Remorseless: A British Crime Thriller (Doc Powers & D.I. Carver Investigate #1)

by Will Patching

  Managing Director. John wondered at the stupidity that allowed his firm to have seventy-two MDs when most companies got by with just the one. But the nature of his role demanded a title commensurate with the status of the people he dealt with. The movers and shakers, the deal makers and breakers, individuals who could mobilise hundreds of millions of pounds to further the advance of capitalism.

  And right now John was enjoying one of the benefits of his stellar career in the company. The machine’s engines wound down, the man-made wind buffeting them subsided and then ceased.

  ‘Can we get in now daddy?’ He tugged at John’s hand.

  ‘Come on then son. Before the pilot goes without us.’

  He watched as the pilot showed Josh around the aircraft, the young tyke jabbering enthusiastically as he went, then John helped him clamber aboard. They were seated in the row behind the pilot who squeezed an arm between the two front seats to pass them headsets and throat microphones so that they could all talk when the machine was thundering through the air. Then he started to give them a safety briefing as he helped them strap in. John tuned out, finding himself thinking about Judy and wondering what she was doing for male company these days. He was sure she missed him, but was too proud to say so.

  The pilot turned back to the front and said, ‘Don’t be alarmed when I start her up. She’s supposed to be noisy. And if she didn’t vibrate she’d probably break apart and we wouldn’t want that would we?’

  Josh pulled a face at that so John wrapped an arm round his shoulders, trying to reassure the boy with a squeeze. ‘I think our pilot thinks he’s a comedian.’

  ‘That’s right sir. Eavesdropper too. You can hear me and speak back to me, as well as talk to each other. Except when I mute your mics when I talk to air traffic control. Which I am about to do, so here goes...’

  The pilot’s hands were flicking switches, adjusting dials and checking controls as he sought permission to get airborne and follow his flight plan.

  Josh’s mouth hung open as he watched, and even John was impressed by the man’s professionalism.

  The motors whined and the blades took a lazy turn, then another, accelerating into a blurred disc. The noise was deafening as the big machine lifted off, and Josh’s fingers were rigid and white as he dug his nails into his dad’s thigh. The perspex bubble surrounded them, and John experienced his first taste of vertigo as he watched the office roof disappear below them, the view through the floor unnerving him. He thought he’d left his stomach somewhere between the roof and the helicopter as he exclaimed, ‘Oh my God!’

  Josh’s fingers delved deeper as if prompted by the fear in his father’s voice.

  The machine lurched, the nose tilting down, giving John the sickening sensation of hanging just by his straps, London’s Docklands spread beneath him. Then they swooped down towards the Thames, the machine rolling and turning, gathering speed.

  ‘We have to go quite low here gents otherwise a jumbo heading for Heathrow might give us all a haircut!’

  John wanted to puke. He forced his head back, drew in a rancid gasp of air, tasted the tang of kerosene seeping through every pore of the machine. He felt worse and groaned. This was a nightmare.

  Then he remembered Josh, whose rigid digits had bruised his flesh. Enough! He would tell the pilot to land immediately.

  And that was when the realisation hit him. Oh shit! Josh’s puffer was in the car. Worried, he inspected his son’s face, fearing the worst, but Josh had a strange expression, a beatific smile that John had never seen before. He groaned. ‘I might’ve known you’d love this Josh.’ But Josh was rapt in the wonder of the flight, the sights he had never experienced in his short life.

  John thought back to their first trip to Alton Towers a few months before. His boy wanted to ride on everything and only Josh’s diminutive height had prevented them from experiencing the biggest rides, saving John’s gall from erupting on the most vicious rollercoasters. He leaned back, closed his eyes and, for the first time in years, actually considered praying.

  Josh, face blooming with wonder, turned to his dad for a moment, shouting above the din, the words exploding in John’s earpiece. ‘Dad, look! It’s the Thames Barrier and the ships. This is brilliant!’

  ‘Mmm,’ was all he could manage.

  ‘We can take a closer look if you like, young sir.’

  ‘Yaay!’

  His son was in ecstasy as the machine dipped and banked, but John’s free hand clutched at his harness, the other arm neither giving nor receiving comfort as Josh wriggled against it.

  They were low now, skimming the water, Josh whooping with joy as they passed below the mast of a ship, seemingly close enough to reach out and touch it. The pilot, thus encouraged, jinked, climbed and swooped again. Josh clapped his hands, noises and words mingling as his excitement sirened ever louder.

  The pilot steadied the machine and levelled off as he spoke to the air traffic controllers. Then he banked sharply, throwing John’s full weight against the Plexiglas. John, terrified already, nearly lost control of his bowels at the thought of a mere quarter inch of perspex separating him from a few hundred feet of nothing and the estuary below.

  ‘We’re heading north now. I can’t go any lower as the birds are breeding and we don’t want to scare them too much.’

  Scare them? What about me? John’s panic was mounting. He’d had enough. He wanted to go home. He kept his eyes closed and tried to pretend he was somewhere else. He stayed like that for several minutes.

  And then the world turned upside down. The aircraft jolted and heaved upwards, a rapid drumbeat thumping against the airframe. He opened his eyes in terror, the aircraft was darker now – they were flying through a flock of geese and the canopy was peppered with bodies and smeared with their blood and guts. The pilot had spotted the danger, responded by hauling the nose up, a standard manoeuvre designed to intimidate the birds into thinking the helicopter was a predator, forcing them to fly below, but too late. The drumming and thudding continued for no more than a few seconds but it was enough.

  The vibration increased in intensity as the aircraft tried to throw off the birds, like a dog shaking its fur to shed water. The machine shrieked in protest, the rotors damaged by the impact of so many carcasses.

  Josh screamed, but the pilot was speaking, his calm clipped tones cutting into John’s mind, driving home the seriousness of their predicament. ‘MAYDAY! MAYDAY! MAYDAY! Three POB, emergency landing...’

  There were more words but John’s panic escalated and obliterated them as the helicopter bucked like a stallion on heat. His teeth rattled and his vision jumped so much he could not focus. He heard the pilot yelling ‘BRACE! BRACE! BRACE!’ and tried to get his brain to function, to respond in this alien environment where the horizon swung by him, the world plunging, rotating and disorienting him. Vomit sprayed from his mouth as he struggled to remember the emergency brief and realised he had no idea what to do.

  All he could think about was Josh. He held him tight with his arm, crushing the boy to him, hoping to protect him from the worst. And then he realised, to top it all, Josh was having a full blown asthma attack. Josh had his head between his knees, but his frantic gasps for air were audible through John’s headset.

  The pilot was good. He wrestled the machine to the ground, delivering them and his aircraft safely through what he would later describe as a ‘controlled crash.’

  It did not feel very controlled to John. His butt, spine and neck screamed with pain from the mind-numbing impact, and for a moment he wondered if they were really down or whether he still might die. He sucked in a lungful of air and immediately became conscious of the stench of puke, his stomach contents having pebble-dashed the interior. Even the pilot’s helmet had not escaped unscathed.

  The pilot was unfazed, his hands flashed across the controls, flicking switches, probing, checking. The rotors slowed and stopped. Silence. Then he spoke, his voice showing no tension, as professional and calm as it had been
when they were being given the pre-flight brief.

  ‘Okay sir. We can get out now if you would care to unstrap yourself and your son.’

  ‘Wait!’

  The pilot turned at John’s voice, immediately checking his precious cargo and finding something there that finally registered alarm on his face. He grabbed the first aid kit and yelled at John as he shoved it at him.

  ‘Get out. Bring this. And follow me.’

  He hopped down, wrenched the door open, unstrapped Josh and threw the little lad over his shoulder. He then started jogging some fifty yards across the sucking mudflats, away from the machine, stopping on an elevated patch of grass.

  John, his senses still in turmoil from the crash, waded through the marshy ground, lugging the box, feeling as if he was in a nightmare. He could not turn his head, the muscles of his neck flamed with pain as he tried, and his back, arms and legs felt as if they had been beaten with clubs. Then the urgency of the situation hit him as the pilot called out.

  ‘I need that kit. Now!’

  John pushed himself forward, and dropped down beside them. He called to Josh, stroked his forehead, tried to soothe him. Josh’s eyes bulged, the sinews in his scrawny neck visibly straining as he urged his lungs to suck in air. His chest jerked as he choked, his face turning blue.

  The pilot ripped the oxygen mask out of the box, fitted the bottle to it, and, while covering Josh’s face asked John, ‘What’s the matter with the boy? Was he hurt?’ The pilot tore Josh’s tee shirt at the neck, trying to see what the problem was. John said nothing so the pilot turned his attention to him. ‘I need some help here sir.’

  ‘Er. He’s... asthmatic. We forgot his inhaler.’ John was overwhelmed with shame and guilt for putting his son’s life at risk, but worse was the liquid fear freezing his heart at the thought that Josh might die. The oxygen was having little effect.

  The pilot stared hard at John for a second longer then got back to the task at hand. He scrabbled in the first aid box for a hypodermic, then cracked an ampoule and drew liquid into the syringe.

  ‘I have nothing for asthma but I do have adrenalin... I think it might help him. Would you rather, sir?’ The pilot proffered the syringe to John who could only shake his head, the nightmare now complete.

  The pilot slid the needle into Josh’s arm and squeezed the fluid home. It seemed to take an eternity to John, but Josh’s breathing eased, the frantic gasping subsiding to a rasping wheeze.

  ‘I’ve done all I can for him, let’s hope he’ll be okay now. We’ll get him to hospital soon – either the Air Ambulance or Search and Rescue will have a chopper here in no time. We’re miles from the nearest road I’m afraid.’

  Oh Christ. Not another bloody helicopter, please!

  ***

  Doc Powers woke to the familiar drum tattoo of a stinking hangover after a night of welcome oblivion. Last night he had been as close to happy as his fragile mind allowed, and he had continued the celebration after Judy left. The bottle of Cointreau was now empty.

  He rolled out of bed and made it to the ensuite just in time for the retching heave of brown, stinging sludge that erupted from his throat. He hung onto the porcelain bowl, on his knees, as if enacting some sort of profane penitence.

  It was only fair. This punishment, he decided. Natalie was still too large a part of his life, his anguish, to allow an interloper. And he didn’t deserve happiness, did he? He was responsible. He should be miserable. What had made him think he could somehow snap out of it?

  Judy.

  You stupid old man. She must be twelve or fourteen years younger than you!

  Interesting. Bright. Articulate. Drop dead gorgeous. Yet self-deprecating. She had everything.

  Except her husband.

  But Doc could see no future in a relationship with Judy. She was just being kind. Was surely not interested in romance. Just friendship. A colleague to develop as a pal. Nothing more.

  He heaved again, scalding his throat. Almost dry now. Slobber, tinged with bile, drooled into the pan.

  I’m disgusting. I allowed the booze to kill the love of my life and now... I’m trying to kill myself with it.

  Another wrench as his gut spasmed. Nothing. Just pain as his own muscles tried to tear his insides apart.

  Maybe I deserve to die. I’m used up.

  He staggered to the sink and grasped the taps for support, the sledgehammer in his skull pounding his brain to jelly. He struggled upright, tried to brush his teeth without gagging. He saw himself in the mirror. Eyes red and swollen, his face grey, sagging, and creased, advertising his unhealthy inner state.

  He stumbled back to his bed, collapsed onto it, and immediately regretted the action as the drumbeat crescendoed inside his cranium. He squeezed his eyes tight shut, sparking stars in the blackness.

  Therapy. I need therapy. Or maybe just a friend to share the burden with.

  He had wanted to talk to the Judge. In fact, the Judge had called him ten or fifteen times in the weeks after he had been discharged from hospital, bones mended but his life shattered. He could not face talking to anyone, and the Judge’s voice sounded more concerned with each message he’d left on the voicemail.

  Doc had been drunk. Every day. And although he’d seen the weight fall off in hospital, he had been drinking so much since, he was now fat.

  He had been confused. Was still confused.

  He knew the theory of talking through his grief and depression, to help him work through it, come to terms with his life. Even so, he could not bring himself to bare his soul to his friend, the Judge. Instead he had lied, had told his boss he was ready to come back to work...

  Yet, now there was Judy. Maybe, just maybe, given a little time, he could share the true extent of his pain with her. Tell her everything.

  His eyes flickered open, found the photograph of Natalie by the bed.

  I’m so sorry darling.

  There were no photos of Natalie in the kitchen and he had deliberately kept Judy away from the lounge, not wanting her to see the pictures of his wife in there, to give her an opportunity to probe, to tug at the tattered edges of his raw wounds.

  Or... Or just maybe he did not want Judy to see this other woman, the one whose life was suffused with his.

  Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.

  And then it started. The clacking inside his mind, as if some psychotic projectionist was tormenting him, flicking through the horror film, full colour, wide screen.

  The truck, surging into his car. The nearside door collapsing in. The dashboard airbag exploding into an ineffectual safety cushion for Natalie. Her head, bouncing off the canvas balloon, ricocheting into the distorted door post, her skull shattering, blood spurting, showering him. Her blue eyes, staring at him. Dead. Unseeing.

  Now in close up. Closer. Closer still. Her crumpled, lopsided face filling the screen of his inner world, shredding his heart. He howled as the vision faded to black.

  He reached over, clutched her photo to his chest, then wept, wondering yet again whether he was losing his mind.

  ***

  Judy also woke up on Sunday with a pounding brain. She managed to lever herself out of bed and perform her patent hangover cure – she swallowed a fresh raspberry smoothie with some paracetamol and then purged her body with a four mile run.

  She almost gave up just a few hundred yards from her home, had to stop and bend double to let the nausea pass, the smoothie close to making an unscheduled reappearance.

  I will not be beaten.

  She straightened, forced herself to keep moving, the slap of her feet on the pavement jolting her aching brain until, gradually, as she knew it would, the pain eased and she started to feel alive again.

  By the time she returned to her flat the last traces of the hangover were gone. She was delighted to hear Gran pottering in the kitchen, and even more so to smell the heavenly aroma of fresh coffee welcoming her as she pushed open the front door. Her mother was busy stuffing a chicken when Judy pecked her on the cheek, g
rateful that today’s lunch was already on its way.

  ‘Hi mum, thanks for coming over. I’ve got stacks to do today...’

  ‘Oh Judy! Please tell me you aren’t working. It’s Sunday. I thought we could have lunch together and just relax, maybe have a nice chat.’ Gran returned to the task of preparing the bird for the oven, plunging her hand inside the carcass in a way that made her daughter cringe.

  ‘I will never be able to do that. It looks so disgusting.’ Her mother tutted as Judy spoke, but said nothing. ‘Anyway, what’s to chat about?’ She was teasing Gran now. ‘We talk every day mum. Anything in particular? Have you something on your mind? A problem I can help you with. Haven’t you been to church this morning? Surely that’s the best place for confession!’

  The stuffing was almost complete, but Gran turned, hands smothered in sage and onion, and waggled a greasy finger at her.

  ‘Don’t be so cheeky, madam. I have nothing to confess...’ She grabbed the bird and jammed the last of the mixture into it, none too gently. ‘I just wondered if you had something you wanted to tell me.’

  ‘I already told you.’ Judy fished a raw carrot from a pan on the stove, crunched it as she said, ‘It was work. Just business with a colleague, that’s all.’ She munched another carrot.

  ‘Humph. Leave those, they’re for lunch.’ There was a touch of petulance in her tone as she huffed, ‘Well, I must say, if it really was just business then why did we spend four hours finding you the perfect outfit?’

  Gran slapped butter on the bird’s pallid skin and Judy was sure her mother wished it was her wayward daughter’s behind she was slapping instead.

  ‘You know me mum. Work is sooooo important to me. Isn’t that what you always say?’ Her mother washed her hands, obviously frustrated now.

  Judy could not resist a final teaser. ‘I’m off for a shower,’ she said, and then tossed more words over her shoulder as she headed for the bathroom. ‘Oh I almost forgot to mention. Doc, my work colleague, is joining us for our family trip to Brighton next weekend.’ With that she waltzed away, and though she could not see her mother’s face, she knew the sweet old dear would be open-mouthed with surprise and delight. And totally beside herself with frustration and curiosity.