The George Elms Trilogy Box Set

by Charlie Gallagher

  ‘Now you’re talking like you think this will happen!’

  ‘I’m talking like I don’t want to be caught out if it does. We need to understand the risk from the victims’ families. There’s a lot of work to be done. I want to meet with the team up in Herefordshire who led the investigation sooner rather than later. That team may not know this is on the table. I don’t think it will go down well.’

  ‘Jesus! I imagine it won’t. You said need to know. Why do I need to know any of this?’

  ‘You’re a detective, George and a bloody good one. What do you think?’

  ‘And I was naïve enough to think I was just a pair of ears. Passing on what he told me. What more do you need?’

  ‘We need to go to Wales. I’ve managed to find us some accommodation up there, a place called Symonds Yat. It suits our needs. It’s the village where Roberts lived.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Well, George, since I figured you’re kinda half way there . . .’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Ha! Don’t be ridiculous! Not right now, George! Finish your tea first.’

  Chapter 2

  Symonds Yat, despite sounding like the most Welsh place George had ever heard of, turned out to be very much an English village. Bordering Wales, it lay among steep, dramatic hills with the River Wye slithering through its middle. The details of his rushed accommodation had come through via email. Symonds Yat was a small village; it had a campsite, a couple of pubs and a few businesses offering adventure on the River Wye or in the Forest of Dean, which finished where the village started. George passed plenty of B&Bs, but his accommodation was a house — a holiday let. Rather ominously, it could only be let for a week at a time. George considered that was the reason it was booked in the first place.

  He parked on a raised gravel bank under signs that read Wye View Villa. He stepped out of his car into a pleasant evening. He was high up on one side of the valley and the sun was dipping low behind him, slashing the forest opposite in half. The bottom half was the dulled grey of the river and the brown of the muddy banks and tiled homes; the top half was a vivid green where the sun was still strong across the canopy of trees. It was breathtaking. George walked up a steep path and pushed at a low gate. The springs creaked and the gate crashed back against a rubber bung. He could hear a dog barking, small and yappy. It was getting closer. Suddenly it burst into sight — a Jack Russell. It stopped short and, barking incessantly, bared its teeth.

  ‘Sharkey! SHARKEY! Sorry about him!’ A woman’s shrieking voice. She appeared from George’s right in a faux leopard skin top over leggings. Her hair was dyed brown but showing its natural grey at the roots. She had a cigarette on the go and oversized sunglasses that covered most of her face. The dog ignored her completely. She nudged it with her foot. Its bark changed to a growl and its teeth stayed on display.

  ‘Hopefully his bark is worse than his bite?’ George said.

  ‘He doesn’t bite so much anymore.’

  ‘Oh. Not so much, well that is a relief. Has he eaten tonight? He looks hungry is all.’

  The woman laughed. ‘Oh yeah, he’s eaten all right. He won’t leave me alone of an evening until he does. Hang on.’ She bent down and picked him up. She tucked him under her arm. His growl seemed to worsen.

  ‘You’re renting Wye View, I assume?’ She gestured at the house beyond George. He took the opportunity to look at it closely for the first time. It was a whitewashed semi-detached house split over three floors. The middle floor had a good-sized balcony. There was a wooden bench out front on a patch of gravel. It looked like the perfect place to sit and take in those incredible views.

  ‘Yeah. I guess I am.’

  ‘You sound surprised about it! You here on your own?’

  ‘No. I have a . . . friend joining me later. I was thinking they might be here by now.’ George wondered what she might think when a man who was as near as dammit sixty and still held himself like a sergeant major came marching to the door in his day suit. He thought fast. ‘We like our hiking. Something we’ve always done, you know? It gets us away from the wives. I hear its good round here.’

  ‘Ah, yes. We get a lot of hikers. Mountain bikers, too . . . climbers . . . kayakers. This was voted in the top ten places to visit for the outdoorsy-type in Britain.’

  ‘Sounds ideal. So which one are you?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yeah. Are you the hiker, the biker or the boat thing?’

  ‘I’m the retiree. I sit and watch from up here. That’s about as active as I get!’

  ‘Sounds very sensible.’

  ‘Well, nice to meet you er . . .’

  ‘George.’

  ‘George. I’m Valerie. I live here with Clive — he’s my partner. Well, my latest one at least!’ She chuckled, George joined in. ‘This entrance bit here is communal. I try and keep hold of Sharkey best I can but he does like to come and see who’s coming in. It’s good for me, for security, like. But just shoo him away.’

  Sharkey was still showing his teeth. George didn’t fancy pushing his leg out towards them. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

  ‘I assume you’re here for the week then? Did you get the instructions when you booked? He leaves the key in the porch there. You should be able to just walk in. We’re a very trusting bunch round here. We don’t get any trouble, see. Just as well, the police are pretty useless!’ She chuckled again. So did George. He walked to the house, leaving the woman remonstrating with Sharkey over where he had chosen to urinate.

  The key was actually hanging in the door. George moved through it and into the big kitchen that was straight in front. There was a handwritten note welcoming him and offering a pint of milk in the fridge. There were also some neatly arranged leaflets for things to do in the area. George flicked through them: a beauty spot, a tin mine tour, guided forest walks, a steam railway and afternoon tea.

  ‘Sounds like a cracking idea to me,’ George said and he clicked the kettle on.

  George walked his drink out to the front bench to make the most of the view. The swathe of light was now almost to the top of the treeline. Soon it would be dark. The email had said that they had meetings planned for the next morning. Whittaker had signed off by saying, you might beat me by some distance as I have some loose ends to tie up before the trip. George already knew his chief inspector well enough to interpret that statement. He reckoned he could expect him the next day — and he would most likely be late for any meeting. George finished his tea and freshened up. He found a local pub right on the banks of the river. He was back after a couple of pints and sure enough, the Major still hadn’t materialised. At 11 p.m. he put the key in a pair of wellington boots in the porch and sent a message with its location before going to bed. He smiled to himself. The amount of times he had given security advice, telling people not to put a key under their mat or anywhere so damned obvious. Symonds Yat seemed like such a quiet, safe place, just as the neighbour had said. He hoped that was the case, it sounded like the local police weren’t up to much.

  Chapter 3

  There! He’d caught a glimpse of her. He always got a flutter in his stomach when he found her. The station was busy — rush hour. The 07:20 to Ludlow was already idling on the platform with a low buzz, its doors hanging open. Men and women with their suits, briefcases and shined shoes stepped aboard, the girl among them. She was two carriages up from where he stood on the platform. But today he was going to get closer. Maybe even close enough to hear her voice. He imagined how she might sound: well-spoken, cheery. He imagined how she might smile when she saw him, how she might play with her hair, cross her legs towards him like he had read in the books. He licked his lips and boarded the train.

  People were shuffling along, trying to find seats alone. Most of those already seated had headphones in or were already bent into newspapers or novels. As he moved through them they took no notice; they had no idea of who he was or why he was there. He pushed through the first set of doors which clattered shut behin
d him. It was a beautiful train: solid, made of real materials like wood and metal — part of the old stock. They would be replacing it soon. He had seen the new trains: all pointed noses, plastic, wipe-clean surfaces and automatic doors. Soulless. He was half way through the next carriage.

  He could see her!

  She was sitting down, facing his approach, and reading something on her phone. He walked into her carriage. There were a few vacant seats — one directly opposite her! He couldn’t sit there, not yet. He would build up to that. She was on the left side, he moved to the right. He could still face her. He wasn’t directly opposite but it was a good view. Perfect.

  The train jerked as a gear was engaged. He heard a sharp whistle from outside. It prompted hurried movement on the platform through the window. A flustered-looking woman threw herself through the door. She was fat and her face was blotched red with exertion. He did nothing to hide his disgust, his lips turned up in a sneer. Her eyes met his and then snatched away immediately. She moved to a seat that faced away from him.

  He turned back to the seated blonde. She always looked elegant, but today even more so. He ran his eyes over her. He started at the brilliant red heels, then took in her long legs. They were crossed, left over right, and gripped in black tights. She had on a smart black dress that was pulled tight across her thigh. The top of the dress cut in round the neck. She had a white blouse beneath with three buttons undone and a wide, red belt round her middle. Her hair was down today and tousled. Sometimes she wore it back in a single ponytail. Sometimes she straightened it. Tousled was his favourite. It showed off her hair the best. It was blonde, but had light and dark tones that mingled together. Her hair shuffled against her dress and cascaded over her breasts when she flicked the fringe out of her face. She smiled. Those beautiful blue eyes lit with humour behind black-rimmed glasses. Something on her phone was holding her attention, making her laugh. He felt a pang of jealousy — more than a pang, it was hard to control. He wanted to go over there and snatch the phone off her, then sit right opposite her and become the thing she was focused on, the thing she was smiling at.

  Patience.

  The train moved off. She peered out of the window momentarily and then her eyes dropped back to her phone screen. She had a bag between her ankles. She reached down and pulled out a white cable with headphones attached. She didn’t normally listen to music. She huffed, suddenly annoyed. Her attention back to her phone. She lifted it to her ear.

  ‘Hey, you okay?’ she said.

  The voice . . . there it was! Beautiful. Just as he had imagined. She giggled a little and her annoyance fell away immediately. She moved to tuck a long strand of blonde behind her ear. Maybe she was talking to a boy? A boyfriend maybe. The pang was back, but it was stronger this time. It was more like a fury. It swept through him and he had to plant his feet on the ground so he wouldn’t step over to her. He wanted to demand to know who it was and why she was talking into her phone rather than talking to him. She didn’t even know he fucking existed! She would. Soon enough.

  He closed his eyes. He thought that if he didn’t watch those perfect lips smiling into the phone, forming words and giggling, a beautiful song sung to another; if he didn’t see it, he could pretend that she was just talking out loud. Maybe she was! Maybe it was her way of giving him a message — if she was shy, perhaps? He listened closely.

  ‘No, I can’t tonight. I’m staying late at work for a social. Amy’s been trying to organise one for ages and people keep letting her down. I said I would go tonight, even if no one else did . . . No, it won’t be a late one, I’m back at work tomorrow morning, just a few drinks . . . It won’t be anything like that! That was just the once. I’m just sorry you had to be there to see it . . . No, I won’t! I’ll be on the last train home. That’s the problem with living out in the sticks see, you can’t get back into historic Ross-on-Wye after 10 p.m.! They shut the gates . . . Yes, that’s right. Okay then, I’ll speak to you later. Sorry!’

  The call ended. He still didn’t open his eyes. His breathing had quickened, he was panicking under the surface. She was getting a later train. Tonight! This was his opportunity. The train would be quiet, dead quiet. She would be all his. If he wanted her! His mum always said to him you can get anything you want. You just have to want it enough. He wanted her enough but he wasn’t ready. His mum was expecting him back and she couldn’t look after herself. He’d made no arrangements to be home late. She knew he was out riding the trains today; he did it every day. But he was always back by six. Back in time for tea. Back on the busy commuter train. With her.

  His routine was set in stone. Monday to Friday on the trains, out with her and home with her. Then cursing the weekends, wishing them away. There was that one fortnight where she hadn’t been on the train. He’d got so worked up that the conductor had called him an ambulance for the next stop. They had given him oxygen, told him he was having a panic attack. He wasn’t panicking — it wasn’t that. It was his heart; it was bursting — he had needed to see her again! She did come back — three days later in a shorter skirt than normal and no tights. Her top half was a crisp, white blouse and tanned skin. Her hair was lighter and she had a new wristband. It had beads on a black strap. It looked handmade. He struggled to get it out of his mind that someone had made it for her, a holiday romance perhaps?

  Finally, he opened his eyes. Her headphones were in. She was sat back in the seat, her eyes upwards, her head rocking with the gentle movement of the train. He looked at her exposed neck. It looked so soft, so smooth. He wanted it. He wanted his hand round it. He wanted to control her, to peer deep into those eyes, for her to do everything he told her to. And she would. He had known his day was coming for a long time. Maybe he was ready. He had been patient, waiting for the right time — and this was it, surely? She had been giving him all the signs. It was time.

  Chapter 4

  Dennis Coleman immediately looked hostile. He had opened his door just a crack, enough for George to make out one eye, a chubby cheek flushed red and a balding head with a swathe of brown hair.

  ‘Dennis Coleman? I’m Detective Inspector George Elms.’ He lifted his badge to eye height. It was the same width as the crack in the door. Dennis pulled the door open a little more. George could see he was in cargo shorts and a jumper that was tight over a protruding gut.

  ‘Where’s the badge from? Certainly isn’t local. What is this?’

  ‘You’re right. Lennockshire.’

  ‘Lennockshire?’

  ‘The south coast. You can’t miss it. If you end up in the sea you’ve gone too far.’ George tried a smile. He did his best to look reassuring. ‘If I was a betting man I would say that you were not expecting me.’ There was no way he could have been; George had made a last-minute diversion. He took his badge away. Dennis looked him up and down for the third time.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Just to talk to you. Nothing to worry about. The way I understand it one of your old problems has become my latest one.’

  ‘What problem?’

  ‘Henry Roberts.’

  Dennis’s reaction was instant. His eyes flared wide, and he inhaled sharply. ‘He’s in prison.’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘For the rest of his life.’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  George made a show of looking around. Dennis Coleman lived in a tidy-looking bungalow dug into the hills of Ross-on-Wye. Every dwelling George had seen in this part of the world looked like it had started as a wrestle against nature. Everything was dug out. In Dennis’s case he had noticed a sheer face of rock in the back garden that was easily visible from the road. It was like a permanent reminder from Mother Nature that he was living there with her permission. This particular excavation had five similar looking houses in a neat row.

  ‘Do you mind if we maybe do this inside? I don’t know your neighbours. Specifically I don’t know how good their hearing is.’

  Dennis
still hesitated. He did one last scan of George and then stepped back.

  ‘I still don’t understand what you could need to talk to me about.’

  ‘Thank you.’ George stepped into the hallway. Dennis didn’t move any further. There was no move through to the kitchen, no cheery offer to put the kettle on and definitely no move to the lounge for a soft seat. Dennis stood still in the middle of his hallway. The daylight was restricted where curtains were drawn in other parts of the house.

  ‘I was hoping you might be able to tell me about him. I understand you were the detective sergeant at the time. You’re listed as one of the main players actually—’

  ‘In Roberts’s case?’

  ‘Yeah. I met him yesterday. We had a very brief chat. But I like to know a bit about people, you know? Knowledge is power an’ all that.’

  ‘Why are you even talking to him? He’s in the prison system. We did our bit.’

  George was thinking fast. He hadn’t expected to be met with such suspicion so soon. Dealings with police officers were usually simple. Coppers liked to help coppers and they rarely needed preliminaries. George still hadn’t caught up with John Whittaker. He had no idea how much he should be revealing. ‘He’s in a high-security lockup down in my patch. I think you put him there, so I’m sure you were aware of that already. I work with the prisons quite closely and we’re running a pilot down south along with Probation. We found that we were getting criminals who were being released having been influenced or inspired by other prisoners when they were inside. I think some of these lifers have got nothing better to do than to play mind games with other people in there.’

  ‘Roberts is talking with other prisoners? He should be in solitary surely? Or at least limited to other cons with the same sentence.’