During his trip to the hospital with the wounded detective Jack had knocked cold, Doc had tried to convince the man not to press charges, had explained how Jack had rescued his daughter from drowning, and then had to resuscitate her – two facts that had been missing from the brief statements Jack and Doc had written in such a hurry at Charlie’s behest that morning. In Doc’s assessment, the blow to the detective’s chin had done more damage to his ego than cause any real physical harm. Fortunately, the hospital gave him the all clear after the staff rushed him through to a treatment room past the mass of waiting wounded in reception. Although he had been non-committal when Doc took him back to the station, at least Jack didn’t have criminal charges hanging over him.
‘Suspended, eh? And demoted already?’ It seemed a little hasty to Doc, though he could guess why. ‘Soundbite?’
‘She fucking hates me. What did I do to deserve such a vindictive boss?’ Jack used the heel of his palms to rub at his forehead as Doc navigated the car through Reading towards Pangbourne. ‘They kept me waiting in an interview room, gave me some water, then some coffee and a burger when I complained. Treated me like a bloody criminal. And that sodding Soundbite told them to keep me there until she arrived.’
‘You’ve seen her?’
‘Yeah. Just before I called you to come and pick me up. Tore me off a strip. Told me to go home, and that she didn’t want to see me or hear from me – or about me – until after my holiday. The review will take place on Monday week, my first day back.’
‘And did you tell her about Billy Leech, and all the things we’ve discovered?’
‘No one’s listening, mate.’ Jack blew a gust of frustration across his lips. ‘I tried, but the detectives think you and I have a hair up our arses about the lad. Tuh! All thanks to what happened with his old man and uncle seven years ago, and the fact we’ve been on TV, yakking about that case, and others too. Celebrity copper. That’s what I am.’ He huffed a disgusted puff of air this time. ‘Huh! Your sidekick, by all accounts. Mind you, Reading nick don’t think too highly of either of us, from what I heard. We hog the limelight, making off with loads of dough, while proper coppers like them do the hard graft. As if.’
‘Mmm.’ This was not the news Doc had expected, or wanted. ‘And Charlie? Can she help us?’
‘She’s uniform. It’s out of her hands, mate.’
‘So, we’re on our own, thanks to your boxing prowess and your flagrant disrespect for authority…’ Doc grinned at his pal. ‘Just like old times, then!’
Jack’s mood finally shifted and they started laughing, like a pair of demented hyena. Doc had to wipe his eyes as he drove, thinking how the stress of the last few days had got to them both, and that a good night’s sleep would give them better perspective. They reached his home in silence, with Doc assuming they were both thinking about how to proceed. Neither of them would trust the locals to solve the crimes committed against them both.
‘Did you get to see Mrs Leech?’ Jack pushed his door open, still sitting, the courtesy light illuminating the inside of the car, his expression thoughtful. ‘She sounded proper freaked out on the phone when she left me that message.’
‘Let’s go inside. I’ll tell you all about it over a nightcap, then we’ll hit the hay. But if you want my opinion… There’s no doubt Billy Leech is involved in all that’s been happening. He’s obsessed with serial killers, and I remembered something he said to me during one of our sessions, and I think it’s important.’
‘What?’
‘He asked whether I thought psychopaths were superior beings. Their ability to take actions the rest of us shy away from–’
‘Superior? You’re kidding me. Most of ’em are fucking mental.’
Doc let that oversimplification slip by, as he was in no mood to try educating Jack to change his views. Not tonight, anyway. He just wanted to slip into bed beside Judy.
‘His argument has some merit, Jack.’ Doc slid out of the car and used his remote to lock the garage door behind it as soon as Jack joined him on the steps to the front door. ‘Some of our greatest war leaders displayed psychopathic traits, and Billy had been researching famous historical figures he felt fitted the bill.’
‘Like who? Hitler?’
‘He was on the list, but our very own Winston Churchill was, too.’
‘Winnie? No way!’
‘As I said, his argument is valid, given some of the war crimes committed by that famous hero of World War Two, but more to the point, I now suspect Billy hero worships psychopaths in general. His bedroom is like a shrine to them, with one man elevated above all others.’
‘His uncle. Peter Leech.’
‘Uh-huh. And now I suspect Billy thinks he is genetically superior to the normal population. Including his mother and grandmother. Especially them.’
Doc poked his key in the front door latch as Jack asked, ‘Are they in danger? Is that why his mum was so freaked out?’
‘She was in a bit of a state, clearly trying to hold it all together. And I could see she was keeping something back. I got the impression she wasn’t telling me half of what’s been going on. We need to talk to them both, together, and that way we’ll get the full story. She said she’d call me, but I think we should go there first thing in the morning.’
‘Not give the little bastard time to poke off out?’
‘Yes. If Billy is as manipulative as I think, we should catch him unawares.’
‘Sounds like a good idea to me, Doc. Now, how about that nightcap and you can fill me in on the details?’
Doc closed the front door on the world outside, unaware that Billy Leech was implementing plans of his own – and would soon wreak such havoc in central London that it would reverberate all the way to Pangbourne, and leave them both devastated.
***
Harley Street is a quiet Marylebone backwater during the day, with minimal traffic compared to many of the surrounding roads. At two o’clock in the morning, it is deserted, with only the occasional passing car or taxi using it to cut through to, or from, other more exciting London venues.
The old Volvo arrived outside the Caduceus Clinic and parked alongside the luxury vehicles that cost many times the average national income. Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Porsches and Rolls Royces were hogging the limited number of parking spots available, but the Bentley that often sat in the designated bay outside Professor Maddox’s clinic was missing tonight so the Volvo driver eased his car into its place.
A heavy-set man, overdressed for the cool summer night in a parka with the hood up and a scarf wrapped beneath his nose, obscuring his features from the CCTV cameras bristling from every wall, front entrance and corner along the street, exited the vehicle and opened the boot. A lone taxi passed him, but he kept his head down and once the cab had disappeared, he hoisted a large grey jerrycan from the rear of his car, then lugged it to the clinic’s front door.
While hunched over the step, he opened the steel canister and poured some powder into it, roughly a third of the bag he held – one that looked like it contained a kilo of sugar. He then resealed the jerrycan, gave it a shake and left it standing on the step. A second container that matched the first was also hauled from the rear of the car and treated with powder, but this time the man splashed some of the contents over the door, and allowed much of the liquid to flow below it to the hallway floor inside.
A McLaren’s headlights passed over the man as he returned to his ancient Volvo, still with his neck bent and his face obscured from view, but the supercar’s driver was oblivious to whatever was going on in Harley Street tonight, and did not even spare a glance at the incongruous vehicle or the overdressed pedestrian.
The man in the parka stood by the boot and opened a green bottle, half full of fluid, and added some powder to that, then screwed the cap back on before placing it on the pavement. After repeating the exercise, he shredded a cotton cloth into three strips and sloshed some of the contents of the third bottle onto them before tying each a
round the bottlenecks. Then he slammed the boot closed, got in the car, drove it around the corner, and left it with the engine running and the driver’s door wide as he sprinted back to the waiting Molotov cocktails.
With no motorists or other pedestrians in sight, he took the three bottles to the middle of the road and lit each of the rags tied around their necks, hefted the first, then lobbed it at an upstairs window. The glass exploded in a burst of orange, yellow and green flames, but already a second bottle was arcing through the air, and that too detonated as it disintegrated a first-floor window. An alarm was pealing and some neighbouring security lights flashed on, illuminating the man in a harsh white glare as he tossed the third bottle at the front door, then sprinted back around the corner to his car.
The final blast was many times more powerful than the first two, and set off car alarms along the street as the front facade and entrance to the clinic turned into an almighty fireball engulfing the hallway before rolling up the stairs, green and yellow tongues licking their way to the upper floors, to join their junior partners there.
The Volvo sped away, and the driver, grinning wildly behind the scarf still covering his mouth, was unable to hear the panic-stricken screams coming from the residential apartment on the upper level.
Despite the numerous alarms sounding across this elite sector of London, the emergency services took several minutes to arrive, with a police patrol car first on the scene. By the time the two uniformed policemen had taken stock, and before they had even had a chance to speak to the few residents who had come on to the street to view the inferno, the Volvo was well on its way to the M4, having joined light traffic in Mayfair before passing Hyde Park Corner and then cruising along Knightsbridge to the Cromwell Road.
None of the residents had seen what had happened, and the Volvo registration and the driver’s actions were only identified by the police after they had secured the area and obtained video evidence from the residences opposite and adjacent. Even then, it turned out that the license plate had been altered, probably with black insulating tape. The crude technique, often used by criminals on getaway vehicles, had turned an F to an E, and an E to a B on the Volvo’s plates Fortunately, the artifice was not able to fool the Automatic Number Plate Recognition computers that checked every car of that make on London’s roads that night. The Met soon located the owner’s records through the national database.
It was shortly after four o’clock in the morning when a terrorist alert was broadcast to all UK police forces, notifying them of the attack, along with details of the perpetrator’s vehicle, his name and home address.
As the alert surfed the airwaves, the Volvo’s engine was still cooling while parked on the owner’s tiny driveway in a downmarket suburb of Reading. An unmarked patrol car, with lights dimmed, engine purring gently, took a slow pass by the house. A swift radio call confirmed the presence of the Volvo at the owner’s home, now with its number plate unadulterated, before the police car departed using the same degree of stealth as it had when it arrived.
Minutes later, in the pre-dawn half-light, a team of fourteen paramilitary Metropolitan Police officers, dressed in plain grey fatigues, each carrying Sig 516 semi-automatic rifles and holstered Glock 9mm pistols, arrived in pairs at the end of the road astride seven BMW F800 motorcycles. The elite Counter Terrorist Specialist Firearms Officers had been dispatched from central London some thirty minutes prior, and sped at one hundred and twenty miles an hour along the M4 motorway before arriving at their target location in south Reading.
They dismounted and filed along the pavement, crouching below the level of the broken fences and scrubby hedgerows bordering the cramped front gardens, their rubber soled boots muffling any sound as they crept towards the house. Once on scene, they split into two groups, with six men ducking through the side gate to the rear of the premises. The remaining officers took up positions at the front.
Two of the men at the rear had a cautious look inside the wooden shed at the end of the garden, shining their torches through the grimy windows before returning to their colleagues.
One of the men at the front of the building placed a strip of explosive charge around the edges of the door, then scuttled back to join his waiting comrades, some behind the car and others behind the low concrete garden-wall facing on to the street. On a silent signal from the leader, the device detonated and the door flew inwards, just as four flash bang grenades were propelled through the front windows, with four more fired through the ones at the rear of the property.
The crump of explosions rocked the street a second or so before the officers swarmed into the house, front and rear, yelling, ‘Armed Police!’ but they found no one inside.
After securing the premises the senior officer radioed his headquarters, where their Commander was waiting, watching the live feed via the team’s body cameras. Moments later, he relayed the Commander’s message to his men:
‘Boss says we’ve got to wait for the Bomb Squad to check out the workshop in the garden. Unbelievable… They send us all the way out here, instruct us to storm the suspect’s home, giving us zero intel, and only now do they tell us to wait in case the place is bleedin booby trapped!’
***
Thirty minutes before the police arrived, Billy recovered his bicycle from the hallway of Smiffy’s house. He had taken it from the car boot when he’d loaded his jerrycans and petrol bombs, and had left his prized machine securely stored and well away from prying eyes. With the parka hood and scarf still covering his head, he pedalled along the deserted streets to join the Kennet and Avon canal a few minutes ride to the south. He decided on a circuitous route back to Bucklebury Common, looping away from his destination before heading north, all the while avoiding the main roads. It was important to do so, as he was sure the police would soon be descending on the address linked to the car’s registration.
Once on the canal towpath, he was beyond the few CCTV cameras that dotted some of the commercial premises in south Reading, but ever cunning, he kept the parka hood up. In the unlikely event he was spotted by anyone out and about this early, he was confident they would not connect him with the criminal actions undertaken in London during the last few hours – and with his features disguised, it did not matter much anyway.
In the weak early dawn light, Billy’s face shone with sweat and malicious glee, his eyes triumphant as he pedalled at speed. Although he had not slept, his entire being buzzed with energy, his brain sizzling with excitement at the things he had achieved since the weekend began.
And tomorrow, it’s my birthday!
Sixteen.
Yet so mature, so wise. Thanks to Uncle Peter.
When he reached the clearing where he’d parked the car the evening before, he changed out of Smiffy’s clothes, removed the translucent latex gloves he had been wearing most of the night, and pulled on his cycling kit. With the parka and other garments stuffed in the cloth carrier bag dangling from the handlebars, Billy sped along the road to his Nana’s house, dismounted at a jog as he reached the driveway, and then stowed the bike in the garage.
Before heading into the house, he filled his sports water bottle from the garden tap, went to the cellar entrance and unlocked the door, then descended to the gloomy interior. The stench of urine made him pause before he went to his victim, who was now struggling with his bindings, trying to speak through the tape covering his mouth, croaking urgent wordless pleas for help at his visitor.
‘Sorry Smiffy. No one’s come to rescue you.’ Billy ripped the tape from his tutor’s eyes. ‘See. It’s just little old me.’ He slipped his knife into his hand and the blade flicked at the terrified man’s face. Smiffy groaned, his eyes swivelling, head jerking away from the blade as he tried to put some distance between himself and the weapon, unsuccessfully.
‘You’re shit scared, aren’t you? Pathetic old man.’
Billy stabbed the blade through the centre of the tape covering Smiffy’s mouth, and then fed the straw from his water bottle
through the small slit he had made.
‘Drink it all. We don’t want you dying of dehydration, do we, Smiffy? I’ve got a use for you…’
Smiffy relaxed, drank the contents without a break, eyes now grateful, less fearful.
Probably thinks I’m not going to kill him…
‘You’re an impressive man, Smiffy.’
Confused now, forehead wrinkling, eyes questioning.
‘Like a magician!’ Billy giggled, then his laughter echoed around the cellar. ‘You being in two places at once, like you did last night! Hahaha!’
Billy ripped some tape from the roll, and Smiffy struggled, trying to avoid the strip being plastered across his eyes, but to no avail. Another strip covered the one already over his mouth, closing off the drinking hole.
‘There we go. I’ll see you later. Keep quiet.’ Billy ruffled Smiffy’s hair. ‘If anyone discovers you, I will have to kill you. And you aren’t the first, so don’t think I won’t. So, keep quiet. Do as I say, and you’ll get out of this alive. I’ll even bring you a bit of food later, if you’re good…’
A whimper was the only response, so Billy left his victim, locked the cellar door and let himself into the house. All quiet still. There had been a slight possibility his mother would still be up, waiting for him, although her urgent SMS demands for his return had ceased some hours before.
He crept past her bedroom door, ears alert for any sounds from within, then climbed to the attic. He thought nothing could spoil his mood this morning, he was still on a high from the adrenalin, but seeing how his room had been violated, his things carelessly tossed around, his drawers broken into, he felt hatred and rage well up inside him.
Then he saw the end wall. The poster of Uncle Peter had gone.
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.
Gaslighting (DP, DIC03) Page 26
