The George Elms Trilogy Box Set

by Charlie Gallagher

  ‘I’m closer. I’ll explain everything.’

  ‘This is bullshit, George. I could be half way back by now. You know I can’t afford to be taking a day out from what I’ve got going on.’

  ‘Just let me buy you a coffee.’

  ‘What? Here?’ Emma still looked furious. She took a step back to take in the frontage of the café. It was tired and dirty. George knew she was on the edge. He stepped inside, not entirely convinced that she would follow him. He watched her through the glass door. She muttered something then slipped her phone out of her pocket and checked it. She shook her head. But eventually she did step in.

  ‘You have five minutes and then I’m back on the road.’

  ‘Sounds fair.’ George walked to the counter, where a man greeted him. He ordered two coffees.

  ‘I bring it over!’ The man was so cheerful he almost sang. George turned round. The café was cluttered with tables but only two were occupied: one against the window by an elderly-looking man with a leg stretched out across the aisle that looked like it was giving him some pain; the other against the far wall by a young woman with her back to George. He moved in her general direction. Emma followed but she stopped when George fell into the seat directly opposite the woman. She looked up in surprise, first at George, then at Emma standing to the side of him. George waited for her attention to move back to him.

  ‘Can I help you?’ The French accent was immediately noticeable.

  ‘Did you never wonder what he did, Camille?’ George replied.

  ‘Who are you?’ The woman’s back visibly stiffened. Her eyes flicked between George and Emma.

  ‘Henry Roberts. Did you ever wonder what he actually did? You must have wondered? The details of it, I mean.’

  ‘I . . . I do not know what you are talking about.’ She stood up, her chair scraped on the floor. George held out his warrant card. He stayed seated and looked up at her. She fixed on the card. She didn’t sit down. She didn’t walk away either.

  ‘We’ve ordered more drinks,’ George said.

  ‘Am I under arrest?’

  ‘Not if you sit back down.’

  She dropped slowly back into the seat. George leant in. ‘He killed three women. Young women. Teenagers. That bit you definitely do know, right?’

  The woman’s eyes dropped to the table. She shrugged. ‘We all have our jobs. I am a nurse at a prison. I do not ask the patients if they are good people, I know the answer already. If I am not under arrest I can leave then, yes?’ She stood back up.

  ‘Have you ever heard of a Brazen Bull?’

  ‘George!’ Emma growled. The woman looked at her.

  George continued. ‘It’s an ancient torture method. It’s one of the most painful ways to die, by design.’

  ‘Are you with this man? What is this about?’ The woman spoke directly to Emma. George persisted.

  ‘It’s a bull. Or at least it is bull-shaped. It’s made out of metal — copper in this case. It’s hollow, and its belly hangs low to the ground. Imagine for me, Camille, that you are forced into the belly of a copper bull. You can’t get out, no matter how much you struggle.’

  ‘George! Is this really necessary?’ Emma snapped. George just needed her to give him another minute. He continued.

  ‘You’re naked, Camille. Lying in the bottom of this metal bull. You don’t know what’s going on, it’s pitch black. Then, someone lights a fire underneath it. Copper is a good conductor of heat. The metal starts to get warm. Maybe you don’t know why, but you can probably hear the crackle and the hiss of the burning logs. You’re panicking, Camille, can you imagine how much you would be panicking? You lift yourself off the bottom, away from the heat, you try to hold yourself up. Maybe you could jam a foot higher up. But the metal’s getting hotter and the heat is spreading. As it gets hotter you start to sweat. Soon you’re drenched in it. But it’s getting hotter and hotter. Soon the sweat boils on your back, Camille, the air is so hot it scalds your throat. You’re being fried and boiled alive at the very same time.’

  Camille flopped back in her chair. Her head dropped forward. Her mouth hung open, her eyes puffed red and filled with moisture then a thick tear rolled down her cheek. She lifted her hands to wipe it away. She kept her face covered. ‘Quelle horreur!’

  ‘You didn’t know, Camille. No one did.’

  ‘I can imagine!’ she moved her hands away. Both eyes were leaking tears now.

  ‘What did he offer you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Henry Roberts. Think about it, Camille, about why I am here, about what I might already know. This is your chance to talk to me off the record before we have to make any of this formal. What did he offer you?’

  ‘I do not know what you mean.’

  ‘I know about your past, about your ability to make people look unwell, close to death even. It was your job once. I know what you were doing for him, Camille. Now you need to tell me why.’

  Her gaze flicked again from George to Emma. George had sensed that Emma was standing straighter beside him. He didn’t look directly at her but he was relieved she was still there at least. Camille’s body language changed: she seemed to wilt in front of him; her back curved forwards; she needed to put her arms on the table to support her weight.

  ‘Oh God! They know where I live! And they know where my sister lives!’

  ‘Who does? Who knows where you live? Henry Roberts? If he’s hatched some plan you just need to help us out, Camille, and we’ll make sure he goes back to rot in his—’

  ‘It is not HIM!’ she shrieked. It made George jump. ‘It is not him. I do not know who, I do not know, okay? I was never told and I never asked. I know about the bull thing. They did not call it what you called it, but they told me about it. When they said it, it was worse. I still have the nightmares. These people . . . they told me I would get the same. A man talked to me, he told me that I needed to do what I was told. They gave me money, yes, but this is not why I do this.’

  ‘What man?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘Where did he talk to you? What does he look like? Tell us what you know, Camille, and we can help you out.’

  ‘He . . . I did not see him. He wore a mask at first and made me turn around. I thought he was there to hurt me, to rape me maybe. He told me that I would not be hurt if I just listened to him. He said that he had money, it was good money, but if the plan failed I would lose a lot more than just the money. I did what I was told.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  ‘Some makeup, yes, but some drugs too. Makeup can only do so much. It was very important that he looked very ill. The drugs, the makeup and he was eating almost nothing every day. He is still weak.’

  ‘So the cancer thing, it’s all fake?’

  ‘Not all, no. He has cancer. Very treatable, I think. But the doctor does the tests. I think it is. Otherwise why give the drugs to keep him weak?’

  ‘So what’s the story with the doctor?’

  ‘The same story as me, maybe? The same people threatening the same things? We never actually talked about it. I only knew what I had to do. Sometimes I saw the doctor had a phone — a mobile phone. This is not allowed. This was for Henry, I think. Maybe even he was behind it all? Everyone maybe. The people building the house, too . . . some of them . . . all of them . . . I do not know. The locks, the alarms and the CCTV is all signed off as good. But I heard them talking. It does not work. The house is not finished. It is not ready.’

  ‘So, Henry Roberts walks out? That was the plan?’

  ‘I do not know. I was told to make him ill enough to get the move and to keep him weak while he was there. I do not know any more.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Camille. If you know anything more . . .’

  ‘I swear, I do not.’

  ‘When do you work next?’

  ‘Tonight! I am working every day now until he . . . Until the end.’

  ‘What end?’<
br />
  ‘I do not know. My employer says until he dies, but I know he might not. I just wait for my instructions.’

  ‘But you’re not sleeping? Today, before your shift?’

  ‘Not yet. I may sleep for a few hours later but I get to sleep some hours at night — when he sleeps. Last night I had five hours sleeping maybe.’

  ‘Who is working the day shift?’ George was suddenly on the back foot a little. He had a scenario in his mind that he had convinced himself of. That this woman knew what was going on, or part of it at least. That she was going to stay away from that house today, because she knew today was the day. But now George wasn’t so certain that she knew much at all.

  ‘The day shift? My sister. I told you, they know about her too. They know where she lives. They say to me, that they would hurt her. She knows nothing. She is there now. Do you need to talk to her too? There are no mobile phones but there is a number for the house. I can—’

  ‘Your sister?’ George was suddenly reeling from flashbacks of those dead, sorrowful eyes. ‘So she’s in on this too?’

  ‘No! Like I say, she knows nothing. We work together but she does not do medicine. She always works with the doctor. And these people, they know what she is to me but they promised they would leave her out of all of this. I begged them to. But they said she was in danger too if I did not do what they asked. She does not even know the danger there. I tried to get her to leave, to take another job, but she would not. She asked me why one time. We argued a little. She said I did not like working with her. I could not tell her the truth. I can tell her when this is all over. If I just do what they say I can keep her safe. You will help, please? You will help keep her safe?’

  George sat back. He was thinking fast. He knew she needed to know. But if he told her now she would fall apart and she would be no use at all.

  ‘I think she is okay there,’ Camille said. ‘It is the people outside — they frighten me. When we are inside we are okay. Henry . . . he can be sweet. I know he is big. He is scary to see. But when you get to know him he can be . . . nice.’

  ‘He isn’t nice, Camille, you have to trust me on that.’

  ‘I know who he is. I know what he is and what he has done. But he is okay with us. He is very nice to my sister.’

  George shifted tack. ‘Tell me about this café.’

  ‘This café?’

  ‘Yes. How is it yours?’

  She shrugged. ‘I do not understand. They said it was the best way to do it.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘This is how they get me the money. I did not want the money but they said it would be . . . compensation. They gave me some money to buy this place — the flat and the café. When it was done they said they would come back and buy it back from me. They would pay £20,000 more.’

  George sat back. He’d heard the story before. It was a common method for criminals to hide payments for ‘favours’ or to launder money. You lend someone the money to buy a business. They register as the owner and then in a few months the criminal comes back and buys it for more than was lent, often more than it is worth. On the surface it looked like an entirely legitimate and small-time buyout. No one would blink. The money to make the purchase might also be layered in offshore accounts or an investment business with a structure so confusing you would struggle to see where it came from in the first place. It might not though. Maybe they hadn’t been so careful.

  ‘How? How did they give you the money to buy it in the first place?’

  ‘They set me up a business account. They put money in it so I could buy it and a little more. I did not have to do anything. I just signed some papers.’

  ‘Do you have any account details?’

  ‘I have a card. The money is mine. They said that. They said they will just put more money into it when I have done what they ask and I move out. You have to know, I do not want the money.’ She suddenly went quiet and dipped her head forward. Her hands reached under the table. George’s instincts took him to his feet. He tensed up. Her hands moved back above the table. She dropped a purse and a black object onto it. It was a simple-looking mobile phone. She scrabbled in the purse. She slid out a card and threw that down.

  ‘This is the card. And this is the phone. They gave it to me. It is how they talk to me. You can have it. There is nothing on it, no numbers, they do not text. I cannot call them. It is no use.’

  George relaxed. He turned the card over so the account details were facing up. He pulled out his own phone and took a picture of the front.

  ‘I will just be a few moments.’ He snatched Camille’s phone and put it in his pocket. He made eye contact briefly with Emma. He walked across the café to the door and stepped out. He let out a huge breath. Immediately he was back fiddling with his phone. Emma followed him out. She took her own deep breath. He looked at her. She was fixed on him.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Not really, George. We need to talk.’

  ‘Yes we do. I need to make a call and then I’m with you.’

  He held the phone to his ear. Emma looked like she was having an internal battle to stay calm. Her face twitched like she might explode at him. She seemed to change her mind and she turned away. Her hand came out to steady herself on the wall.

  ‘George.’

  ‘Hey, Ryker!’ George kept his eye on Emma as he spoke. ‘I’ve sent you a picture of a bank card. It’s a business account. Right now it’s our only lead. Divert what you need to divert, whoever you need to look at this. Find out what you can.’

  ‘Understood. I’ll get on it. Are you okay up there?’

  ‘We’re doing what we can.’ George turned away. He lowered his voice a little. ‘What’s the latest from the house?’

  ‘Jesus, George, what can I say? I was just in with Whittaker. He’s getting it from all angles. They’re taking statements, forensics, you name it. The first accounts all tell the same story though and it matches with the one you told me. Someone turned up to help your mate Roberts and between them they get control of the place. They tell anyone there to get into a lockable room. The girl stands up to them and she gets her head all but cut off.’

  ‘Any CCTV from anywhere?’

  ‘Not from the secure unit. Nothing inside or outside was working. We have found the gun that was mentioned, though. It was left out the front, stuffed in a hedge. It’s a dud. A reasonably accurate copy. Accurate enough that you wouldn’t argue with someone holding it. I guess Roberts doesn’t have any use for real guns.’

  ‘No, he does seem to have got his strength back.’

  ‘And then some.’

  ‘What about the doctor?’

  ‘He was there. He’s been arrested. Which is right but it may cause us some problems.’ George knew what she meant. He was key. They could only assume that his medical records had been faked for a prolonged period of time. It seemed like he had been providing the link to the outside help too via a mobile phone. They needed what he knew. Now he was under arrest they would have to wait for formal interviews where he would be given the choice not to answer any questions at all. The system was certainly not designed for urgent situations like this.

  ‘And what about his family?’

  ‘Protective custody. To be fair to Whittaker, it was his first thought.’

  ‘Okay, good. The nurse, the victim there. They’re sisters.’

  ‘Who? What do you mean?’

  ‘Day nurse and night nurse. One got the other the job. It’s early doors but the nurse up here knows a bit. If she is to be believed then she was threatened and paid. It wasn’t just her life that they threatened her with either. It was her sister’s too.’

  ‘So, she knew it was going off today? And what, she left her sister in harm’s way?’

  ‘I don’t think she did. She knew something was going on, but they told her as little as they could.’

  ‘Does she know? About her sister, I mean?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘That she’s dea
d? That Henry Roberts used her head as a draught excluder.’

  ‘Jesus, Ryker!’

  ‘Poor taste? Really? Coming from you, George Elms?’

  ‘You’re not the one up here trying to think of a way to break the news. No, she doesn’t know.’ George turned to check that Emma was still out of earshot. ‘And that’s before I tell Emma Rowe that we lost Roberts.’

  ‘She still doesn’t know?’

  ‘No, she doesn’t.’

  ‘Another shit day, George.’

  ‘Ain’t it just?’ George pressed to end the call. He wasn’t listening anymore. It was like it had suddenly hit him all at once, the adrenaline, the emotion, the reaction to a murder scene. His mind had clicked into detective mode and only now was he stopping to consider the enormity of it all. Roberts was free and someone’s baby sister was dead.

  ‘You gonna talk to me now, George?’ Emma said.

  He blinked hard and struggled to begin. It felt like his throat was closing up. He stooped forward, his hand moved to his abdomen, it churned and ached. ‘Yeah,’ he managed. ‘Henry Roberts . . .’

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ Emma was angry but it was tinged with concern. George was almost bent double. He used the wall to straighten back up.

  ‘He’s killed again, Emma.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Roberts.’

  Her eyes flickered as they stared into his. She was looking for the lie. She didn’t find it. She covered her mouth with her hand. ‘When?’

  ‘Today. And he’ll kill again, Emma. I know he will.’

  She turned ashen, the colour emptying from her face. Her eyes lost their focus and her head shook slowly. ‘He’s out, isn’t he?’

  ‘They both are.’

  Chapter 27

  Whittaker’s office was not the sanctuary it had been earlier that day. The noise and confusion they had managed to shut out before was now very much in the room. George thought it might even be inside his head: his ears were roaring; his tinnitus was always worse when he was stressed.

  He had driven as quickly as he could to get back there, with Emma sitting silent in the passenger seat. They left Camille at the café, just as soon as George was able to organise a uniform patrol to get there. She would be taken to the nearest station where she would be safe and where she could give her full statement. Technically, she was still under suspicion of being part of this whole thing but George had been looking into her eyes when she spoke to him. He had seen her reactions. Some things you couldn’t fake; she had been telling the truth. He had repaid the favour and told her his truth. She wilted to nothing in front of him. Crying for her sister on the floor of her new café. George had sucked it all up: the misery, the loss, the desperation, just like he always did. Then he walked away.