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

by Will Patching

  She’ll pay for this…

  Billy peered into his bedside drawer, taking in the extent of his mother’s trespass against him, the assault on his privacy. His dream diary had gone too, not that it would make much sense to anyone else. His fingers scrabbled around the interior, searching for the LSD and Temazepam.

  Gone.

  ‘Argh!’ He rubbed frustrated fingers backwards and forwards through his hair. ‘I needed those today…’

  It would be impossible to sleep, he was so wired this morning. And even if he could manage to doze off, with no LSD, he would have difficulty meeting with his guru in his dreams.

  I’ll fucking kill her.

  The knife was in his hand again, cold steel glinting, tempting him.

  No… Stay calm. Stick to the plan.

  He folded the blade away, then stripped from his cycling clothes, sniffed an armpit, wrinkled his nose in disgust, but did not feel like a shower, so slipped under the covers and rested his head on the pillow, staring at the bare wall where the picture of his uncle should be.

  With gritted teeth, Billy reached out for his smartphone, plugged in his earphones, and went straight to the local news site. There was still no confirmation of the name of his deceased victim from Sunday’s floating bonfire.

  Had he killed Powers? Surely it would have made the news by now if he had – the man was something of a celebrity.

  Billy’s mood soured more, and he felt an almost irresistible urge to hurt someone. Anyone… Instead, he switched to the BBC news site and what he found there sent waves of euphoria washing through him again.

  ***

  Jack spent most of the night drifting in and out of sleep, his mind recycling the events from Sunday afternoon, each time with a different outcome, and each featuring a manic Billy Leech, laughing and pointing at the distressed group in Doc’s garden from his vantage point in the tree opposite. When Jack heard his borrowed phone bleep with the distinctive tone of a national alert, he ignored it.

  Fuck that. I’m suspended.

  The device was an old Nokia 5110 ‘dumb’ phone – a miniature brick. Doc had dug out the antique earlier for Jack to use as a temporary measure until he could find the time to shop for a proper replacement for the one at the bottom of the Thames. It was a solid lump of Bakelite with rubber buttons and a small screen, just about big enough for a message of a few lines of text to show against the yellow background light. It even had a miniature aerial poking out of the top on the right-hand side, as thick and round as a pencil, about the length of the top half of Jack’s thumb.

  Looks more like a walkie talkie than a bleedin phone!

  He’d arranged for all his work, personal calls and messages to be diverted to the Nokia’s SIM card, but instead of answering tonight’s alert, he tried to relax every muscle group in his body, focusing on each in turn, to lure his mind to the peace of deep sleep. By five o’clock, he gave up and decided to get going, to make more inquiries regarding his prime suspect.

  He sat on the edge of the bed wearing shorts and tee shirt, ruffled his hair and yawned, wondering if he could magic up some decent coffee from Doc’s NASA-level espresso machine.

  With his phone in hand he started down the stairs, then stopped midway as he finally read the brief SMS alert from the Metropolitan Police. He jumped down the last few steps, jogged to the giant TV screen in the corner of Doc’s lounge, and jabbed the remote-control buttons until he found a twenty-four-hour news outlet covering the explosions in the centre of London earlier that morning.

  ‘Jesus wept…’

  A female reporter was mouthing into a microphone in front of a burnt out terraced property, and it took Jack several seconds to realise it was a place he was familiar with, a clinic he had visited, the first time on duty, and, subsequently, for several social occasions. He turned up the volume to listen to what the woman had to say:

  …police have confirmed the suspect is still at large but have not yet released full details. However, the man is considered extremely dangerous, and may well be armed.

  She was replaced on screen by a still photo of the perpetrator, standing in the middle of the road holding a flaming bottle in his right hand ready to launch at the building. A parka hood covered his eyes and a scarf was wrapped across his mouth, so even this enhanced close-up CCTV image was not sufficiently detailed to identify him.

  Commissioner Davies has confirmed this was a sophisticated arson attack, and not a terrorist fire-bombing incident as first thought. They consider it was most likely a lone wolf with a grudge against the clinic…

  Jack, dazed by what he was hearing, slumped on to the sofa, interpreting the Commissioner’s words based on the image of the suspect.

  A Caucasian. Therefore, not a jihadi.

  How times change, he thought. In the eighties, the IRA were the terrorists of the day, and Caucasians with an Irish accent were automatically considered suspects the moment a bomb went off.

  Not any more…

  But Jack had already concluded who the Caucasian was, and could feel his rage stirring, the muscles of his neck cramping, his shoulders and back rigid with tension. Then the reporter threw out some more details in perfectly modulated BBC English.

  The badly burnt body of a man was found at the scene, in the residential apartment above the clinic. No further details are available although the police believe they have identified the victim and will release his name after contacting the next of kin…

  Jack put his elbows on his knees, and rested his head in his hands, a surge of acid searing his larynx as he took in this latest piece of news.

  Dickie?

  Professor Maddox sometimes stayed overnight in his luxury apartment above the clinic instead of commuting to his mansion on an exclusive estate near Weybridge in the cocktail belt to the south of London. With his Bentley off the road and his chauffeur on sick leave, Jack just knew the charred body was that of their friend, the kindly, generous soul he and Doc had been drinking with on Saturday night, in this very room.

  I’ll kill the little fucker.

  Jack leapt up, not sure what he was going to do, just knew he had to get moving. He reached the door at the same time as Doc, still in his pyjamas, arrived from the opposite direction.

  ‘What’s going on Jack? I couldn’t sleep, so I was going to make a coffee, then I heard the TV. Are you feeling okay?’

  Jack stood aside, waved Doc into the lounge, and pointed at the screen.

  ‘Bad news, mate. It’s the clinic. Arson attack in the early hours… I think it’s…’

  ‘The Caduceus Clinic?’ Doc had moved to face the TV, close enough to touch it as he read the headlines scrolling across the bottom of the screen. His face paled and his voice faltered as he said, ‘One person dead?’

  ‘Yes, mate. I think it must be Dickie, though they’ve not confirmed it yet.’ Jack did his utmost to keep his voice level, to stop himself letting rip and spewing his temper over his shocked friend. ‘I’ll get on the blower to my mates at the Yard. See what else I can find out. Maybe you should make us both some coffee… I need a smoke too. I’ve got an emergency pack in the car. I’ll be back in a mo.’

  Jack reached the door as Doc replied, his voice razor edged. ‘Another arson attack. On a friend of mine… By someone with a grudge against us both.’

  ‘Yeah. A young man with a fondness for Molotov cocktails and a taste for burning things down. We’ll get him, Doc. I promise you that. If it’s the last thing I do…’

  ***

  Suzie did not think sleep would ever come, lying there half the night, texting her son to come home. Telling him she loved him in some, furious at him in others, alternately wheedling, then demanding his presence to discuss things.

  By one o’clock in the morning, she was about ready to visit Smith’s home, to confront them both, convinced Billy had gone there after their fight in the kitchen that evening. It was only after that idea had first blossomed that she realised she had no clue where the man lived, or
where to find his address. They had his CV somewhere, but Billy had dealt with all the paperwork, she’d happily handed the responsibility to him, and just signed the few documents he’d presented to her to get Smith on board as his tutor.

  God knows where they are.

  The cellar?

  Suzie thought about going down there to search for the papers, but it had been such an unpleasant experience that last time, she opted to remain in bed instead. If her boy stayed out all night, she would call the police in the morning. They must have the dirty old pervert’s address.

  I’ll be calling them anyway. Or that nice Doctor Powers…

  With those thoughts drifting through her mind, she finally nodded off, falling into a dream free sleep before being woken by birdsong from the garden, wafting through an open window shortly after six o’clock. She pulled on some clothes, brushed her hair and went to her son’s room.

  The door was shut, and as she climbed the stairs to it, she remembered Doctor Powers had left it open when he had been leaving, and Nana would not have ventured up there – she had been sparko when Suzie had looked in on her at around midnight.

  He’s home

  She tapped her knuckles on the door and tried the handle.

  Locked.

  ‘Billy! Open this door. I want to talk to you.’

  A muttered groan reached her ears through the wood.

  ‘I said – OPEN THIS DOOR. NOW!’

  ‘Piss off. I’m sleeping.’

  ‘No, you are not!’ She rattled the handle while thumping on the door, frustration screaming from every pore. ‘You’re awake and talking to me. I want to see your face, young man. So, come on out, right this minute.’

  ‘I’m too tired. Go away! We can talk later…’ After a few beats with them both silent, his voice was softer, and she heard a muffled sob, then, ‘You really upset me last night. Just let me rest.’ Another sob. ‘Please, Mum.’

  Suzie hesitated, her anger draining away at his conciliatory tone and clear distress. She could get the key and force herself on him, make him talk, but why the hurry? Better to speak with him when he was ready.

  ‘Alright then. When you get up, I’ll make you some breakfast and we’ll talk then.’

  Just a grunt greeted her compromise.

  Suzie plodded back down the stairs, thinking it was too early to wake her mother, so went to the kitchen and put the kettle on, planning to drink her tea while sitting in the garden in the cool dawn air, but the idea brought something else to mind.

  The annex…

  It had been many months since she had been in there. Probably a year or more. The arrangement was the same as Billy’s bedroom – he had guaranteed to keep it spick and span, and always kept to his bargain, as she had confirmed on the few occasions she’d been compos mentis enough to bother inspecting the place. They did have a row in the very first week of the arrangement after he said he would use some of his allowance to pay a cleaner. Her mother would never allow that, so he had learnt how to clean his living areas – which was no bad thing.

  What secrets do you keep in there, Billy?

  The discoveries she had made thanks to invading his bedroom had left her dazed and confused. She had opted to share just a fraction of her concerns with that friendly psychiatrist, but had not even considered whether there was anything else she might find in Billy’s tuition room or dojo. With Billy sleeping upstairs, now was a good time to have a snoop around the place.

  She took a cup, dropped a teabag into it, sloshed boiling water over it, and thought to herself:

  Right then. Where do we keep the spare key?

  ***

  ‘I’m going into the city, my love. With Jack…’ Judy sat up as Colin placed a cup of coffee by the bed for her, and yawned as he explained. ‘Something terrible has happened at Dickie’s clinic and we’re going to head there now. I’ll call you later.’

  ‘So, they let Jack go? And you need to go into London?’ Colin nodded, unsmiling. In the half-light through their curtains she could see he was in a determined mood. Sombre, and formally dressed in a dark suit. ‘Is he okay? Dickie?’

  ‘We’re not sure… That’s why we want to get there as soon as we can. We’ll beat the worst of rush hour by leaving now.’

  ‘Okay, I’ve got a busy day at work. I’ll see you tonight?’ She took his hand in hers, gave him a pleading look. ‘Don’t overdo it, Colin. Please.’

  ‘I’ll be back in time for dinner – I’m sorry about last night. I’ll tell you all about what I was up to this evening, if you want to hear it.’ Colin bent to her, planted a soft kiss on her lips, then left.

  Judy did not feel much like running this morning, so decided to have a leisurely shower and make herself a proper breakfast, as it was only just six o’clock. She had eaten hardly any dinner last night, sitting alone in the kitchen, worrying about Colin before deciding she was being irrational. Hormonal. Hopefully she could stave off any morning sickness today, if she cooked herself some proper breakfast. Bacon, eggs and toast were foods she actually craved this morning.

  She hopped out of bed, lifted the duvet cover, planning to smooth the sheets and make the bed, but stopped dead.

  Blood?

  Three red-brown stains, half way down the bed, each the size of a two-pound coin. Judy’s stomach cramped in response, as if trying to protect the life in her belly from this unwelcome sight. Having agonised for weeks before deciding she would keep their baby, the prospect of a miscarriage sent her scuttling to the bathroom fearing the worst. She ripped off her silk nightgown and inspected herself, her ears whistling with stress.

  Nothing much…

  A hint of leakage, now dried. Judy stepped into the shower and washed herself, thinking she would call her doctor as soon as the clinic opened at eight.

  Maybe it’s nothing… Just a bit of harmless spotting.

  Judy knew it could happen, but had no personal experience, had not leaked blood while pregnant with Josh. She would have talked it through with Colin but he’d already left. She glanced at her phone on the bedside table, but decided it was best not to call him – he had enough on his mind as it was.

  I’ll call the doctor first, then we’ll see.

  Having reassured herself, she thrust the worries from her mind and got dressed ready for another day at work, this time raising money for the homeless. Unfortunately, her appetite had left her by the time she arrived in the kitchen, and the thought of a greasy fry up almost made her retch. Even a fruit smoothie would be too acidic, so she made herself a fresh coffee, chewed on some dry toast and switched on the TV to watch the news.

  Some grainy footage of a smart London property in flames dominated the screen, and a short clip was on a loop as the presenter spoke over it, driving the name of the clinic into Judy’s skull as she watched, her toast forgotten, her mouth agape. As the loop replayed, she could see the man lobbing flaming bottles at Dickie’s clinic, and the ensuing conflagration, destroying his property.

  Doc’s words from moments earlier came to her: Something terrible has happened…

  Even without any sound from the video recording, the resulting explosions sent her mind reeling back to Sunday and the boat, blazing, her fire extinguishers totally ineffective at dampening the flames.

  Again, her stomach went into spasm, and she doubled over, dropping her toast to the floor. Was it the baby? Judy did not think so…

  It was stress and worry.

  That overwhelming sense of foreboding had returned, and this time she couldn’t shake it off. This was personal. Someone was intent on harming her husband and his friends. Judy could not stop thinking the worst as her instincts told her this would not end well.

  ***

  It took Suzie twenty minutes to find the spare key she thought might open the annex. She slotted it into the mortice lock and was rewarded with the satisfying click as the latch released and allowed her entry into Billy’s private domain. The air smelt of sweat and testosterone, a male scent she automaticall
y associated with her husband, and it made her falter as she stepped across the threshold, her fingers to her cheek in subconscious response.

  Be strong…

  She had to do this, to find out the extent of her son’s secret life, to understand just how warped he had become. There were no pictures of killers, no shrine to his uncle, and she was thankful for that small mercy.

  The study area was unremarkable, being about the size of Nana’s living room, with a sofa, an armchair and a large screen TV. The main difference was the whiteboard fixed to a wall between the windows, the bookcase full of textbooks, and a desk with Billy’s personal computer situated on it.

  Suzie tried to access the computer first, but without the password there was nothing to see right now.

  I’ll make him open it for me and then have a look inside.

  The two-drawer filing cabinet next to the desk was locked, but her boy was not as security conscious as she thought. She found the key in her father’s old pewter beer mug, situated by the computer screen, after tipping out the contents – paper clips, pens, a stapler and a few other items of stationery.

  As she rooted around, Suzie thought how little character the room had – almost sterile in its lack of personality. Devoid of photographs and posters, no handwritten notes like she had seen in his bedroom.

  Business-like.

  What am I doing?

  She began to doubt there was much to find in here, but then crouched down to open the filing cabinet, her knees clicking in protest. The first drawer contained a dozen folders, hanging in a green cardboard concertina, just a she expected. All were meticulously labelled with Billy’s neat handwriting, all in alphabetical order. What she had not expected were the descriptions of the contents:

  Banking T&C

  Banking UK

  Driving Licence

  Journal

  Lakeside

  London Property

  Offshore Portfolio

  Passport & Tickets

  Recipes

  Smith

  Uncle Peter Bio

  XXX

  Several thoughts crossed her mind as she took in the titles of the filing tabs, though it was immediately clear to her that Billy had somehow discovered the full extent and nature of his investments. His bank account in the Turks and Caicos Islands, the London property and the Jersey portfolio were all supposedly confidential, and as the principal trustee, she knew that none of this was supposed to be divulged to him until his coming of age – his eighteenth birthday. It was her stipulation and one her father had reluctantly agreed to.