Gaslighting: A British Crime Thriller (Doc Powers & D.I. Carver Investigate Book 3)

by Will Patching

  ‘Listen to me, sonny boy. I will… But not before you’ve told me everything you know about young Billy. And I really haven’t got all day. You see, I’m a homicide detective. Now, in case you inbred illiterates don’t know, that means I’m investigating a suspicious death.’ Jack picked a piece of bacon off the plate with his fingers, sniffed it, turned up his nose and replaced it, then stirred the baked beans with a finger before using Dooley’s napkin to wipe his hands. ‘I’m not interested in your petty theft, your dog-fighting, joy-riding, vandalism or anything else.’ He slid the plate back in front of Dooley who, with eyes wide, looked at both the food and the detective with disgust. ‘Apparently, you do speak to the police, Dezzy. My colleague, a female sergeant from Thatcham nick, tells me you think Billy Leech is a nutter. Your words. Why did you say that?’

  ‘You can buy me another bleedin breakfast. I ain’t eating that.’ Dooley tried to sound menacing, puffing out his chest and thrusting his head at Jack. ‘And I don’t know no Billy Leech.’

  Jack pulled out his phone and waggled it at Dooley. ‘One call on this, and you’ll both be escorted to Thatcham and detained by my colleagues there at my pleasure. I hope you and Tweedledum here don’t have much planned for today. Or tomorrow. So, talk to me. Billy’s no pal of yours, is he?’

  Doc knew it was a bluff, but it sounded genuine enough, and clearly had the desired effect on the lad.

  ‘We hardly know the cunt.’ Dooley spread his hands wide, palms upwards as he lifted his shoulders. ‘He’s mental. Has he killed someone? I wouldn’t be surprised. He latched on to us, but we told him to fuck off.’

  ‘Why? What did he do?’

  ‘You’ll leave us be, if I tell ya?’ Dooley did a drum roll on the table top with his fingers as he offered to do a deal. ‘Off the record, right? And you’ll buy me another breakfast?’

  Jack pulled a ten pound note from his wallet, and placed it beside his phone. ‘Good decision, Dezzy. So, what makes you say he’s a nutter?’

  Dooley propped his elbows on the table and used a finger to trace the line of his scar. ‘This.’

  Doc, having been silent throughout, couldn’t help himself from probing, disbelief in his voice. ‘He did that to you? Did he attack you with a knife?’

  Dooley looked Doc up and down, then addressed Jack, obviously having decided who was the one with authority here. ‘He didn’t cut me deliberately. Wouldn’t dare, the little shit.’ More bravado. Doc thought Dooley’s tone said otherwise, as did the sly look on his mate’s face as he continued eating his plate of food in silence. ‘It was an accident.’

  ‘What sort of accident?’

  ‘Well, it was an explosion, really.’ Dooley’s finger stroked his wound again. ‘A car’s windscreen blew out and some flying glass almost blinded me.’

  ‘A stolen car?’

  ‘Might’ve been. I can’t remember.’ He crossed his arms and rested them on his ample belly. ‘I think we must’ve found it… Car’s nuffin to do with me, anyway.’

  ‘I don’t care who stole it. Why did it blow up?’

  ‘Maybe someone wanted to destroy the thing, stop you pigs finding any evidence of who’d nicked it.’ He gave his mate a roguish grin, deluding himself he was full of artifice and cunning. ‘Billy had been on about some special powder that would ’bliterate the thing. That’s what he said. Didn’t tell us he’d chucked a load of it in the fuel tank though.’

  ‘And when you guys lit it, it blew up instead of burning.’

  ‘I didn’t say we lit it.’

  ‘But the car blew up unexpectedly, and almost cut your head off.’ With an exasperated tone, Jack fiddled with the ten-pound note, and waggled it at Dooley. ‘Correct?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it. Motors normally burn a bit before the tank catches, so some people stuff a petrol soaked rag in the filler pipe to help it along. Even then, only a few go off like they do in the movies… Allegedly.’ He sniggered, nudged his buddy who had almost finished gobbling down his food. ‘Not that we’re experts or nuffin, are we, Ritchie?’

  Jack tapped the table top, impatient with Dooley’s evasion. ‘I’m not that interested in what you and your bored mates get up to, Dezzy. Who lit it? You?’

  ‘Billy lobbed a molly at it–’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A Molotov. Petrol in a bottle with a rag to light it. He’d put a load of his magic powder in that too. Didn’t warn us the bloody thing would go off like a grenade lobbed into a load of dynamite. Told the little bastard I’d fucking kill him if I saw him again. Ain’t seen him since.’

  Ritchie’s eyebrows lifted on hearing that, but Doc was sure Dooley hadn’t noticed his mute subordinate’s non-verbal comment. He was too busy trying to impress everyone with his rapier wit.

  ‘So, Billy’s the one who turned you into Scarface… When was this?’

  ‘Last year.’ Another nudge and wink at his partner in crime as he chanted, ‘Remember, remember… The fifth of November…’

  ‘Bonfire Night. Let me guess. The burnt-out car’s long gone.’

  ‘Yeah. It was on the Kennet towpath – no idea how it got there. Honest, Guv.’ A giggle and elbow dig in his mate’s rib. ‘The police put an Abandoned Vehicle sticker on it, then a few weeks later took it away and scrapped it.’

  ‘Anything else? About Billy.’

  ‘Ain’t that enough?’

  ‘What about that rabbit, Dezzy?’ The skinny lad, having finished his breakfast, decided to join the conversation. Doc mentally tagged him as Richard ‘Ritchie’ Richardson, described by the sergeant as the lieutenant in their feeble gang.

  ‘Ritchie’s right, Detective. It was weird. I ain’t ever seen a bloke catch a wild rabbit with his bare hands before. That Billy, he’s quick as a snake. Must be all that kung fu shit he does. Saw a flash of grey fur bobbing in the long grass, flew at it, rolled on the ground and stood up with it in his hand, holding the thing by its ears. Like a fuckin magician. Never seen nuffin like it.’

  Doc closed his eyes, could see and feel a rabbit in his own hand, dangling, squealing with panic, trying to get away. Excitement swelled inside his chest, an overwhelming sense of having the power over life and death. Then he shook himself, disgusted at what he knew had come next. Part of his subconscious was thrilled by the creature’s pain, while his conscious ‘civilized’ mind was appalled. He didn’t need Dooley to tell him what happened, but Jack was probing for more.

  ‘And what did he do with it?’

  ‘He took out his knife and skinned it.’

  ‘What? To eat it?’

  ‘No. I knew he was a wrong ’un, but what he did to that rabbit was pure evil. The thing was wriggling, making an ’orrible noise. I ain’t squeamish, but that turned my stomach. I told him to stop but he wouldn’t. Said he was enjoying himself. Tortured it to death, he did. I ain’t been able to eat rabbit since. That was right before he blew that car to kingdom come.’

  Jack had heard enough, was already up, his phone to his ear as he turned to go back inside. Doc could see the anger on his face, his determination to nail Billy sparking in his eyes as he glanced at Doc, his head shaking in disbelief, but Doc had questions of his own for Dooley and his sidekick.

  ‘The powder. Where did Billy get it?’

  Dooley stood, Jack’s money in his hand, clearly ready to order a fresh plate of food. The muscles of his neck and shoulders twitched in a vague shrug, one that said he couldn’t care less. He followed Jack and forced Doc to step aside, pushing past while grunting, ‘I have no fuckin clue.’

  Ritchie Richardson apparently did. As his leader disappeared inside, he semi-whispered to Doc. ‘He made it. Or said he did. Just like that batch of ice he sold Dezzy. Bullshit, I reckon.’

  ‘Ice?’ Methamphetamine. ‘Crystal meth?’

  ‘Yeah. Reckons he’s a regular Walter White. You know. From the telly. The prat!’

  Doc caught the reference to the Breaking Bad character – a fictional schoolteacher who cooked the ill
icit drug to pay off his medical bills for cancer treatment. Supplying ice to Dezzy explained how Billy had been able to get in with the gang of much older lads, if only for a few months. But was he really able to cook the chemicals himself? And where would he do it, given the poisonous gases and risk of massive explosions during manufacture? Like Ritchie, Doc was sceptical, but parked the thought.

  ‘Dangerous stuff. I’m not surprised you didn’t believe him.’ Doc sat in Jack’s seat, joining Richardson, who was rolling a cigarette between bony fingers, ratty eyes everywhere but on Doc. ‘So why didn’t your mate Dezzy punish Billy for doing that to his face? Or did he?’

  Ritchie belched and Doc thought that might be the only answer he would get. Perhaps he had misjudged Dooley’s reluctant number two, but then Richardson said, ‘Better out than in. And Dezzy won’t admit it, but he’s scared of Billy-the-kid.’

  ‘Scared of him? He’s just fifteen and Dezzy’s a big fellah with a gang of mates. Why do you say that?’

  ‘After the explosion, Billy was leaping about the place, like a lunatic. The nutter was so focused on the burning wreck he hadn’t seen Dezzy go down, but the rest of us had. The twins went for him.’

  ‘The twins?’

  ‘Dezzy’s younger bruvvers. We hang out together, his family and mine. Known each other since our dads did time together.’

  That figured. Petty criminals, no doubt, breeding more petty criminals. It was the way of the world, a cycle Doc knew was difficult to break.

  ‘These twins punished Billy? For Dezzy?’

  ‘Nah!’ Ritchie flicked his lighter several times, his other hand cupped around his skinny roll-up, showering sparks without a flame. He gave the thing a vigorous shake and kept Doc waiting while he went through the motions again, this time with success. He sucked in a lungful of smoke and blew it at Doc, eyes narrowed again. ‘They’re both big lads too, and Tommy grabbed Billy from behind in a bear hug, while Jimmy went to punch the mad bastard’s face. Oh, fuck it!’ The glowing red tip of his roll up dropped onto the table top, so he went through his lighting routine again.

  Doc took the time to visualise the scenario, and wondered how Billy had escaped, though was sure it involved extreme violence. He could imagine how the lad felt to be held like that, and threatened with a blow from another assailant. Not fearful, but experiencing much the same thrill as he had when he caught the rabbit.

  ‘Billy hurt them too, didn’t he?’

  Richardson dipped his head, finally made eye contact as he replied. ‘All three Dooleys ended up in hospital that day. The twins had several broken ribs, a broken arm and a dislocated knee between the two of ’em. I ain’t ever seen that Billy do his kung fu shit before, but he was like one of those MMA fighters – fuckin crazy too.’

  ‘MMA? Mixed Martial Arts?’ That received a nod from Ritchie whose eyes had shifted again. ‘You and your brothers did nothing to help them?’

  ‘Not on your life, pal.’ Beady eyes squinted at Doc through another puff of smoke, then Ritchie paused as he pinched a few stray strands of tobacco from the tip of his tongue, deposited there by the soggy end of his DIY cigarette. ‘Billy just stood there, waiting for us to have a go. I told him to fuck off, but he wanted to watch the fire burn, so stood there staring at it for a few minutes, ignoring the Dooleys moaning and groaning on the ground nearby. A couple of us went to help the poor bastards, but he just glared at us, so we backed off. Once the flames had died down a bit, he threatened all of us just before he left. Me, my three brothers and the Dooleys.’

  ‘Threatened you with what?’

  ‘He said it real quiet, like. Not aggressive. Menacing…’ Doc noticed the remnants of the cigarette quivering in Ritchie’s fingers as he paused, thinking back to that day. ‘Said to keep well out of his way if we saw him again… Told us he would kill the next one of us to a lay a finger on him.’

  ‘And you believed him?’

  ‘Too bleedin right, I did. I’d heard about his old man and uncle. Both of ’em murderers. Even topped members of their own family, they did… Billy reckoned they’d told him killing was in his genes too, and he was looking forward to his coming of age. Asked if any of us wanted to volunteer to be his first. None of us said nuffin. He just laughed like a lunatic then jogged off. We’ve seen him around a few times since, but steer well clear. We’re no angels, but he weren’t kidding about his family… The Leeches. They’re all fucking mental, mate.’

  ‘One last thing, Ritchie. The flames from that explosion. Anything odd about them?’

  ‘Funny you should mention that. I thought that car went up like a truckload of giant fireworks, but my brother reckoned there was dead people’s spirits trapped inside, released by the flames. Looked real ghostly… Burning with a weird green glow.’

  ‘Doc!’ Jack poked his head round the pub’s rear door. ‘We’ve got to go. Charlie reckons they’ve found something.’

  ***

  While Smith drove, Billy checked his iPhone for the umpteenth time today. There had been no mention of the exploding boat on the national news last night or this morning, so he had been monitoring the Reading Chronicle website, but had been disappointed to read nothing there either.

  Someone must have been on the boat when it went up, triggering the device with the ignition key. But if that person had died, why was there no mention of it anywhere? Surely such a violent death was plenty newsworthy enough.

  Billy expected to see the incident described as an accident too, though knew the fire service would investigate and almost certainly find the cause of the explosion.

  Another problem for Smiffy…

  ‘What are you giggling about?’ Smith glanced down but Billy angled the screen away from him as he scrolled through the local news site. ‘You’re a weird one, lad.’

  ‘That’s a bit rich, coming from a fucking paedo.’

  Billy was still furious at being threatened again, and let the anger bristle in his tone, but then he was almost overcome with joy as he spotted a headline about yesterday’s event:

  One dead in Pangbourne boat blast.

  I’ve done it! I’ve killed Powers!

  His first victim.

  Smith was muttering something in reply, but Billy couldn’t hear him. Another voice, his guru, was praising him for his achievement.

  Well done, Billy boy. I knew you could do it!

  But as he read the article, slivers of doubt became gaping holes in his conviction that Powers had died. There was no one named in the article, although there was a hint that it wasn’t the old bastard himself who Billy had turned into a crispy critter. The journalist described the deceased as a ‘young man’.

  Bollocks!

  Maybe it was an error, but Billy thought back to yesterday, to who else had been around at Powers’ home at lunch time. Some bloke had been in his study, messing with his computer… He was much younger than Powers. His guru’s voice murmured in his head:

  Don’t you disappoint me, Billy… You need to make sure he’s dead, my son.

  There was no longer any joy to be had, no gloating to be done. The warm glow from his uncle’s adulation had lasted just seconds. He had to stop himself from grinding his teeth, the pressure of his clamped jaws surely enough to crack the enamel. Murderous rage pumped through Billy’s heart as Smith parked on Nana’s driveway. At least he wouldn’t have to deal with his mother right now – there was no sign of her car.

  Billy jumped out, and shoved his key into the front door lock, looking back at Smiffy as he went inside. ‘You should take the car round the side, and we’ll put the bag in the cellar. The door’s open. It’s that side.’ He pointed. ‘I’ll get the photos for you.’ He slammed the door, cutting off Smith’s reply.

  ‘Well you could’ve told me before I parked and–’

  Moaning old git.

  Billy had been too preoccupied to bother making life easy for Smiffy. In his haste, he also failed to spot the scrap of paper and the card on the hall floor. He bounced up the stair
s to his room, unlocked the bedside drawer and took the items he needed. By the time he reached the cellar door, Smith had parked alongside and had the boot open, ready for them to heave the sack of ANFO down the stone steps.

  ‘Before we do that, how about writing that note to my mum?’ Billy waved a brown envelope at Smith. ‘And you can have these too.’

  Smith followed him to the kitchen, snatched the package from Billy’s fingers and took out the contents. ‘Okay. Are they all here?’ Smith inspected them, replaced them in the envelope, folded and pocketed it. ‘And how do I know you don’t have copies?’

  ‘Why would I bother? They’re no use to me now, are they?’ Billy tried to look honest as he spoke, despite what was in his mind. ‘If you talk to the police about all that other stuff, like you said earlier, I’m screwed too.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Smiffy so obviously wanted to be convinced, but also had a suspicious mind. ‘You double cross me, and I swear–’

  ‘No more threats. Just write the note. There’s a pad and pen by the fridge. Keep it short and sweet. I have to go away. I’m sorry. That’ll do it’

  ‘Okay. You can explain it to her. Tell her what you like.’ It took Smith seconds to scribble the lines. Billy took the note, hustled him outside to grab the bag and help him down the steps with it. Not that he needed help. He could have handled the sack of damp chemicals by himself, but it would make things much easier with Smiffy in the cellar.

  ‘Aaargh!’ On the bottom step, Billy yelped with pain and let go of his corner of the bag. ‘My back. Oh, bloody hell, I pulled a muscle during karate training and it’s just ripped again.’ Smiffy peered up at him in the poor light, and Billy made a show of clutching the offending body part, grimacing with pain. ‘Ow, that really hurt. Can you just put the sack in that corner by the shelves?’

  ‘Yeah, then I’m out of here, kid.’

  Smith turned away, dragging the bag the few paces to the corner, unhurried.

  Billy moved fast.

  The small bottle in his pocket – the one that had been in his bedside drawer until a few minutes before – contained a homemade concoction. A mixture created using bleach and alcohol, a recipe he had learnt during another chemistry experiment he and his tutor had worked on many months before. Time to test it, ready for the big day. As he poured half the contents onto a cotton face flannel, also taken from his bedroom, he held his breath to avoid inhaling any of the chloroform.