No Remorse: DI Lomas Baxter - Book 2 (DI Lomas Baxter series)

  No Remorse

  DI Lomas Baxter Book 2

  Heath Gunn

  Page Turner Publications

  Copyright © 2021 Heath Gunn

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-978-1-9162957-4-2 (E-Book Kindle)

  ISBN- 978-1-9162957-5-9 (Paperback)

  Front cover image by Stuart Bache,

  Books Covered.

  First printing edition 2021.

  Page Turner Publications

  20-22 Wenlock Road

  London

  N1 7GU

  www.heathgunn.com

  For my kids, Mitchell and Kayleigh, who have been simultaneously making me feel young and old at the same time for twenty-four years.

  1

  Tuesday

  Monica Silverman heard muffled voices from outside her cell door, accompanied by the rattle of keys.

  ‘I wish they’d leave me the fuck alone,’ she said under her breath.

  The hatch slid open and Bob Anderson stuck his cheery face into the gap.

  ‘Monica, it’s Bob Anderson. We’re going to open the door – please stand at the back of your room.’

  She thought Bob was all right, as screws go. He didn’t give her any hassle and was always polite enough – but she just wanted to be left alone.

  ‘What’s she doing, Bob?’ Monica recognised the new voice. It was Gill O’Leary – a chubby, middle-aged woman with curly brown hair and thick-rimmed glasses, who grated on Monica’s last nerve.

  Monica chose not to react to Bob’s instruction, then she heard him say, ‘Nothing. She’s just sat on her bed, staring at the floor. I fucking hate it when she doesn’t move.’

  She allowed herself a smile. She knew that her inaction would wind them up. If I sat still for long enough, maybe they’d fuck off.

  ‘Ask her again,’ said a squeaky woman. A new voice.

  ‘Monica, we need to come in and speak to you. Can you please stand against the back wall of your room?’

  For fuck’s sake. Well, if they’re not going to leave me alone, I’m going to have some fun.

  She stood up from her bed and walked to the back of the room without looking in their direction. Then she sat on the floor, cross-legged, rested her hands on her thighs and closed her eyes, as if she was ready to meditate. Bob let out a heavy sigh.

  ‘What is it, Bob?’ asked the squeaky one.

  ‘She’s fucking meditating at the back of her room,’ said Bob.

  Monica took his exasperation as a small victory.

  ‘Oh well, it could be a lot worse,’ said Gill. She was right. Monica could make life a lot worse. She opened her eyes just enough to see through her eyelashes.

  ‘Come on then, in we go,’ Bob prompted his colleagues. The door handle turned slowly.

  Bob and the two female officers stepped into Monica’s cell in a V formation, the women standing at Bob’s shoulders, primed and looking ready to pull him out of the cell.

  They took another step forward. As they did, Monica slapped the floor, hard. All three screws jumped back half a step. Bob gasped. Monica saw him. She saw them all. They absolutely shit themselves. She lifted her head to look at them and couldn’t resist a smile.

  ‘That wasn’t funny, Monica.’ Bob shook his head.

  It fucking was. I just about managed not to laugh out loud.

  ‘We’ve been sent to bring you to the office, so I need you to get up, slowly, and turn around, so we can put some restraints on you,’ Bob told her.

  ‘If she wants to speak to me, why doesn’t she come down here?’

  ‘You know that’s not how it works. Now come on, let’s not make this difficult.’

  ‘Why would we make it difficult, Bob? After all, we’re all friends here, aren’t we?’ She watched Bob, unmoving. She looked from one screw to the other, figuring out who she could have the most fun with on the way to the governor’s office. The squeaky one was new. Her ID said she was called Beth, and she looked young and a bit ditzy.

  Monica Silverman was a convicted serial killer who, in the judge’s words, had ‘carried out multiple heinous acts, including abducting, torturing and dismembering a number of women’ before being caught. She’d been inside for three months. In that time she had assaulted six prison officers – one, they said, was unlikely to ever work again, such was the extent of her injuries. She’d also assaulted quite a few inmates.

  She’d learned a long time ago how to appear removed and cold. This made her almost impossible to read. To date, no one in prison had come close to giving her anything resembling trouble. She was bigger than most women – not out of shape, just big. Monica had been a champion hammer thrower before she got locked up, and this gave her a massive advantage over her peers in terms of strength and power.

  ‘Come on then, Monica, let’s get on with it,’ Bob said. He glanced over his shoulder at the two officers on either side of him, who stood, poised.

  Right, time to have some fun, Monica thought.

  Beth and Gill nearly jumped out of their skins when Monica thrust her arms out in front of her, pressed the sides of her feet into the floor and sprang to a standing position, as flexible as an Olympic gymnast. Bob instinctively took a step back; Beth and Gill moved with him. He didn’t take his eyes off Monica. She just stood there: statuesque, grinning at the three of them. They all looked freaked out.

  ‘Turn around and face the wall,’ said Bob, clearing his throat and trying his best to sound authoritative.

  ‘Oh, I love it when you’re masterful.’ She laughed. ‘Don’t you two just love it?’

  ‘That’s enough, Monica. Now turn around and face the wall.’ Bob raised his voice.

  ‘Oh all right, calm yourself. I was only having a bit of fun.’ She decided to play along for a minute and see what happened next. She turned and faced the wall of her cell and, without being prompted, put her hands behind her back. Monica heard the screws shuffle forward together, staying in formation, in case they needed to restrain her. Bob closed the ratchet handcuffs around her wrists and turned her around to leave the cell. As Bob guided Monica, Beth and Gill moved around to his flank. They started to walk her towards the cell door. About a metre from the door, Monica realised their mistake. She grinned.

  They’d fucked up – and put her between them and the doorway.

  She kicked the door frame hard, throwing herself back into the guards, bowling them over like skittles.

  Beth was on her knees in front of Monica. Monica kicked her with full force, catching her under the jaw, forcing her head back. It smashed against the cold, hard, floor.

  One down, two to go, she thought.

  Before they could stop her, she rounded on Gill, who was scrambling to her feet. Monica swept Gill’s legs out from under her then stamped on her forearm as she lay on the floor. The crack of breaking bone, and her accompanying scream, gave Monica a real buzz. Bob was bigger and slower than his team-mates. When Gill screamed, Monica grinned at Bob, then threw herself towards him, driving her forehead into his face, splitting his nose and smashing his top lip against his teeth. She rocked back onto her knees as he instinctively raised his hands to his bleeding face.

  He looked defenceless. She was enjoying herself.
/>
  She dived forward again and sank her teeth into his forearm, biting down and ripping out a chunk of flesh. Bob let out a blood-curdling howl.

  Monica stood and looked at the three of them, on the floor, all helpless. She didn’t want to kill them, even though she could easily have done so. To her, it was just a bit of fun.

  Monica stood for what felt like an age, staring at Bob.

  A full response team came racing through the door, summoned by Gill who’d pulled her alarm. Monica looked at them, unflinching, her face smeared with Bob’s blood, spitting out bits of his flesh.

  ***

  Bob watched, holding his arm, as the team took Monica to the floor. She didn’t fight back; she just grinned. They dragged her to her feet and marched her out of the cell. Bob didn’t move.

  Next, a team of medics came rushing in, accompanied by more prison officers. Beth lay motionless on the floor. Ignoring his own injuries, Bob scrambled to her side and took her wrist, checking for a pulse.

  ‘We need to get Beth out of here and to hospital, along with you and Gill,’ said Charles, one of the prison medics. ‘Can you walk? Gill, what about you?’

  They nodded. Gill was cradling her arm, her face contorted in pain. Bob had blood streaming from his face and arm, and was starting to feel drowsy. He swayed back and forth, then his legs crumpled beneath him. He crashed to the floor beside Beth, aware of the frenzied activity around him but unable to focus, unable to speak. His head swam. The room became a blur of lights and noise, which all seemed to be getting further and further away. He tried to speak, tried to call for help, but nothing came. No sound, no words. His eyes closed slowly – he was too weak to hold them open. Then the sounds around him ebbed away to nothing and all went black.

  2

  The response team bundled Monica into an isolation cell. For sport, she managed to bounce one of them off the door frame as they steered her inside. As soon as she was inside the cell, she felt the familiar release and speedy exit of the prison officers. They were all afraid of her and she knew it.

  The heavy steel door banged closed and an out-of-breath voice barked a meaningless instruction at her through the observation hatch. She didn’t catch what they said before they slammed it shut.

  She was alone again.

  She allowed herself a brief smile of victory, stepped backwards until her back touched the cold door, then slid down it to sit on the floor. Monica found the solid doors reassuring: she knew that, while they stayed locked, she had the solitude she craved and no one placing demands on her.

  Monica was three months into five life sentences, set to run consecutively. She knew she would never get out of prison. She’d decided she was smarter than most inmates and that her crimes, and her physicality, made her a formidable prisoner. She was pretty sure she was feared by fellow inmates and guards alike. This amused her. For the first couple of weeks she’d used the communal exercise yard, dining room and showers as her own private playground, picking off victims at will, with no one quick enough or strong enough to stop her - always making sure she was out of the sight of Guards. She’d carried on just as she had done before her arrest: picking on the petite and the timid, girls that reminded her of her mother, with their perfect hair, swaying hips and annoyingly perfect bodies. She didn’t feel the need to kill them; she just had some fun with them.

  In week three things had changed. As she was dragged out of another session of isolation by visibly anxious guards she was told something she hadn’t expected to hear.

  ‘You’re going up to see the governor,’ one of the three prison officers said as they handcuffed her hands behind her back.

  ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘Because I was told you are. Now get a move on, Silverman.’

  She found his tone rude and noted his name … for later.

  She was pushed roughly along the corridor towards a steep set of metal steps, through two heavy locked doors and into a carpeted corridor. The lead officer leaned around her and knocked on an office door, then they walked her through into a basic reception area.

  ‘Monica Silverman to see the governor,’ the guard said to a stern-looking woman in her fifties with tortoiseshell glasses and a high forehead. Monica stood silently, compliant.

  ‘Go through, she’s expecting you,’ Tortoiseshell replied, nodding towards another door. The three officers marched Monica into the governor’s office then took a step back to line up behind her. The office smelled of expensive perfume and leather chairs – not overwhelming, quite nice.

  ‘Monica Silverman, please take a seat.’ A woman in a smart navy skirt suit sat at the desk. Monica did as she was told and sat down in a comfortable grey chair, in front of a curved grey desk. The woman, who had straight, shoulder-length blonde hair, smiled at her. Monica didn’t get smiled at very often. She noticed that the governor had nice teeth.

  ‘I’m Governor Dominicali, and you, Miss Silverman, are causing too many problems for my team. This is something that will not be tolerated, whether you have a five-year sentence or five life sentences. You pose a unique problem for an establishment such as this. My officers, as well trained as they are, are not used to the level of aggression that you are displaying. In addition, your fellow inmates have a different idea of what makes a formidable prisoner – well, at least they did until you arrived.’ She paused. Monica felt the governor’s eyes inspecting her, as if she was searching for a reaction. Monica returned the searching look with an emotionless stare.

  ‘Am I going to have a problem with you, Miss Silverman?’

  ‘Probably, Governor.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  Dominicali didn’t rise to the bait. Instead she shifted her attention to the three officers and said something that surprised Monica.

  ‘Leave us,’ she said flatly to the officers.

  ‘Ma’am, are you sure?’ the lead officer stuttered.

  ‘Yes, quite sure, thank you, Mr Stevens.’

  ‘OK, we’ll be outside, ma’am.’

  ‘Thank you. Do close the door on your way out.’

  The three guards turned and left, as instructed. As soon as they had closed the door, Dominicali got up and walked around towards Monica, then perched on the desk. Monica felt a spike of arousal as the split in the governor’s skirt opened, revealing a glimpse of a well-toned thigh. The governor clearly looked after herself. Monica moved her gaze up to meet Dominicali’s, who smiled at her again, making it clear she’d seen her looking.

  Monica wasn’t bothered.

  ‘You and I need to have little chat,’ the governor said.

  Monica sat up straighter and looked her in the eye. ‘Oh?’

  ‘You have a unique set of skills that, if given the right level of focus and direction, could be very useful.’

  ‘I don’t follow, Governor.’

  ‘You will. Stay with me.’ The governor returned to her own side of the desk and sat down. ‘We have some prisoners here who, for whatever reason, were given completely inappropriate sentences by the presiding judge. The result is that these low-lives squander taxpayers’ money and we just have to smile sweetly and take it.’

  ‘So, where do I come in?’

  ‘You, my dear Monica, are in the perfect place, with the perfect opportunity and the perfect set of skills, to help me rebalance the scales.’

  ‘Sorry, I still don’t follow.’ Monica was deliberately being obtuse. The governor sighed and steepled her fingers in front of her face. Monica decided it wasn’t a kind face, or one to be trusted, so she decided to stick to her vague, non-compliant approach.

  ‘OK, let me spell it out for you. We have women in here who are serving very little time for crimes that should’ve resulted in life sentences. And, if the law had any balls, death sentences. What I’m proposing is, that in exchange for some bespoke privileges and a more comfortable time in here, you help me by clearing out the trash. How does that sound?’

  ‘Like an abuse of power?’

  Dominicali rolled h
er eyes. ‘And you, of all people, are in a position to turn down such an offer? I think not. Let’s face it, you have a talent for what you do. You evaded capture for long enough to allow you to kill repeatedly and you’re stuck in here for life, whether you like it or not.’

  ‘So when you say you want to rebalance the scales, or clear out the trash, what you’re actually saying is that you would like me to kill my fellow inmates on your behalf?’

  ‘Kill, torture, frighten – it depends what’s called for, I guess.’ The governor said with a shrug.

  ‘And who decides what’s called for? You?’

  ‘Of course. Who do you think?’

  ‘I’m not good at following instructions – or hadn’t you noticed?’

  ‘Ha ha, yes, that had come to my attention on more than one occasion. I don’t have to be prescriptive. I can give you the target and you can pull the trigger, so to speak, in any way you see fit.’

  ‘OK. Let’s say, hypothetically, that I’m interested in your offer. What’s in it for me?’

  ‘What would you like?’

  Monica paused, just long enough to judge that Dominicali was becoming uncomfortable with the length of the silence. Then, just before the governor filled the quiet, Monica spoke.

  ‘A more comfortable cell, for a start. The hole you’ve thrown me in is crappy.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And access to the gym. The screws stopped me going after I accidentally hit someone with a dumbbell.’

  Dominicali laughed. ‘It was hardly accidental. You hit her around the side of the face with a twenty-kilo weight.’

  ‘I meant to hit her in the nose, ergo, an accident.’

  ‘Anything else?’ asked the governor, clearly not impressed by Monica’s counter.

  ‘Only one thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You let me deal with them in whichever way I see fit. No interference.’