‘TRY! Jesus Christ! Just listen to yourself.’ Shaun was yelling, his voice quivering. At least the flush of rage felt good. But he knew he was going to lose the Judge’s attention if he didn’t keep it together. He forced himself to moderate his tone. ‘Surely it’s better to keep him behind bars, rather than releasing someone who could kill again. Can you honestly say you never get it wrong?’
‘Sadly I cannot. Of course, there are rare exceptions. But our records show that parolees are less likely to commit another offence than those released when their sentence has run its full course. The process of parole encourages the offender to rehabilitate.’
It sounded almost sensible when the Judge said it, his persuasive manner smoothing away doubt. Except Shaun would never be convinced. He tried another tack.
‘I know my brother. He’s sick. He’s beyond rehabilitation. Beyond salvation. In his case life should mean life. Don’t I have any real say in this?’ The letter suggested his views would be taken into consideration. But what did it mean?
‘The Victim Statement allows us to better understand the impact of the crime on the victims, and also allows us to take an account of any requests with regard to conditions of parole, such as limiting the parolee from contacting you or living close by.’
‘And if he ignores your conditions Judge? What then? A slap on the wrist? Puh-lease!’ Shaun let his frustration worm out. ‘He’s always broken the rules, ever since he could walk.’
‘Let me re-assure you...’ The honey voice oozed into his ear, failing to affect Shaun in the slightest. ‘He can be recalled if he breaches the terms of his parole.’
‘Recalled? What, back to prison?’
‘Exactly, although the severity of the breach would be taken into account and a Parole Board hearing would convene to decide – ’
‘So he doesn’t automatically go back inside?’
This was unbelievable. Shaun was finding this all too much. He regretted never investigating the possibilities regarding his brother getting paroled, choosing instead to ignore him completely. My brother died with my parents. Move on. That had been the plan. He had been convinced that a dysfunctional idiot like Peter could never get through eighteen years in jail without screwing his prospects for parole.
‘As I said,’ Shaun recognised the impatience finally breaking through the unruffled persona, the Judge’s voice now had an edge to it, ‘we convene a hearing and consider the facts. Then decide the appropriate action.’ The smile in his voice returned as he tried to reassure. ‘I think you need not worry unduly. Firstly your brother has to meet with the members of the Parole Board for a formal assessment of whether he is suitable for early release. Secondly, if he is released on license he will be subject to close supervision and any geographical or personal contact restrictions imposed by the Board.’ Despite the politeness Shaun sensed the Judge was ready to finish the conversation as he added, ‘Please return the Victim Statement as soon as possible so that we can take account of your views. Is there anything else?’
There was plenty, but Shaun thanked the Judge and hung up. He felt numb as he considered his brother. He had honestly thought he would rot in prison, a consequence of his refusal to acknowledge his guilt. Yet the bastard could be out – in what? He checked the letter again, calculating. Christ! Six or seven weeks.
Shaun’s eyes tracked across the desk, over the blotter, the empty in-tray, to the picture of Suzie and Billy. His wife, still beautiful despite being a little overweight, smiling as she hugged their son. The boy grinning the toothless smile of a seven-year old waiting for his new front teeth.
Another picture flashed into his mind. His brother, mouth swollen and bruised, the same top teeth missing, but from Shaun’s raging blow – the one delivered after their mother and father had been carved to death.
He focussed on the photograph again. The worst of it was that Billy even looked much like Peter had at that age.
Weird.
Shaun grated his teeth at the thought. His brother, still spoiling his life even in the here and now.
I can’t even look at my own kid without thinking of that bastard.
And Suzie. He could just imagine how she was she going to react when she heard his little brother could be out on the streets in a few weeks. She hated Peter for her own reasons. And Shaun had almost lost her to him once before.
There really is no justice in this country, he thought, clutching the letter before balling it and lobbing it across the room.
He stepped back to the window, resuming his unseeing vigil over the Thames, his fists rhythmic in their clenching and flexing, his handsome features warped with hatred. For a moment his vision cleared and he found himself focusing on the tormented reflection in the glass, barely recognising himself.
God, he thought. Just look at yourself. The bastard is still capable of ruining things after all these years. It was bad enough when the lunatic had been limited to sending a condolences card every year on the anniversary of their parents’ death. Peter’s birthday. Each time the words had differed, but the gist was always the same: ‘I’m looking forward to when we can play happy families again.’
It was a not too subtle threat, probably meant more for his wife. After the first one had left Suzie in hysterics, Shaun had his solicitor arrange a restraining order, but each year they still arrived, anonymous, typewritten and sent from different places around the UK. Shaun’s solicitor could do no more, even though they guessed Peter’s lawyer, a seedy little man with a very dubious reputation, was the conduit for these sick reminders.
Well, Shaun thought, maybe it would be no bad thing if his little brother got parole. After all these years Shaun might finally have the chance to make good on the promise he made to himself years before, and kill the sick fuck.
Let him come.
***
Judy sat in the cubicle in the female warders’ restroom, hands supporting her head, her elbows on her knees. She was not using the toilet, just sitting on the lid, trying to gather her thoughts, wondering if she had underestimated the job.
She was good, very good, at just about everything she had ever tried. Her application, determination, I’ll-take-no-shit attitude and sheer stubborn pig-headedness, meant there was no glass ceiling for her. She had worked for the Home Office since graduating from university some ten years previously, and she was a rising star. She was on the fast-track to the very top, having been spotted by the mandarins a few years ago. Doors had opened for her and others like her, speeding the brightest, most able, on their way to stellar careers. Part of the deal was that she would spend a year to eighteen months on secondment to different government departments. The Judge had snapped her up a month ago, convincing her and her bosses she needed insights not available within the normal hierarchy.
But nothing had prepared her for this.
She thought back to her lunch with Doc Powers, his slightly flabby, unthreatening maleness and his brown eyes brimming with sorrow. He’d reminded her of Bambi. Such a contrast to the man she had left moments before. Doc had tried to warn her. The Judge had told her he was throwing her in at the deep end. And boy, did he mean it! She would call Doc tonight. Apologise and explain that she now realised he had not meant to be patronising. Maybe she could arrange to meet him. Talk through her report.
She snorted. She didn’t need help with writing a bloody report. In reality she just needed to chat with someone with an insight into the creature in the fishbowl.
Well, so be it, she decided.
She stood and smoothed her pantsuit, glad she had dressed severely, her shoulder length hair pulled tight in a business bun. She was wearing the bare minimum of make-up with just a touch of mascara and some lip salve. She went to the sink and checked her face in the mirror.
God, I still look shocked!
She opened her bag to get her make-up and then remembered she had left all but the essentials – pad, recorder and pen – at the gate. Prison rules. She was glad in a way. Her wallet, with t
he picture of Josh, was safe outside this hell-hole. She did not want her son’s presence inside here, not even a photograph of him.
She splashed warm water on her cheeks, smoothed her hair. She had deliberately ignored Leech’s gaze when it lingered on her breasts, he was a man after all, and he had been in prison eighteen years. She found herself thinking of his physical presence. He was in exceptional shape, so macho, yet he also seemed sensitive and damaged too. He had certainly suffered when he’d arrived here.
But... She really could not make him out.
‘Come on Judy! You’ve barely started. You can do this.’ She spoke to the woman in the mirror. ‘After all, he won’t hurt you. He wants parole in a few weeks and knows you’re here to help him. He’s not stupid. And he’s not a monster.’
Is he?
***
‘Okay Peter, let’s crack on.’ The recorder was propped up between them, Judy’s pen poised. Her eyes were latched onto the bridge of his nose. She was back in business, determined not to let him get to her again. ‘Let’s talk about the victims – ’
‘Victims? I’m the victim!’ He snapped the words at her, a wet towel cracking against exposed flesh.
‘I mean, how do you feel about your parents now?’
‘My parents are lucky! At least they’re dead! I’m the only victim now.’ His arms windmilled in emphasis. ‘I’m stuck in here. What about me?’
Judy noticed the creepy sulk in the voice again, the callousness of his dismissal of his parents as ‘lucky’ like a slap to her face. She focussed on her pad, the raging light in his eyes cowering her.
After several seconds he said, ‘Sorry Ms Finch.’ She glanced up and saw he was breathing deep into his lungs, as if oxygen alone was capable of calming him.
‘Okay,’ she hesitated. ‘How do you feel about your brother?’ Judy expected another outburst in view of Leech’s claim that Shaun had framed him.
Instead his shoulders collapsed again, hunching forward, a target trying to shrink, desperate to make itself too small to hit.
‘Shaun is not who you think he is.’
Judy was baffled by that. ‘He is your brother?’
‘He was. Until the trial. Now I’m just a dead man to him.’ He perked up then. ‘But I’m not dead, am I?’ A self-congratulatory tone seeped into his voice.
‘You said in court that he framed you. Do you still believe that Peter?’ She watched as an earnest frown appeared, the eyes gleaming at her, for all intents an honest face, but she could not help but wonder, What the hell are you really thinking?
‘You may not believe me, but I can’t remember what happened that day. You see, I was high on a cocktail of acid and ecstasy. I think I was in my den all day. I took a shower to try and clear my head, stepped out straight into my brother’s fist. He was very handy with those fists of his. Karate kid. Always bullying me.’ Self pity whined out of him. ‘When I woke up I couldn’t even remember him hitting me.’ He turned his head, and his index finger traced a scar behind his ear. ‘This cut was from the shower tap cracking open my skull as I fell. A double whammy and I ended up with partial amnesia.’
‘So in all honesty you can’t say for sure that you’re innocent – if you can’t remember.’
His fists drove into the unyielding table top, the vibration toppling her recorder. She righted it as his voice ripped through the air.
‘I would know if I’d hacked my own parents to death! I was a scrawny harmless pot-head for fuck’s sake! My dad was twenty-odd stone and used to box for his university. It was my brother who killed them, and I swear he framed me. He’s even bleedin admitted it to me. Of course, he’s never gonna admit it to anyone else is he? I’m the innocent victim Ms Finch. Remember that.’
She was glad to see his temper subside as quickly as it arose, and pressed on with her point. ‘So, if it really was Shaun who killed them, are you going to seek some sort of revenge Peter?’ She let the thought reach her tongue before she considered the consequences. It was a stupid, provocative question and she was ready to signal to the warder, catching her eye, glad for the solid steel table separating her from this hulk. But his reaction surprised her.
‘My brother’s already dead.’ Totally calm, the tone level, not a hint of emotion now. Certainly no malice. It didn’t sound like a threat to her, just a bald statement. ‘He said that about me, Ma’am. And that’s how I feel about him now.’ He gave her a mirthless smile, then surprised her again as he seemed to contradict himself. ‘You know why that fucker killed them? Greed. Out and out selfish greed. He was furious that they were giving so much to charity. Said it was his money – his inheritance! Then he stole my inheritance – the lawyers challenged my parents’ wills after they died so that I couldn’t benefit from the crime. So the greedy bastard got it all. How about that?’ The venom of his words made her cringe.
Judy decided to move on, to try and get through this as quickly as she could. ‘So, what will you do when you get out?’
‘I’ve got money of my own. My share of the proceeds from the family business. Mum and dad gave us both some shares when we were born, held in trust so my brother couldn’t get his grubby hands on that. Mind you I had to pay out shedloads in legal fees for my defence, all because that shit refused to open the family coffers to cover my costs...’ He scowled. ‘But I’ve been studying in here you know? I’ve taught myself economics and dealt shares through my solicitor for years now. I’ve got a tidy sum waiting for me. Not like most of the sad sods in here who’ll leave with fifty quid in their pockets courtesy of Her Majesty.’
‘So what work will you do? Where will you live?’
‘I’ve already bought a pad. Lovely place. Overlooks the Thames. I’ve seen it. They let me out, supervised of course, to check it out. Locked me back up after though. The system stinks. It was torture.’
‘And work?’ Judy jotted some notes then looked up at him.
‘Well, I’ve studied psychology to degree level. I’d like to help people... maybe do therapy or something.’ He must have seen the doubt in her eyes as he continued, voice rising. ‘I’ve started in here already. I’m a Listener.’ He jabbed his thumb to his chest. Proud.
‘And what does that involve exactly?’ She was genuinely curious.
‘I’ve been trained by the Samaritans to act as an ear for the poor sods in here who’ve got no one else to listen to them.’
Judy thought that comment odd in view of his apology and remark earlier: I don’t get to talk to people much. Ah! She remembered, proper people. Not convicts then.
He carried on. ‘I have to listen to them whingeing on, you know, the ones who can’t cope, maybe thinking of suicide, or maybe just getting done over like I was when I was first here. But I get privileges. I can move around during lock up, visit their cells to talk to them.’
Judy smiled at that. ‘You mean listen to them.’
‘Yeah, whatever.’ He looked and sounded peeved at her interruption, as if it was irrelevant. ‘Anyway, I’ve also done other courses y’know? Anger management, thinking skills, assertiveness and stuff.’ He beamed at her now, obviously very pleased with himself. ‘I’ve learnt more inside than I did in thirteen years of private school, though I couldn’t exactly play hooky in here!’
She smiled again, remembering a statistic she’d read somewhere claiming that almost a third of all prisoners had been habitual school truants during childhood. ‘Good for you, Peter. Tell me more about how you feel you’ve benefited from your time in here.’
He went on to describe the courses in detail and how he was now a better man, a reformed character. He sounded just like an enthusiastic newly minted graduate and Judy found herself drawn in to his story. ‘I just want to be a solid citizen, you know? Be a part of society again.’ He looked piously at Judy, his hands held as if in prayer.
A deadly killer mimicking a priest, she thought.
‘A final couple of points Peter.’ She was keen to finish now, to get away, to cleanse the stink of thi
s place that seemed to be permeating her skin. ‘You asked to be transferred from open prison after just two weeks. Why would you want to come back here? It’s a high security unit?’ This had genuinely perplexed her, and the lack of rehabilitation and preparation for release could jeopardise his chances of parole. Why return to a higher category prison with a more rigid system?
‘That place was rife with drugs, it was far worse than here. Just about everyone was doped up or on heroin. I didn’t want to be around those wasters. When I get out I want to keep my nose clean. Literally, y’know?’ He stuck a thumb over one nostril and sniffed hard for her benefit, as if he thought she was that naïve.
‘But your rehabilitation and resettlement prog – ’
‘I don’t need re-hab. There’s nothing wrong with me. And I’ve already got a pad sorted. I can do voluntary work. I don’t need any more income, I’ve got plenty of money invested. What re-settlement do I need? Good looking guy like me... I’ll be fine!’ He winked at her then, his cheeks bunching in a grin. ‘I reckon you like big guys, don’cha?’
She thought it best to ignore the comment, and just looked blankly at him.
‘Well, Peter, I think that’s everything, unless you’ve got anything to add...’ Judy was relieved to be finishing. The last two hours had felt like ten.
‘Nah. Not about this place or my parole.’ He had a sly look now.
Judy did not know what he meant, but picked up the tape recorder and thumbed the ‘off’ switch anyway.
‘There is one thing... When I get out – ’
‘If your parole application is a success.’
He flapped his hand at her, dismissing the possibility of parole being denied. ‘Whatever. Maybe we could get together, y’know? We’ve had such a good heart to heart and I feel really good about you. You fancy that?’ He was still grinning, his eyes roving, crawling over her breasts again. She could see he was certain she would respond positively.
Remorseless: A British Crime Thriller (Doc Powers & D.I. Carver Investigate #1) Page 4
