***
Peter Leech was waiting for Judy inside a room like a goldfish bowl. She had expected to be interviewing him in an office environment, maybe even the Governor’s office. Certainly not in this glasshouse, with its three transparent walls, a table plus two seats and not much else. It did give her the chance to observe the prisoner as she was escorted to the door by a surly female warder – a six foot lump of a woman, maybe twenty stone, reeking of cigarettes.
In fact the whole place stank. Judy’s nose had started twitching the moment she entered, wondering if stale male sweat was solely responsible. She doubted it – the stench was far worse than just body odour. More like raw sewage was leaking somewhere, tainting numerous unwashed bodies.
Okay, she wondered, what’s this Leech like? As she approached he was sitting motionless at the table bolted centrally in the room. A steel slab, with two metal chairs, also bolted in place, facing each other. Hard chairs, one of which held a hard body.
Leech’s blonde hair was tied in a pony tail, possibly to disguise the thinning on his crown. Judy’s feet stalled as the head swivelled, the neck of an ox rippling beneath. Green eyes bored into hers.
In that instant, irrationally, she wanted to flee. A mad moment of panic, the primeval reaction of prey to a predator. She pushed herself forward and tried to smile through the glass, her eyes dropping from contact with his, checking out his body, the muscles stretching his lightweight cotton tee shirt, his exposed forearms huge and powerful. The effect was intimidating and Judy sensed danger, felt it exude from the man, a disturbing aura charging the air around him.
His eyes were burning her, devouring her. She trembled and tried to recover her composure. Relax. She counselled herself inside her head. Focus. He is not going to hurt you.
The warder was speaking as Judy entered, repeating the rules, but she did not hear. She was thinking of Doc. And realised his warning had been well founded. She had never in her life met a man like this. And how the hell was she supposed to be impartial? She shivered as she stepped into the room. The warder remained outside, closing the door, leaving Judy alone with a killer.
He held his hand out to her. A smile that did not quite reach his eyes flickered into place. She could not help but compare Leech with Doc Powers in that moment, how his smile had also seemed stilted, never reflected in his eyes. The emerald chips now inspecting her were different though. They were hard. She decided Leech did not miss much.
She took his outstretched hand, expecting a bone-crushing grip. Instead he surprised her, gently shaking hands, pitching his voice low as he said, ‘You must be Ms Finch. I would stand but I have been told to remain seated. Thank you for coming to see me.’
Judy was immediately disarmed, the tension rolling off her shoulders, her neck relaxing. She had not realised how up-tight she was until he had spoken. She breathed a sigh of relief. Her imagination had been running riot – after all she had never been inside a prison before. It was, well, she supposed, daunting. The walls, the bars, the razor wire, and heavy steel doors everywhere, clanking shut with a finality that seemed to deny the existence of a world outside. The real world, she reminded herself.
She fondled her prison issued wrist-band – her ticket out of here to a place where you didn’t need to be watched through armoured glass while you did your job.
She glanced up and noticed Leech’s eyes were fixed on her fingers, watching her fiddling with her pass to freedom. She picked up her attaché case, refusing to be unsettled any further, took out her miniature recorder and pad in as businesslike fashion as she could muster. She concentrated on his nose, avoiding those feral eyes, yet knew she was giving him the impression she was looking directly into them. A little deception to help her get back in control. And a relief from that intense stare.
‘You don’t mind if I record our conversation do you?’ She fumbled with the machine as she set it down between them.
Get a grip woman.
Leech yawned, stretching his arms, flexing his biceps. They were huge.
Show off! she thought as she forced her attention back to his nose.
‘No problem. I understand you’re here to help me. Is that right?’ The empty flickering smile was back.
‘In a way, yes. I’m tasked with preparing a report based on our interview today. This is your opportunity to put your case to an impartial party.’
He laughed. A stabbing, guttural rasp, devoid of humour.
‘Yeah. Right! And who do you work for Ms Finch?’
‘I work for the Parole Board. But,’ she added hastily as the laughing increased in pitch, ‘I want to record your views regarding your incarceration, how it has affected you and what you feel about the victims, as well as anything else you feel should be considered by the Parole Board.’ She cocked an eyebrow at him, more comfortable now she was in work mode. ‘You will be able to see the report and make amendments before it is submitted to the panel. This is the extent of my involvement in your case.’
‘Sounds good, but you’ve presumably read all the reports and records about me. You’ve already made up your mind.’ He craned forward, his chunky forearms pushing across the table at her, hands clasped. He reminded her of a preying mantis. Only bigger. Much bigger.
‘Not true Mr Leech – ’
‘Call me Peter, please... Judy.’
The familiarity ruffled her and she wondered how he knew her first name. ‘It’s Ms Finch, Peter.’ She tried to assert control, her voice stern now. ‘I have read the bare minimum, an outline of the crime and sentence, a record of the various institutions you’ve attended and what courses you’ve undertaken. That’s all. It’s up to you to fill me in on the rest.’ She dipped her head and picked up her pen, poised to write, her eyes questioning.
He shoved himself back in his chair, folded his arms, the tee shirt protesting, seams threatening to rip at the shoulders.
‘Yeah. But you think I’m guilty don’t you?’
‘It doesn’t matter what I think – ’
‘It does to me.’ He turned away, looking through the glass at the warders strolling freely outside. He spoke in a hushed voice, still turned from her. ‘You feel it don’t you? Prison? You know...’ He jerked his head back to face her, pinning her eyes with his. ‘The hopelessness. Oppressiveness. I saw it when you came in. You can’t wait to get out of this place. You’ve been in here five minutes. Now try to imagine how I feel after eighteen years.’
Judy tried to shift her gaze from his, to find the bridge of his nose, but she could not. He’s mesmerising! Anger, bottled but palpable, coursed through him and she felt it.
‘I was just eighteen when I was first thrown in a cage. You have no idea, do you?’ He squinted at her, put his hand to his mouth, spat something into his palm as she watched, horror building inside her.
Her imagination leapt out the starting gate, ready for full flight. What is that? A hidden blade? Alarmed, she almost stood, her legs tensing as she tried to push the chair back, but it was bolted to the floor.
And then he bared his teeth at her. Or what was left of them. His tongue, ugly wet and purple-pink, flicked at her through the gap where his top teeth should have been. He opened his hand, and showed her the denture, then lisped at her, ‘A gift from my brother. He knocked my teeth out just after he killed my parents. And thisss?’ He nodded at the pink and white plastic trophy. ‘Fitted months after I was convicted. Stupidly I chose not to have my teeth fixed before the trial. Refused treatment in the misguided belief the jury would realise I was the victim, and understand what sort of madman my brother was.’
Judy watched the agitation growing in him, the cords of muscle twitching under the material of his shirt, a tic beating at his right eye. Then his shoulders slumped and rounded, as if fearful of something, maybe a memory that made him flinch.
‘And the worst thing, Ms Finch, started when I arrived at Belmarsh. The place for high risk inmates – I found myself in great demand.’ The purple underside of his tongue snaked
out of the gap in his teeth, wiggling suggestively. ‘You see, the other lifers, the murderers and rapists, took this,’ he opened his mouth wide again and the hideous tongue worked itself slowly in and out, ‘as a sign.’
Judy was struggling to understand, though her feeling of horror was intensifying. Her stomach flipped as she blurted, ‘A sign of what?’
‘Oh Ms Finch.’ He popped the denture back in his mouth, slurping it into place. ‘For fellatio of course. I was face-raped... And buggered stupid. Fresh young meat you see.’ He glared at her as she felt the hot red blotches dapple her cheeks, surging embarrassment searing her ego – roasting her for her naivety as much as for the hideous vision he conjured up.
Judy realised her hand was covering her mouth as she muttered, ‘Good God!’
‘I was just a kid. An innocent kid.’ His voice rose and spat the words at her, harsh, defying her to deny him. He leaned back again, puffed out his massive chest, held his arms wide, biceps bulging, palms open. ‘I didn’t look anything like this then ma’am. What you see is a product of my time here. I was a harmless, feeble teenage druggie. A school kid for fuck’s sake!’ His head snaked forward, his jaw thrust at her. ‘And guess what? I tried to escape – ’
‘Escape?’ That was not in the file.
‘Oh not physically. No, I used heroin to find oblivion.’ He gazed up at the ceiling, as if talking to God, his voice hoarse. ‘I was sick of swallowing sperm and my anus was ruptured.’ He riveted his eyes back on hers as he added, ‘And remember, many of these animals don’t wash.’
He was studying her now, and she could not bring herself to speak. He watched her for a minute or so, then sank back, his expression contrite, voice low, an almost whisper. ‘I didn’t mean to shock you Ms Finch. It’s just I don’t get to talk to proper people that much.’ He seemed relaxed again as he gave her a feeble smile.
Judy’s hand was still covering her mouth. She became conscious of it again, snapped it away. She’d dealt with rape victims and knew the pain, the embarrassment, the guilt and psychological damage it caused. But even the worst of them had not suffered like this. Month after month of brutally enforced oral and anal sex. She could barely imagine the effect on a young man. His words echoed in her head, just an innocent kid.
Finally she found her voice. ‘I’m so sorry Peter. I didn’t know such things happened in our prisons.’ She was floundering, the words inadequate, dying on her lips.
He seemed to change then, a switch flipped in his mind, his point made, subject dismissed, voice flat again. ‘Yeah, well. That’s how it is inside. The system brutalises the cons and the guards. But not me. I came through okay. Volunteered for re-hab six months into my sentence. Got cleaned up. Got fit. Kept my nose clean, you know? I’m a survivor. And I’m better than any of them in here, including the bastard screws.’
She did not like that, hearing him brag, as if the sensitive, damaged man of a moment before had left the room. Then she wondered, perhaps it was just a defence mechanism. His strategy for coping. God only knows, he must need one.
She had to take a break, to get away from this man to recover her composure. She said, ‘Do you think I can get us some coffee in here?’
‘Yeah. Flip a finger at the fat bitch outside. She’ll open up and bring some.’ The soft tone had gone, replaced by ice as he stared at the guard through the glass wall.
Judy was shocked by the callousness in his voice. She motioned to the guard and the door swung open. It was only then that Judy noticed there was no handle on the inside. She really had been trapped in here with this man.
She lifted her case, popped her pad and recorder inside. Her brain struggled to make sense of things. She stood, feeling relief now, looking down on him. He panicked then, finally giving her the sense of being in control.
‘You aren’t leaving already are you? We’ve only just started.’ It sounded to Judy like a pouting teenager was speaking from inside this big man’s body.
Maybe he had never really grown up, she thought. ‘It’s okay Peter. I just need to freshen up.’ She forced a smile.
He grinned back at her, reclining as best he could on the unyielding chair, clasping his hands behind his head, legs wide, his crotch pointing at her.
‘You take your time darlin. I’m not going anywhere.’ He dropped his gaze to her breasts, and leered.
She barely stopped herself from sprinting from the room.
***
Shaun Leech stared at the panorama before him, the stunning view of the Thames with Tower Bridge dominating the windows of his office. The bridge was opening, a high-masted yacht waiting, causing chaos as the heavy Friday afternoon traffic clogged local roads.
Shaun, normally enamoured of the view, and always fascinated when the bridge opened, had his eyes focussed on nothing. His head was full of dark thoughts. His mind so consumed that he did not hear the knock on his door, or his secretary asking if he would take a call.
‘Sorry Shaun. I know you said no interruptions but it’s Walter Topkin calling from the States.’ She repeated it louder this time, and edged into the room.
Shaun realised then that she was there and snapped at her, head swivelling to spit out the words before returning to the view. ‘Not now Trish. Get out!’
The door clicked closed as his secretary retreated, but she had ruptured his reverie. He thought about Trish, probably wondering what was eating her boss this evening. Topkin was by far his biggest client, and as such, effectively funded their prestigious office by the river.
Too bad, he thought, as he picked up the letter that had spoilt his day.
He sagged into his executive chair, the smell of leather pleasant in his nostrils, unnoticed as he re-read the words he had long dreaded –
NOTICE OF PAROLE BOARD HEARING: PETER LEECH
Scheduled for less than two weeks time, and as Victim, capital vee, he was invited to make a ‘Victim Statement’ regarding the bastard’s potential release.
He twitched a cynical smile to himself as he thought about that. What about mum and dad? They were victims but they won’t be making a statement, will they?
What a fucking nightmare.
He let his head fall to his hands, tried to decide what to do.
Surely ‘life’ should mean ‘life’. Yet his miserable shit of a brother, the spoilt little brat – literally spoilt – was up for parole after being convicted of butchering their parents.
Unbelievable.
The anger frothed up in him and he decided he had to do something. He grabbed the phone and punched in the number on the letterhead, stabbing the buttons so hard the machine skidded across the desk. He was a strong man, kept himself fit and active, reckoned he was sleek and trim for his thirty-nine years.
His eyes scanned the letter, found the name at the bottom: The Right Honourable Mr Justice Potter, Chairman of the Parole Board. It took a few minutes, but he waited, drumming his fingers as he fumed at the injustice of it all. The very same judge that had convicted his brother was now considering him for parole! It made no sense.
‘Good afternoon Mr Leech. How can I help you?’ The Judge’s measured tones, rich and reassuring, did nothing to defuse the fury overwhelming Shaun.
He blurted out, ‘I can’t believe you, of all people, can allow this! My brother,’ the words strangled in his throat by anger, ‘is an evil monster. He hacked my parents to death, tried to destroy my life, and now you want to release him? It’s madness.’ Shaun’s voice escalated. He expected Trish could hear him, but he didn’t care. ‘The Americans have the right idea – they’d have stuck a needle in him years ago!’
The soothing voice caressed his ear. ‘I know how you feel Mr Leech but – ’
‘You have not the slightest clue how I feel... Victim Statement! What a bloody farce. You take no notice of the victims. You and the rest of the bleeding heart liberal mob just pretend to rehabilitate criminals, then let them loose on society as soon as possible. What bullshit. You don’t care what Joe public thi
nks! As if my brother will ever be normal. He’s a menace.’ His voice petered out, his fury subsiding as the diatribe released some of the pressure within.
‘I really don’t think this is helpful. Perhaps we should talk when you’ve calmed down...’
‘Look. I didn’t mean to swear. Forgive me your Honour.’ Is that how I should address him? Shaun thought. Calmer now, forcing himself under control, a well practised manoeuvre. ‘I will send a statement to the Parole Board, but I need to understand why he’s even being considered for release.’ Shaun’s free hand was clenching and unclenching, his subconscious miming the movements his conscious self would like to perform on his brother’s throat. ‘He still claims he’s innocent! He still maintains it was me, despite being found guilty and being banged up for eighteen years.’ He paused, struggling to understand. ‘I thought parole was only ever considered once a convict admitted his guilt and showed remorse... Please tell me he’ll automatically be refused.’ The anger spiralled up in him again. This just couldn’t be right.
‘I’m afraid that’s something of a myth, Mr Leech.’ The Judge was formal, respectful, but firm. ‘All convicted persons, regardless of their denial of guilt, are eligible for parole. In fact, it is illegal for the Parole Board to discriminate against those who maintain their innocence. Last year, roughly one in three successful parolees was a denier.’
‘A denier? Is that what you call him? And he can be let out?’ This was terrible news. ‘But Judge you labelled him a monster. He’s never shown any remorse. Surely that makes him totally ineligible for release. Ever!’ Shaun was sure he’d read somewhere that an expression of remorse was necessary for a convict to get parole.
‘The Parole Board does take account of appropriate levels of remorse. Indeed the convict usually needs to show an understanding of his responsibility to, and effect on, the victim. Clearly a denier cannot. However we can still assess whether he is likely to be a menace to the public and we try not release dangerous individuals who are likely to re-offend.’
Remorseless: A British Crime Thriller (Doc Powers & D.I. Carver Investigate #1) Page 3
