She took two tentative steps in the direction of her remaining stash of codeine syrup, but stopped herself before weakness drove her any further down the stairs.
Dear God. Please give me strength to see what else is in there.
Minutes ticked by with her standing motionless, a statue at the head of the stairs, her back to the dreadful place she knew she must re-enter. Her mouth was parched and her tongue tasted foul, the back of her throat raw from the scalding acid ejected from her stomach, along with her semi-digested lunch. She was giddy and light-headed, too.
A few more moments of prayer gave her the courage to turn back and face up to the shrine in Billy’s room.
She closed her eyes as she entered, her bare toes slipping in the sludge she had unexpectedly deposited on the bare floorboards. After another brief one-sided conversation with her god, she forced her eyelids open and took in the full horror of his room.
The sloping eaves and gable ends had been painted black, giving the room an ominous feel, but it was the photographs that had sent her mind back to a place and time she had tried to blot from her memory. The biggest image, about half the size of the bedroom door, was pinned to the wall opposite the foot of Billy’s bed. Several black candles were positioned on a ledge beneath the oversized picture of a grinning face.
Suzie could barely stop the panic rising in her chest, her breath ragged and panting as she made herself confront the larger than life photograph of her brother-in-law, Peter. Her mind was spinning as she tried to understand why her son apparently worshipped the man who had stolen half her face – and almost taken her desire to live along with it.
More thoughts tumbled into her brain about that night, about how Billy had met his uncle for the first and only time, and how he had been used by Peter as an unwitting accomplice in the murder of her husband, Shaun.
Why has Billy got this on his wall? And where did he get it?
Peter had been in prison for years before the night he entered their London home. He had only stayed for an hour or two, but the mayhem he had wreaked in that brief visit had ruined their lives forever.
From the look of it, the headshot had been taken not long before then. Suzie couldn’t scrutinise it, could barely look into the mad green eyes of her assailant, even knowing he had been dead for seven years. She ran at the wall, ripped the poster down, shredded it and threw the scrunched-up pieces to the floor.
There were precious few other items on the end wall, just a few esoteric notes from Billy to himself and someone he called his ‘Guru’, but the eaves displayed many other portrait photographs, too, some with names she recognised.
John Wayne Gacy… The Night Stalker… Dr Harold Shipman…
Her little boy, the fragile sensitive lad she’d birthed and nurtured, had clearly developed an unhealthy fascination with serial killers. Perhaps, given his genetic make-up and life experiences, Suzie ought not be surprised. Thinking back, he was always a slightly odd child, different from the other kids, far brighter and less emotional – unless hurt by his father’s cruel jibes and insults, and then he would come crying to her for a cuddle to make things better. That was before the vicious bastard in that poster had come calling.
Poor Billy… I wasn’t there for him when he needed me most.
Suzie bowed her head and closed her eyes in another silent prayer. She begged forgiveness for herself, and asked for help for her son. Again, the simple act gave her the strength to continue.
What else has he got in here?
A shelf below his TV contained hundreds of DVDs. Mostly TV documentaries about serial killers, criminal psychopaths and unsolved crimes. Interviews with real life killers, FBI profilers and forensic psychologists. He even had a video lecture series from a criminology course filmed at Birmingham University.
Suzie found none of the teenage dross she would’ve expected, and his games console had been lying unused for years – he had told her, they were a waste of time, that they were ‘for morons’. She had been thankful for that, thinking the violence they engendered would be a bad thing for him, but surely this obsession with actual criminals – as that’s what it seemed to be – was far worse.
An obsession with serial killers, but most worryingly, one in particular.
Billy’s bookcase extended from beside his bed to the doorway, but only reached hip height where the walls began sloping to the apex of the roof. She ran a finger along the spines, reading random titles. The shelves were stuffed full of texts with a similar theme to the DVDs, but as she reached his bedside drawers, she picked up the hardback book lying there. She flipped it over without thinking and the picture on the cover startled her, burning her fingers before it flew to the ground.
The same image she had torn from Billy’s wall…
She kicked the offending book away, and it skidded across the rug and under the bed.
Best place for it.
She tugged at the handle of the top bedside drawer.
Locked.
Two more drawers. Also locked. And this time, she had no idea where a spare key might be.
Suzie would not be beaten by her son’s desire for privacy. She went back downstairs and out to her father’s workshop, found a crowbar and returned. With the thin end wedged in the gap between the drawer and the frame, she levered the tool and the splintering wood gave her a moment’s satisfaction. She sat on the bed, popped open the top drawer, and picked up the first thing she saw.
A twist of paper?
There were two more, and although she had never bought illicit drugs in her life, Suzie instinctively knew that’s what these little baggies contained. She popped them on the bed, thinking she could have the contents tested at the clinic she had been to the previous day. But was that wise? If they were class A drugs – and Suzie had no idea what that really meant – she might end up being arrested. If she tried to explain, Billy would surely lie about them, would tell the police they were hers – or that he had bought them for her.
Better to just flush them down the lavatory.
After putting that at the top of her to do list, she turned her attention back to the broken drawer.
The folded brown A4 envelope was unsealed, and had nothing written on it to give a clue to its contents, but she could feel documents inside as she lifted it out.
More photographs of Peter? God, help me…
She wanted to toss it aside, but something told her, a whisper in her brain, that it was important and she needed to see it, making her wonder if God had replied to her pleas for help.
With her eyes closed, she upended the contents into her lap, and tried to stop her body from shaking by holding the air in her lungs and balling her fists. That didn’t help much, so she did her best to prepare herself, then blinked her eyes open again for a quick glance at the jumble of photographs spread across her thighs.
Initial relief, that she was not being faced with more mugshots of the man who had tortured her, turned to horror and disgust.
Bare flesh. Lots of it…
Two males in pornographic positions. She made herself look at them, properly this time, while wondering why Billy had them in his bedside drawer. The possibility that her son might be gay had not really registered, but started to form in her mind a nanosecond before she recognised the participants.
Suzie fainted.
***
Judy pulled into her driveway and saw the burnt-out boat being towed away on a barge just leaving the dock at the end of the garden. There were no police vehicles present, but Sally’s Peugeot was still where Felix had parked it and Jack’s Jag was in front of one of their garage doors. The other door was shut too, so she assumed Doc’s new car, a swanky Aston Martin, was tucked up safely inside.
The trouble-making detective must be in the house with Colin. After turning off the ignition she sat with her hands on the wheel, and rolled her shoulders several times to ease the tension in her neck and upper back.
It had been a long and productive day, diverting her
from the previous day’s tragedy, but now she just wanted to relax, and Jack’s presence was not wholly conducive to that aim. Colin had insisted on working with him, to find out why the boat exploded and whether Billy Leech was responsible, and she knew there was little point trying to convince him otherwise.
With a final shrug she prepared herself to talk to them both without getting upset, and let herself into the house. The scent of exotic spices welcomed her home. Colin heard her come in, and greeted her from the kitchen.
‘I’m in here, my love.’
She immediately knew there was something amiss. His tone just sounded wrong, and it was not his usual cheerful greeting. He appeared at the kitchen door as she dropped her bag on the hall table, and she could see his cheeks had a sickly pallor to them.
‘Are you alright? What’s happened?’
He came to her and gave her a hug, then whispered in her ear. ‘I’m fine. It’s Jack…’
Bloody Jack, again.
‘What’s happened?’ She pulled away from him and peered up at his face.
‘We had another explosion here a little earlier – Jack blew his top and assaulted a local detective. Knocked the man cold.’
‘What? Why?’
Doc explained, then said, ‘They took him into Reading, to the police station. I followed them but they refused to let me see him. I got back here almost two hours ago but haven’t heard from him.’
‘They arrested him?’
‘No… They detained him. No handcuffs, just demanded he accompany them, or they would arrest him for assaulting a fellow police officer. He was pretty sheepish by then.’
‘They can’t honestly believe he would kill Felix. That’s just… It’s ridiculous!’ Judy knew enough about the man to know he would never kill anyone, unless in the line of duty. He had saved Colin’s life on at least one occasion she knew of, doing exactly that.
‘It’s just a bit of muscle flexing by the locals. Turf battle. But they wouldn’t listen to anything we had to say about Billy Leech. And today, we found out more about that young man and the things he’s been up to.’
Judy placed her index finger on his lips and shushed him. ‘I don’t want to hear his name again. I don’t want to know what you’ve discovered… But if he did kill Felix, I do want him caught and punished. I’m sure the local police will listen once they’ve finished putting Jack in his place.’
‘Well, let’s hope so.’ Doc twitched a smile, the first she had seen since arriving, and then said, ‘I’ve made us some curry. I had to keep busy while waiting for Jack.’
‘I knew I could smell something marvellous. I’m starving too. Let me get changed and we’ll eat.’
Doc nodded and then his mobile phone chirped. ‘That could be Jack.’ He disappeared into the kitchen so she went up to their bedroom, tossed her blouse and trousers into the laundry bin, pulled on yoga pants and a tee shirt.
By the time she got down the stairs, Doc was in the hallway, his jacket over his shoulder and his car key in his hand.
‘You’re not going out now, we’re about to eat–’
‘Sorry, I have to go sweetheart. I’m not really hungry and I’ll be back soon enough. Your food’s ready and I’ve left a plate in the kitchen.’ He went to peck her cheek but she turned away from him.
‘You aren’t looking after yourself, Colin. You should eat too.’
‘I will. Later. I really do need to go and–’
‘I don’t want to know. Just you take care.’
She left him dithering in the hallway, clearly wondering whether to follow her into the kitchen to try to explain. He didn’t.
Judy heard the front door close as she sat at the kitchen table, a steaming plate of vegetable korma waiting for her. She picked up a fork, then a feeling of dread folded itself around her, like an ominous fog warning of terrible things afoot.
Why didn’t I let him kiss me?
She knew why.
She had not forgiven him for inviting the Leech boy into their lives.
With the fork still clutched in her hand, she raced down the hall, wrenched the front door open, only to see Doc’s Aston Martin disappear round the bend in their lane.
***
‘Let me know if you need anything else, Mum. I’ll be downstairs.’ Suzie carried the tray with the remains of their supper to the door, her own food barely touched, but Nana had wiped her plate clean.
‘I’ll just read my book and watch some TV later. Thank you for today, my dear. I hope we can do it more often. I feel stronger already.’
Her mother’s rosy cheeks were testament to that, and Suzie forced another smile before leaving her to her book.
When she’d regained consciousness, she had no idea how much time had elapsed with her spark out on Billy’s bed, but she needed to get out of there, and had taken the envelope and photographs to the kitchen. They remained piled on the table as she made food for them all. Billy was still out, but she assumed he would be back soon, unless he was still angry with her. He wasn’t in his annex – she had checked.
While waiting for the kettle to boil, Suzie picked up her phone again, and tried the detective’s number. It was still diverted to voicemail and she had already left a message for him to call her, but had heard nothing from him, and that had been hours ago.
Her plan had been to confront her son over his heinous actions. What child would even think of drugging his mother and grandmother? She would also tackle his fixation on his murderous uncle. All of this, before talking to the police, but the photographs changed everything.
Suzie had made herself properly scrutinize the images, and had concluded they had been taken soon after the tutor had begun teaching her son a couple of years before. Billy’s face was still almost cherubic, feminine, his body smaller, and his jaw lacked the profusion of whiskers that had sprouted since.
Her conclusion was horrifyingly simple. Smith had been molesting her boy from the moment he’d arrived here. And that had driven Suzie to call DCI Carver.
With no immediate reply, she had considered dialling 999 or calling the local police station, but this other detective had already expressed an interest in her son. Okay, he was probably concerned about Billy’s violent display on Saturday, but Suzie was sure her young lad, abused by a trusted adult, had good reason to go off the rails, and she wanted this London detective to understand that, too.
A vulnerable young boy, coerced into homosexual acts by his teacher.
This, on top of what had transpired at their home when Billy was an eight-year-old. And the traumatic years he had been bullied at school. Well, it was no surprise he was as disturbed as she now knew him to be.
But how to help him?
A senior detective might know, and would certainly be in a position to arrest Smith. The odious man must have seen Billy as a soft target, a damaged young boy, and manipulated him into complying.
Why else would Billy have said nothing to her?
Alcoholism…
Drug addiction…
Derelict mother…
There were plenty of reasons, and most of them stemmed from her inability to deal with anything much beyond her own deformed face.
Poor Billy.
At least she was drinking tea tonight instead of Martinis. She plopped a teabag in her cup and was about to pour boiling water on it, when Billy’s voice ripped into her brain, throwing her arm into a spasm, spilling the scalding liquid down her leg. She screeched and jumped back, upending the kettle contents on to the counter top, and spun round to face him.
‘YOU FUCKING BITCH!’
Framed in the back doorway, wearing a garish green cycling top and black lycra shorts, she could barely look at his face, warped as it was in a demented scowl. His eyes weren’t on her, but on the table top, staring at the photographs.
‘Billy–’
‘You’ve been in my room, rooting through my private things!’ He started towards her, and she cringed away, trying to keep the table between them until t
he murderous light in his eyes faded. ‘What else have you found?’
Billy stopped circling, so she did too, glad for the solid wood separating them, though her mind replayed how his fists had effortlessly caused the top to crack.
‘What else? Isn’t that enough? Smith has been abusing you!’ She jabbed a finger on the pile of photographs and spread them for him. ‘And there’s the proof of it. I want him arrested.’
With his fists still bunched, resting on the top of a chair back, she could see him take stock of this unexpected situation. The fury abated, and for a fleeting moment he seemed to be calculating, like a machine, his eyes scuttling across her face, then back to the photographs. He pulled the chair out from under the table, the legs squealing on the tiles in protest. Then he sat, and did the one thing she least expected.
He dropped his head to the table top with a thump. Then his hands cradled his forehead and she could see his back shuddering.
He’s crying!
It was the first time she’d seen him shed any tears in years. So long that she couldn’t recall the last time he had shown any weakness – certainly not since he had started speaking again. She went to him, dropped to her knees and held him as he sobbed.
The sound almost ruptured her heart, and she felt her own tears start to flow.
‘Billy. It’s alright. It’s not your fault. But we must talk to the police.’
All thoughts of his misdemeanours had been chased away and she felt only sympathy for his plight, but he lifted his head from his arms and focussed his ire on her.
‘Don’t you dare talk to the pigs! I’ll be sixteen on Wednesday. What we’ve been doing will be totally legal then.’
Suzie leaned back, away from his snapping voice, but kept her hands on his back and arm. She would not – could not – let her son allow Smith to get away with what he had done.
‘I’ve called them already–’
Gaslighting (DP, DIC03) Page 23
