The George Elms Trilogy Box Set

by Charlie Gallagher

  ‘I said nothing. Never got a chance.’ Whittaker stopped. ‘I had a good look around that table yesterday, George. I had a bit of a moment. They were all talking, accepting the risks, talking about outweighing cons with pros — the usual stuff — and do you know what I realised?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘No one even knew who I was. And no one cared. And I was the only police officer in that room.’

  ‘Sounds dangerous.’

  ‘Sounds ominous. Standard rule of politics, George. They need to be sure they have a scapegoat in place — just in case. They might as well have asked me to come wearing a bell with bags tied across my back.’

  Whittaker pushed open the front door to be met by a stern-looking man in a suit. He looked beyond Whittaker and stared at George. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘This is Inspector George Elms. He should be on the approved list,’ Whittaker said.

  The man flicked open a folder. ‘Do you have ID?’ he demanded. He was small and weaselly-looking. His suit was slightly too large, as if he had borrowed it from his dad for the day.

  George smiled. ‘Yes.’ He made no more movements.

  ‘May I see it?’

  ‘You first.’

  ‘Sorry?’ The man looked flustered.

  ‘That’s okay. Take your time.’

  ‘Why do you need to see my ID?’

  ‘I know, right?’ George chuckled. ‘A little explanation goes a long way, doesn’t it?’

  ‘George, G4S have been tasked with the security. The door locks are all on a computer system. They’re not working yet. Until then our friend Simon here is doing the job.’

  George showed his ID. Simon wrote something down. He fiddled with something then produced a white sticker with a barcode on it and the word Visitor.

  ‘You need to put this somewhere visible,’ Simon said.

  ‘State of the art,’ George grinned.

  The main door led through to an entrance hall that was more like an enclosed square box. There were numerous black panels, retina scanners and cameras that would allow security personnel to verify who was entering. George could see that the security measures to enter the building were going to be thorough, but right now, nothing was working. All the panels were dark. The only sign of any power was a small red dot on the door in front. Whittaker ran a card over it. It turned green and he pushed it open. He held the door for George.

  ‘This is an airlock corridor. Part of the inner security apparently. The solar panels you might have seen on the roof? They run the core power. They can’t be switched off.’

  ‘Can’t say I did. Does that mean that he will be able to just walk out when the sun goes down?’

  ‘Funnily enough, I asked the same thing! Apparently he would be able to, yes, but it would need to be down for more than a month. I guess if it’s pitch black for a month something terrible has already gone wrong.’ Whittaker moved to the door further down the corridor. He turned back to George. ‘You have to shut that one for this one to open. Your standard airlock I’m afraid, George.’

  George moved forward. He heard the door click shut. He had come across airlock corridors in the more secure areas of police stations. They were designed so they couldn’t be rushed. A simple design, but effective. Whittaker opened the next door so George could move into the main part of the building. It was nothing like what George had been expecting. Where the exterior had been familiar, the interior was anything but; any original features inside were all but missing, stripped away and replaced with modern metal and white finishes. It was clinical and modern — it made George think of a high-end dentist’s.

  ‘I’ll show you the cell to start with.’ George followed Whittaker through to what would have been the main lounge. Straight away there was an obvious structural change. The ceiling was missing. As were any supporting walls. The room now opened up over two floors with just a few supporting pillars dotted through the centre. The far wall was pretty much all window. Looking through it, the garden was an area of flattened grass with sharp borders. The turf was fresh. George could see the joins where it had been recently rolled and pressed down. It sloped gently down to a fence made of such a thin mesh that it looked more like a shadow. The sea dominated the view beyond this. It shuffled and moved and was divvied up by three rough lines of differing shades of blue. There was something about watching a big body of water that George had always found to be calming.

  ‘What people would do for this view?’ George said.

  ‘Kill for it, I suppose,’ Whittaker snorted.

  ‘This is all wrong, Major. I know I’ve said it. I don’t know what I was expecting but my last hope was that all of this would be something akin to what he deserves . . . not like this.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Is that why you brought me up here? To show me his luxury accommodation, to make sure that I’m properly pissed off?’

  ‘Of course not. Although I would understand why you might think that after the last couple of days. There are some people I would like you to meet and they happen to be here today. I figured it made sense. Let me finish the tour and we’ll do some introductions. You might actually find some modifications that you do like.’

  George noticed a steel structure that was closed in on three sides and pushed against the window. Whittaker turned to George for a reaction. ‘The cell,’ he said.

  ‘The cell?’ George was puzzled. There was a door on the side he could see. It was very similar to the cell doors he had seen in prison. The locking mechanism was the same. So were the flaps for communication and observation. It was locked open. He pulled it open further. It felt like it had the same weight too. Inside, the position of the bed was different: it was central and it was raised. It had metal padded tubes either side of it that were locked shut. There were holes drilled along its length. They looked to George like they were designed to secure the occupant’s arms. There were wires trailing through the solid-looking ceiling that gathered on the bare bed. Whittaker rattled one of the tubes.

  ‘Apparently this is the first bed in the UK that is signed off as being able to give the prisoner medication without his consent. Previously there was no way of doing it.’

  ‘We don’t want to be giving him any medication, though? I thought that was part of the agreement?’

  ‘Oh, it is. But they used Roberts’s money to develop it, so I guess they thought it was right to put it in here. The prisoners on hunger strikes, or refusing anti-psychotic medication . . . now we can give them their shot without the human rights people claiming it as a form of torture. It’s something about the way the arms are secured in here. It uses pressure points so the arms can’t be moved. Or something like that.’

  ‘Am I supposed to be impressed?’ George wasn’t even looking. He had walked beyond the bed, to the end of the cell. To that window. It dominated the far end; it was the whole wall. The bed was split, the end furthest from the window was raised so it would propel the occupant towards that view.

  ‘I guess not.’ Whittaker moved to stand next to George. ‘Have you ever seen anything like it?’ Whittaker said.

  ‘No. Nor would I ever dream anything like it. I don’t understand it. Why would they build a cell in here? Surely the whole place is the cell. There aren’t going to be other prisoners in here, right?’

  ‘Not with Roberts. It was part of the agreement. The plan is to divvy it up for a lot more occupants when Roberts is out of the way. I think the Home Office were trying to atone by building this one. They can insist he is still in a cell with identical dimensions. This is the result.’

  ‘And the hanging wires, the hospital-style bed and the view? Does that help them atone too?’

  ‘I listened to the arguments in the meeting, George. The point that they kept coming back to is that he would soon be moved to a hospital anyway. That’s a massive security operation, a massive headache and a massive expense. The prison system simply can’t cope with giving that sort of care. This avoids all that. He woul
d have been transferred to a hospital, he would be in a bed just like this one and the wires . . . those are for the medicines and fluids.’

  ‘I thought he was refusing any treatment when he gets here?’

  ‘He is. He’s waived his right to chemo or surgery, or anything that might make any sort of difference. This is just set up for oxygen and pain relief. He’s insisted he doesn’t need that either, but we all know you can say one thing about pain and then another thing when it comes to it. Human rights again, George. We have to have something to help ease the pain.’

  ‘Let’s just hope it isn’t long before he’s permanently numb.’

  ‘We had the latest medical report in the meeting yesterday. I don’t think you have long to wait to get your wish.’

  ‘And this was agreed yesterday, was it?’ George stepped back out of the cell. He could only imagine the considerable structural work that had taken place to be remove the guts of the house without it folding in on itself. The top floor was now a mezzanine. He could see a bit of it, enough to see a bank of monitors, a desk and some seating. Back on the ground floor there looked to be a sort of holding cell too. Its door was directly opposite Henry’s cell but this just had a long bench along one of its walls. There was a ground-floor extension, too, that George had noticed on the way in. The entrance to that was now barred by another heavy-looking security door. It had a black box on the wall next to it with a flat panel that again looked like fingerprint access.

  ‘Gentlemen!’ George turned towards the voice: a young man, his cheeks flushed red. He was dressed in a suit, but looking a little more comfortable in it than the security guard. His hair was messy with gel and pushed over to one side. It looked like he had gone to considerable effort to appear that he had gone to none at all.

  ‘Ah, George, this is Daniel Callaghan. He’s director of operations at G4S. This is his baby, really.’

  ‘More like a problem child, I would say! Please, call me Dan. Impressive, though, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m not impressed if that counts?’ George said. It did nothing to stop the man’s beaming smile.

  ‘Well, lucky for you, you won’t have to live here.’

  ‘I’d love to live here, Dan. But I couldn’t afford it. Clearly I don’t deserve it.’

  The smile dropped away. ‘You’d swap would you? Your life for his? Your situation for his?’

  ‘No. And I’ll tell you something else I wouldn’t swap, I wouldn’t swap his cell for this one. You know what that man did, right? Only everyone seems to be smoothing over that.’

  ‘I’m sure we’ve all had that internal dialogue. We all know who he is. My job was to make this place happen. Other people have the job of deciding who gets to stay in here.’

  ‘And you started yesterday, did you?’

  ‘Yesterday?’

  ‘The decision was made yesterday, right? That’s what we’re being told. How long has it taken to get to this point? I mean the structural work, the security bits — not to mention the purchase in the first place.’

  ‘Eighteen months. I can only tell you when I was commissioned to deliver this. When decisions are made, whether they are made, or what those decisions are, that’s not my remit.’

  ‘It’s convenient, isn’t it? How the decisions that make the difference are always someone else’s.’

  ‘It is for me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I need to get back to it.’

  George didn’t watch him leave.

  ‘I know you’re upset, George, but we need to be playing this clever. This is happening. We have to accept that and then we need to be sure that it happens smoothly. There can’t be any problems.’

  ‘Why do we? They’re asking for problems. This is happening — I get that. But it has been happening for a long time. We’re only involved now because we have to be. Because they need us to do the dirty work. Sitting outside this place at all hours, while he gets to sit up and look at his view.’

  ‘I agree. It’s not ideal, George. It’s not even acceptable. Not when you consider the risk they want us to manage. But the meeting was clear, the prison service is taking care of his transfer and his security when he gets here. They’re bringing his medical team down from the prison and they will be staffing the inside of this building. All of the people working here are the same that have been working with him at Belmarsh so they can keep the circle of knowledge small. They’ve all been sworn to secrecy. We’re just the people on the outside keeping the peace. The what ifs are ours. Nothing more. Our problems start if this gets into the public domain.’

  ‘It will.’

  ‘I know that. Everyone knows that. But if it happens when he is here already or, better still, when he is dead, then it can be managed. We can’t have a circus around his transfer. That doesn’t play out well.’

  ‘I’m sure it doesn’t. Well, I was hoping to get back to some police work. Any objection if I go and pick up with my team and my caseload? Like you said, this is someone else’s problem — for now at least.’

  ‘It is. No objections from me. There is another fella I wanted you to meet. He might cheer you up a little bit.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘He’s the man who will be making sure Roberts dies.’

  * * *

  Doctor Assan was leaning over a stainless steel desk in one of the upstairs rooms. He had his back to George and Whittaker when they entered.

  ‘Doctor Assan,’ Whittaker said. The man snatched around, as if the sound of his own name had wrenched him out of a trance. He held a startled grimace, his body was stiff and his nostrils flared. He looked to George like a man under stress.

  ‘Chief Inspector . . .’

  ‘John.’ Whittaker jumped in to help him. ‘And this is Inspector George Elms. He met with our patient a couple of times. I think he was hoping you could give him some good news.’

  ‘Good news? I’m afraid there is little to be positive about. He is gravely ill, Inspector.’

  ‘That’s what I meant by good news.’

  The doctor’s grimace dropped away enough for a weak smile. ‘Ah, yes. This is a most unusual case. The first I’ve had perhaps, where everyone is happy for the patient to die.’

  ‘What’s the prognosis? Don’t spare me the gory details,’ George said.

  ‘Henry Roberts has stage-four cancer. His primary was in his bowel but we were able to operate on this and remove his tumour. He then had a six-month course of chemotherapy so we could be sure we had killed off all of the cancer cells. It looked positive — for Mr Roberts, at least. But then the cancer came back. This time in the lymph nodes of his lower back. This is serious, but things can be done. We were making preparations when we discovered a shadow on his lung. The cancer had spread. The cancer that will kill him is the one on his lung. His breathing capacity is being reduced — daily. He is weak, Inspector. I looked around at this place, at the security. This is not necessary. This man should be on a ward, in a bed. He will need some severe pain medication. This cannot be managed well here.’

  ‘I agree with you. Except for the bit about the pain relief.’

  ‘I will do my best.’

  ‘What’s a normal day for you, doc?’ George said.

  ‘Not this. This is not normal.’ The doctor gestured out towards the house. It buzzed with people. George could count at least three tradesmen all going about their business in the building. The whole place had the feel of being in a rush to get finished. ‘I work in private hospitals. Mostly in London. I specialise in cancer. End of life treatment, really. The prison work was just something I took on to expand my CV. I thought it might open some doors.’

  ‘So, you’re not the man I should ever hope to see walking into my room to give me some news?’

  ‘I suppose not, Inspector.’

  ‘How long do you think he’ll last?’

  The doctor shook his head. ‘We cannot do anything to stop the spread across his lungs. His end will come when they start taking on fluid, when they can
not provide the oxygen necessary to keep him alive. This may not be a good death.’

  George grinned. ‘There, see! You can give good news.’

  There was a shrill tone and Doctor Assan grabbed his mobile phone. What he saw on the screen seemed to make him even more tense. He excused himself and Whittaker led George back downstairs. He walked past the cell, through the door with the fingerprint scanner and into the ground-floor extension. He didn’t scan his prints. The door was limp in its metal surround. The extension looked to be a communal area. It was made up of soft furnishings, a kitchen and an expensive-looking coffee machine with a plastic funnel on top that housed whole coffee beans. Whittaker made for it.

  ‘Not quite the facilities you would normally expect in a prison.’ George huffed.

  ‘This is for the staff. That’s the impression I get, at least. I think the prison service was given the opportunity to kit this place out on someone else’s budget and they’ve made the most of it. You can’t blame them for that. We’d have done the same.’

  ‘So the prison service will keep hold of this place after Roberts. Is that the plan?’

  ‘That was the discussion in the meeting. They will build more cells. It will become a place where prisoners with medical issues can be effectively managed. It will take away the need to take them to the general hospitals. I think the prison service have been crying out for something like this for a very long time.’

  ‘He’s playing on that desperation. Roberts, I mean. This is a man who knows how to get what he wants.’

  The coffee didn’t take long. Whittaker put it down on the table in front of where George was still standing. Whittaker sat down. George eyed him suspiciously. He flicked from the chief inspector to the steaming mug.

  ‘What?’ Whittaker leant back in his chair.

  ‘I told you I was leaving. You ask me to meet Doctor Death. Then you make me a coffee. This all feels like it’s building to more bad news.’

  Whittaker grinned. ‘No such thing as bad news in this job, George. It’s all an adventure, right?’

  ‘And my adventure isn’t over quite yet?’