and over, waiting for me.” Harley’s eyes were riveted to his hands where he continued to worry his thumbnail. Isla noticed two drops of blood on his skin.
“Go on, Harley.”
“I crept along the hallway, slowly. I kept the knife hidden by my side. I didn’t want him to see it and know what was coming.”
“And your father was in his office?”
“He was lying on the chaise. Waiting. Waiting, always waiting for me like a spider with a fly.” He fell silent again.
Harley’s analogy struck Isla as odd. It made Harley sound like a victim rather than the offender.
“Then what happened?”
“Then I stabbed him. And stabbed him. And stabbed him. And cut off his knob.”
The police report stated that twenty-three stab wounds had been administered to Keith Carroll’s upper torso. One slash was noted across his forehead, his penis had been severed in a clean incision, while the wound that had actually caused him to bleed to death was a gash across his upper right thigh severing the femoral artery.
“I cut off his knob while he was still alive,” Harley repeated. His head fell into his hands and the rest of his words were muffled. “I don’t remember much else until the police arrived.”
“What about your mother, Harley?” Isla prompted.
The police report confirmed that Andrea Carroll was killed with the same knife in a single stab wound to the back. The thin blade had slid between the rib bones, puncturing her left kidney and slicing through a renal vein. The weapon had been removed and she had bled to death very quickly.
Harley’s brow furrowed as though he dredged the words from his memory. “I guess I left Dad in the office, walked into the hallway and killed my mum. End of story.”
Isla consulted her notes. Andrea Carroll had returned home unexpectedly early on Monday night from the local pub. The Glengarry Arms had experienced a power outage that caused its ventilation system to crash and forced the pub to expel its clientele. She had caught a ride home with her friend, Linda Bramston, who dropped her at the front door around 7:40 p.m.
“Can you try a little harder, Harley? You remember killing your father clearly, what do you remember about killing your mother?”
His hands clenched. “She shouldn’t have died! She shouldn’t have come home early! She wasn’t meant to be there! I had it all planned. I knew exactly what I was going to do.”
“But you confessed to killing both your parents.”
“Well, if I killed my dad I must have killed my mum too.”
“It says in the report that you offered no reason for the killing and no reason for cutting off your father’s penis. Is there anything you want to explain?”
“There are no excuses, are there, for killing people?”
It wasn’t the response she was expecting. Most killers, most criminals, had plenty of excuses or reasons for what they did. The reasons might not always make sense to other people, but usually there was some motive involved.
“So, you genuinely regret that you killed them?” Regret was good, she could stand up in court and play that card for all it was worth to get him a lesser sentence. “You’re telling me you wish you hadn’t killed them?
Harley’s eyes scrunched close. She watched his chest rise and fall in jerky motions. Gradually his breath deepened, but his eyes remained closed. Isla’s patience ran out.
She reached out and tapped the back of his hand with a finger. “Are you asleep, Harley? I asked you if you wished you hadn’t killed your parents.”
Harley’s head lolled onto his shoulders. He still sat upright but he definitely looked like he was napping.
“I wanted to kill him. I’d wanted it for a long time. It was the only way to stop him.” The voice issuing from Harley’s mouth sounded distant and robotic.
“Are you talking about your father?”
“Yes.”
The monosyllabic word dropped like a stone in a well. It was eerie and made Isla’s flesh goosebump.
“What do you mean ‘it was the only way to stop him’?”
“It was the only way to stop him touching us, the other kids and me. It hurts and I don’t like it. They don’t like it either. But he won’t stop when I ask him.” His voice sounded younger, softer, almost as though he had regressed in age.
A sour feeling uncoiled in the pit of Isla’s stomach.
“Harley, do you mean your father touched you inappropriately?”
A sob shook the bony shoulders, a trembling so intense that it frightened her. She worried that he was having a seizure.
“Harley, it’s alright.” She reached a hand towards him but the trembling only intensified and he shrank back into the chair as far as his chained wrists would allow. He didn’t respond to her words.
“Harley, you’re okay. It’s just a memory. Keith Carroll’s dead and can’t hurt you now. Snap out of it, it’s just a memory.” She clicked her fingers to emphasize her words.
Abruptly the shivering ceased and he rai
sed his head, blinking in the harsh overhead light as though he’d woken from a deep sleep.
“Harley, why didn’t you tell the police your father molested you and that’s the reason you killed him?”
Harley’s shocked eyes latched onto her. “You can’t say things like that about my dad!”
“But, Harley, you just told me that he used to touch you–”
“No, that’s a lie and you’re a bloody liar!” Harley shook his head so vehemently his entire body shivered. “Go away! I’m not talking to you any more.” He banged his fists on the metal table, stamped his feet and used his knees to thump underneath the tabletop.
Before Isla could react the steel door behind her was thrust open and a prison guard barreled through.
“Oy, that’s enough now!” The guard looked old enough to be Harley’s grandfather, with graying temples and thick-rimmed glasses. He clamped a gnarled hand on Harley’s shoulder. “What’s going on here?” His voice was crusty with authority.
“Take me back. I’ve got nothing more to say.”
The guard nodded at Isla. “Once they get upset, there’s no point persevering. Best give it up for the day. I’ll take him back to his cell.”
Uneasiness sat on top of the sour feeling in Isla’s stomach as another guard hustled her out of the interview room. She could kiss goodbye any hope of rejoining the Hong Kong deal if she pursued what Harley had told her. Her open-and-shut-over-in-a-week case had grown into a moral dilemma.
Chapter 4
December 1 Friday
Two girls and three youths were huddled on the floor, their wrists bound with speedcuffs. The girls’ legs were hunched to their chests so they could rest their chins on their knees.
One girl’s heavy-soled boots poked from under a long black dress that made her look like a Victorian-era mourner. The other girl’s laddered red fishnet stockings disappeared into tiny denim shorts. Detective Chief Inspector Bex Wynter could see her goose bumps through the netting, a result of the snow-chilled wind whistling through the cracked window-panes and ill-fitting door of the rundown semi-detached house the Youth Crimes Team had just raided.
Sprawling beside them, the boys, looking no more than seventeen, wore the same uniform of baggy track bottoms, heavy hoodies and cocky attitudes. One wore two thick gold chains dangling down his chest. All of them had enough piercings studded along earlobes, lips and noses to send a metal detector into a frenzy, Bex thought, as she attempted to interpret the gang’s thick accents. After four months’ working in the boroughs she was able to make sense of most of their words.
“If you hand over the name of your dealer, things will go better for you,” she repeated the words like a mantra, not really expecting a response.
Their morning’s activity was counted as a successful drug bust, resulting in the team rounding up another outlier youth gang being used to distribute a variety of illegal substances. Her team members Eli, Reuben and Idris, were occupied sorting out ziplock bags of synthetic cannabis and cocaine on a rickety tabletop just beyond her sight. Detective Chief Superintendent Sophie Dresden would be pleased with the addition to their statistics, Bex knew.
Yet, looking at the peeling paint on the walls, the rotting floorboards under foot and the rising damp everywhere in this two-up, two-down dwelling, Bex was overcome by the futility of their work. The desolation of these kids’ lives meant the lure of the drug dealers was overwhelming.
For the past few months the Youth Crime Team had been on a rinse and repeat cycle: bust a gang, charge the kids, get them sentenced, all the while knowing they would be released back into the streets to join worse gangs. The whole process left her frustrated and disillusioned.
“It’s your ass on the line, so …”
“In lingo that you can understand, mate, give up the name of your dealer or you’ll be dog meat once you get in the nick.”
Bex tensed as the clipped, staccato voice of her second-in-command, Quinn Standing, overrode her words with a dig at her American accent. She felt, rather than saw, him saunter through the dilapidated doorway, his unexpected presence overwhelming her with a desire to cuff him soundly around the ears. Quinn was the reason she was out on this drug raid rather than paper shuffling back at the office. He had been missing when the team headed out earlier, so she had joined the others to make up the numbers.
She resisted the urge to shoot him a sarcastic rejoinder, settling instead for her dirtiest look in his direction. She noted the half-inch stubble that made it look like he’d just stumbled out of bed. Under his heavy black pea coat, he wore faded jeans and scuffed leather Chelsea boots, further cementing the image that he’d rolled out of the house in a hurry.
“I’ll handle this, DI Standing,” she said stiffly. “Why don’t you do a thorough search of the kitchen.”
Quinn gave a careless shrug. “I’ll check the outhouse at the back first. The lav’s always a sure bet for stashing illegal substances,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets and moving past the central stairway to the back door at the end of the kitchen.
She heard Reuben snicker. “Jammy bastard looks like he just fell out of a warm bed and a hot woman,” he mumbled to Idris and Eli. Reuben breathed steaming air over his fingertips. The wind chill factor inside the squalid digs wasn’t much less than outside.
“Well, as the only happily married officer on the team, don’t begrudge Quinn that advantage,” Eli said. “It’s one of the few pleasures of being a married man after all.”
“And watch your mouth, Reuben. You’re jumping to conclusions about why Quinn’s rocked up late. He could’ve been stuck in a traffic jam.” Idris’ voice was sharp enough to draw Bex’s attention away from the moody youth with his ratty, tangled dreadlocks.
The youth spat in her direction. “Ain’t got no dealer. Never seen that shit on the table before.” He nodded at the others huddled around. “Ain’t that so?”
There was a murmur of concurrence and Bex sighed. Denying the evidence before their eyes and refusing to name the dealer were stock responses. It would have been nice to be surprised with an honest confession for a change.
“So, you’ve never seen these bags before? You’ve never laid a finger on these bags?”
“That’s right. We just squatting here. Must’ve belonged to the people here before us.”
“You’ve convinced me. I’m so convinced I’ll run a DNA check on the baggies to prove your innocence. I’m sure that test won’t reveal a fingerprint–”
“Check this out!” Quinn’s voice cut through her words. Standing in the opening of what passed for a living room, he held out a handgun, a sawn-off shotgun and two boxes of ammunition in his gloved hands. “These were stashed in the backyard lav. These blokes are either running an armory or they’re planning something more hardcore than a drug deal.”
“Shit, be careful! Those are loaded,” Idris said as Quinn dumped the weapons on the table beside the pile of drugs. “We’d better call for back up if there are arms on the premises,”
“Do that, Idris,” Bex said. “There may be armed gang members that we haven’t rounded up.”
The teens handcuffed inside had been unarmed, but that didn’t mean other gang members weren’t loitering on the outside. Without the regulation Glock she was used to carrying as a New York detective, Bex felt vulnerable. The training she had undertaken with the other detectives recruited from various other countries to the London Met had emphasized the power of verbal interaction over armed confrontation to de-escalate dangerous situations. She wasn’t sure she was totally convinced. Besides, old habits died hard.
“I’ll scout around the bedrooms upstairs in case there’s anything more,” Quinn said, taking the stairs two at a time.
“We’ve already checked upstairs, you berk!” Idris called out, but he spoke to Quinn’s disappearing back.
A door slammed. Bex exchanged a concerned look with Idris. Had that sound come from upstairs? The door between the living room and stairs was ajar and
the only other door on the ground floor was the backdoor accessed via the kitchen beyond the stairs.
“Call for back up now,” Bex hissed.
Through the open doorway a shadow wavered across the wall opposite the central stairs separating the living room from the kitchen, the figure remaining out of sight. Bex reacted instinctively, snatching the handgun from the table.
“Stop! Police! Put your hands where I can see them!” she yelled.
Footsteps sounded from the top of the stairs. If Quinn came down those stairs he would come face to face with a potentially armed gang member.
Bex sprang forward, shoving herself against the wall. Over her heartbeat she heard the soft thud of Quinn’s footfalls. Holding the gun steady with her other palm, she lunged away from the wall, pushing the door fully open to catch sight of a hooded figure lurking by the opening to the kitchen. Much less than twenty feet away.
“Put your weapon down! Hands where I can see them!”
Quinn’s leather boots hove into view, followed by his denim-clad legs. Bex’s finger caressed the trigger as the unknown figure slowly lifted his arms. She strained to see if he held a weapon. Abruptly Quinn’s foot lashed out through the stair balustrade, striking her wrist and splintering the wood. The handgun flew upwards as the assailant jolted forward, making a dash for the front door.
Reuben leapt up to tackle him, knocking against the table and scattering drug bags in his wake. Idris joined him. Using his bulk, he brought his elbow slamming into the youth’s back to send him sprawling facedown. Reuben yanked his arms back and snapped on speed cuffs.
Quinn bent to pick the pistol from the floor.
“Reuben, put this back with the evidence. Check and see if the offender is carrying a weapon.”
He handed the gun to Reuben as Idris hauled the handcuffed youth to his feet, ignoring the string of angry curses being hurled at him. The offender’s nose was bleeding where his face had smashed into the wooden floor.
Bex Wynter Box Set Page 33
