‘Yeah, George, about that . . . I figured you could have another night up there. Have a night out on the company, you know? There’s no need to rush back today. I won’t be here anyway.’
‘Out with it, Major.’
‘Say again?’
‘You need something else.’
‘You made an impression, George. On a serial killer. I’m not sure how you should take that. Anyway, he’s never spoken to us before. To the police, I mean. He spoke to you. You have the relationship, and he’ll need to be told that we have an agreement.’
‘I’m not doing it.’
‘You might have to.’
‘There are any number of people who could make themselves available to sit in a room with that piece of shit. Or just tell his solicitors.’
‘He asked for you. In three years he has only ever said a few words and that was immediately after his arrest. He won’t speak to anyone else. We just need to get this over the line. A warranted officer needs to witness him sign his name. That’s it.’
‘What do you mean, he won’t speak to anyone else? I was sent because you couldn’t make it. He was going to speak to whoever turned up yesterday. It just happened to be me!’
‘And it still does.’
‘Jesus, Major! He’s asked for me because he wants to gloat. Because I pissed him off. He wants to see my face when I tell him.’
‘You might be right, George, whatever. This isn’t about pride — not for you — this is about doing your job. Get it done. You have an appointment tomorrow. I figured you could do it on your way back.’
‘Because I’m half way there, right?’
‘Exactly.’
George rubbed his face. He had been absorbed in his call but he looked left, towards the house he had just left. There was movement at the same top window. It would be Mary. Still stuck in limbo. Something needed to change for her.
‘Fine. I’ll tell him and then I’m out.’
‘Thank you, George. I do appreciate it. While I have you, would you like me to pass anything on to the Home Secretary?’
‘If she fired me, would I still have to sit in a room with that man tomorrow and watch him gloat?’
‘Yes, George.’
‘I see. Well, no then.’
Chapter 6
The 21:10 from Ludlow squealed as it came to a stop. The last train back to Hereford.
There was no sign of her!
He was panicking. He could feel it rising up in him again, just like before when it had gotten so bad he couldn’t move. It was a more modern train than this morning. The doors all opened in unison. It was shorter than the commuter train. He could see all four of its carriages. There was some movement on the platform: an older woman who was already sat down reading a book when he got here and a middle-aged man with a backpack and hiking books, clutching a flask. They moved to board the train. He looked up at the clock. Every second clacked by loudly. Time moved on. Less than forty seconds and it was scheduled to leave.
Where was she?
Suddenly he heard the clicking and scraping of someone running in heels. It was her! She appeared to his right. She ran right past him and slowed to a walk as she approached the train. She stopped at the door. She looked a little unsteady as she reached out for a yellow pole. She pulled herself on. He followed her into the carriage. He flushed with a sense of relief and of excitement at the same time. He had to suppress a grin.
The two people he had seen on the platform were already on and settled. He stood in the doorway, waiting for her to choose a seat. She turned so she was facing in his direction. She lifted her right foot and tugged her shoe off. She threw it onto a seat with a table in front while she reached down for the left. She sighed loudly as she moved into the seat. She pushed her head back against the headrest. She had a layer of moisture on her forehead that was just visible in the light. Her fringe was sticking to it. She smiled to herself; it looked like relief.
He took his seat. His position was similar to the one he’d adopted that morning. He was at an angle to her, across the other side of the walkway. He could see her well. There were some other passengers who must have been on the train already, but not many. Maybe five in total in his carriage and they were dotted as far apart as they could get. He looked at them all in turn. They were all listening to music, reading books or magazines, or staring idly out of the window. No one was taking any notice of him.
The door fell shut. The train moved off. She had her eyes closed now. She might even be asleep. It was a forty-minute journey; there was plenty of time to get some rest. He couldn’t rest, though. He couldn’t even relax. He could feel the excitement building in him. He wanted to clap his hands and tell everyone that his day had finally come, that he was so ready. But he needed to be quiet. He needed to be invisible.
The forty minutes seemed to take an age. She woke up for the last fifteen minutes. She looked at her phone. She tutted as she jabbed at it impatiently and then threw it onto the table. The screen was dark. It had to be out of battery. She stretched as the train pulled up. He could see the place sign on the platform beyond her: LUDLOW was underlined in orange.
She picked up her shoes and walked onto the platform barefoot. He waited a few more seconds before he moved off the train. She was slower than the rest of the passengers, she pulled her suit jacket tighter, did up one of the buttons and folded her arms over her front. A bag hung off her forearm. She still looked a little unsteady. The train station was quiet and the lighting was poor. The other passengers dissipated into the surroundings. She walked out of the entrance and towards a car that was ticking over, its lights dipped. They lit up fully as she walked towards it.
A taxi! He hadn’t considered that. She always walked to her car. She parked it in the streets nearby, wherever she could get a spot. She seemed to prefer Holgate Road, maybe because it was one of the few streets that were lit. She had parked there this morning. He’d never considered that she might not be driving home tonight. Of course she’d been out for drinks — how could he be so stupid!
He needed to think fast. She was at the car. He was close enough to hear voices, a rushed conversation through the passenger window. She moved to the back and tugged the door open. He reacted by jogging over himself. The driver looked at him. The window was still down. He hadn’t considered what to say.
‘Cooney?’ He said, hurriedly, then cursed inwardly for giving his real name.
‘No, mate. Sorry, I got my fare. Do you want me to see if someone’s on the way?’
‘Er, yeah, please. I called ahead.’ He could see the sign on the roof carried the number and Wye Taxis. ‘Wye Taxis, right?’ he said.
‘That’s us. You say your name’s Cooney? Where are you going?’
‘Symonds Yat,’ he said, hurriedly.
The man pulled his phone from where it was suckered to the front window. A woman’s voice called out from the back.
‘You’re going to Symonds Yat?’
He leaned forward a little more. She was looking right at him! He couldn’t speak. She was smiling at him, it was so beautiful. Perfection! All of those months watching her, seeing her talk to other people, smile at other people, and now she was smiling at him. She was looking right at him. She had spoken to him!
‘Symonds Yat?’ she said again. Her smile dropped away, she looked unsure.
‘Yes, that’s right. I get your train, you might have seen me about?’
She pursed her lips. ‘No, I don’t think so. But you don’t see people on them things, do you? Do you want to share?’
He looked at the driver who had his phone in his hand. He shrugged. ‘I’m dropping at Symonds Yat, mate, it don’t matter to me how many.’
He straightened up. He stood still for a few seconds. He needed to. He was trying to calm his beating heart and his shallow, quick breaths. He felt like he might explode. He pulled the back door open. She was scooting over. Her dress rucked up a little on those long legs. She was smiling again. He tried to
return it. He tried to look comfortable — normal even. He knew he wasn’t good at that.
The car moved off. The interior was drenched in her scent: day-old perfume with a tinge of wine. He just wanted to breathe it in.
‘How long have you lived in Symonds Yat?’ she said.
He had to break out of his daydream. ‘All my life,’ he said. It sounded hurried; he took a breath.
‘Really? I’ve only been there a couple of years. We moved there when I was sixteen. I remember being absolutely horrified. I mean, there’s nothing there for a sixteen-year-old girl, right?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, really.’
‘I suppose you don’t! I mean, you’ve probably never been a sixteen-year-old girl!’
‘No.’
She laughed. He couldn’t. It was awkward. She moved to talk to the driver. He knew his opportunity for conversation was gone. It didn’t matter. Soon he would have her full attention.
Chapter 7
Hereford Police Station was immediately familiar to George, despite him never having been there before. Police stations, it seemed, were built to a set template. It was a solid-looking, brick-built square with blue touches around the long, equidistant windows. It was elevated, built in the middle of an expanse of grass that dipped steeply down to the pavement. A man on a ride-on mower looked to be dicing with his own safety, clinging onto the steering wheel as the mower lurched sideways down the bank while he stuck to his lines. His expression was calm at least and it did nothing to unsettle the cigarette between his lips. George pulled into a visitor bay in a small car park at the front. He could see the main parking area for police vehicles behind a solid metal gate with security sensors for access.
The front counter staff gave knowing nods when he gave his name. They checked his ID and sat him down. In less than a minute a man walked up to the front counter and extended his hand. He had a tiny frame. His shirt was tucked into trousers that were sucked in, like he had no waist at all. His hair was receding around the edges. He looked cheery enough.
‘You must be Inspector Elms? I’m DC South. I’ve been asked to come and collect you.’
‘That’s right. Hopefully you are expecting me.’
‘Emma Rowe asked me to come down. She’s the DI here for Major Crime. She seemed to know all about you.’
‘Well, let’s hope that isn’t true.’
George was led to the stairs. It was two floors up.
‘I don’t like lifts.’ DC South grinned over his shoulder as George tried to keep up with him. In contrast, George was a fan of anything that made life easier. He was still lagging behind when the detective pushed through into a meeting room where a number of faces turned to him instantly as he entered.
‘You must be Inspector Elms?’
The voice had come from a sharp-looking woman in a black trouser suit. Much of her brown hair was swept up into a tight bun, leaving just enough to form a fringe. She stood at the front of the room, leaning on the back of a chair. She carried herself with authority. Her expression was stern.
‘I am.’
‘I’m Emma Rowe. Sit yourself down somewhere, George, and I’ll be with you shortly. I know why you’re here. The people in this room are generally those who were involved in the case. We can give you what you need. We’re just running through what we have on today. Help yourself to the tea and biscuits.’
‘Great, thanks.’
Emma looked back to where DC South sat with an open book filled with handwritten notes. He pushed his glasses onto his nose.
‘Andy, where were we?’
George had clearly interrupted them. It was hardly his fault. He reached out for one of the tall thermos flasks in the middle of the table and pressed the pump. It squeaked and hissed as the hot water came out, and George felt very aware of himself. Someone pushed a plate of biscuits towards him. He decided he liked this police force.
‘The stabbing incident at The Fox pub . . .’ DI Rowe was back to business. ‘Did we cover that?’
‘Almost. So, a couple of lads who we know from the Hells Angels are in there. One of them gets into a bit of verbal with a random bloke, who leaves shortly after. The biker is then stabbed on his way out around an hour later. We have people there now trying to sort out the CCTV. Early indications are that there’s nothing from inside.’
‘Okay. So uniform are doing their bit with that. I see the CID DS has already set out the forensic strategy and it seems sound. I don’t see us picking up that job unless he takes a turn for the worse. The last I heard it was a punctured lung, right?’
‘Yes. Initially they thought it was life threatening but they’ve stabilised him now. He’s not expected to die.’
‘Fine. Is that about it?’
‘That’s about it.’
‘So we have the rape job to close off today. I want that case file ready for court by the end of this week. I know it’s only on the reserve list from Monday but we could still get caught out if we suddenly get a courtroom. We all know that the key to getting a rape case home is in the confidence of the prosecution. I want us ready. Over-prepared.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ came a chorus of voices.
George swigged at his tea. He was positioned at the back, directly opposite Emma Rowe. There were five detectives at the table: three on his right, two on his left. They were all smartly dressed and they were all scribbling down notes. Most of them hadn’t touched the biscuits. George was impressed. He reckoned Emma ran a tight ship.
‘So, I mentioned it briefly, team . . . George Elms at the back there is from Lennockshire Police, all the way down on the south coast. George, did you want to tell the troops here what brings you all the way up here?’
Hell, no. That was the last thing he wanted to do. George leant back and did his best not to look like a rabbit caught in headlights.
‘Yeah, sure. If I’m honest I’m not entirely sure what my home force would like me to achieve from this visit but we’re running a bit of a pilot on our high-risk prisoners. One of them is Henry Roberts. He’s in Belmarsh — put there by you good people, of course.’ George took a second to survey the officers. They were all looking at him intently. Some shuffled in their seats. A solidly built man sat opposite him bit down on his cheek. George continued. ‘We’re concerned that he might have an influence on other prisoners — or just anyone he could communicate with, in fact. We want to make sure we have a good understanding of him and of what he did, so we can do our best to limit that influence.’
‘And they sent you up here?’ The solidly built man opposite fired the question. ‘Could they not have just asked for the file?’ This was the last thing George wanted: having to lie to a room full of detectives under questioning. These people were lied to for a living.
‘They sent me up here to ask for the file. I think in the future we will just send an email request or pick up the phone, but this is brand new. I’m leading the pilot and Roberts is our prime subject of concern — our prime subject after those locked up for terrorist offences, at least. We’ve been running something similar around terrorists for a while. You’ll appreciate that a terrorist who has a strong ideology will often seek to groom and radicalise from within his prison cell so that we have prisoners being released that are a far bigger danger to the community than when they first went in. Roberts is our first prisoner outside of terrorism who could be classed as somewhat similar. From what little I know, he was driven by a desire outside of normal criminal motivations. He didn’t kill for money or any other obvious gain. His victims were random and murdered to appease his need to feel powerful. We must assume he still has that need and we’re concerned that he might seek to create disciples to get his power fix.’
‘Is he not in solitary then?’ The question came from somewhere on George’s right. He wasn’t sure who.
‘Yes — I mean, for most of the time. But he does get out into the general population. There are a number of reasons for that, I understand. Medical facilities are communal, some of
the meals are communal — although mostly he eats alone in his cell. He is allowed to use the chapel as well — he still has rights around practicing his religion. I’m sure you have the same opinions as I do about his rights, but unfortunately the prison service has to do what the law dictates.’
Emma finally jumped in to save him. ‘I have someone going over the material. I’m sure you can appreciate there is a lot of it, George. This was a very involved case. I have some stuff that you can take now, but the rest won’t be ready for a few more days. I’m sure you understand that we are very busy. As I’m sure you are too.’ George got the message loud and clear. This was a pain in their arse and they didn’t want to be doing it in the first place.
‘I can indeed. That’s fine. Whatever you can do for me.’
‘Right then, team, I think that’s it. I’ll be speaking with you all in the next day or two. You all have your jobs around this rape case, I just want to be sure we are on track. Any issues, you can come to me. Jane, you need to be running this as the disclosure officer, okay? I want to know if you’re not getting what you need.’
The officers filed out. George stayed seated. Emma moved closer. She sat down and looked at him intently.
‘Thanks again,’ he said. ‘I know what it’s like when you’re running a busy department and you get asked to look back over something you thought you had put to bed ages ago.’
Emma stared at him and bit down on her bottom lip. ‘You’re a good liar, George. I can see why they sent you up here.’
He couldn’t help his surprised reaction. ‘Say again?’
‘What’s going on with Roberts? Really? Because I don’t buy the bumph you just gave to my team. Now . . . I understand need-to-know, I understand why they might not need to know the real reason for you driving two hundred miles to pick up a file, but I want to know. I deserve to know. I led that team through this. It was the worst episode of my career — all our careers, I would imagine. I lost two officers. Both quit on the day it was finished. Pretty much collapsed under the weight of it all. Is there an independent investigation? Is that why you’re here? The first thing they do when they have a problem with an investigation is to get another force to review it, right? I mean, normally they go public too, they say that’s what they’re doing. But they don’t always. Are we being investigated?’
The George Elms Trilogy Box Set Page 54
