BODILY HARM a gripping crime thriller full of twists

by Charlie Gallagher

  ‘So far,’ replied Control.

  ‘I have a male, William Forley, apprehended in the field at St Mary’s Primary School. Can you run him through please and confirm details? I believe he’s on licence. He should have a prison recall tagged to any breach of his conditions. I’ll also need a local unit to my location, please.’

  The wind was strong in the open field, snatching the voices away. George turned his ear to the radio to hear the response. There was a beep to confirm that a reply was coming and then a blow struck the side of his head. It brought him down onto one knee. As he turned to look at his attacker, a fist connected with the bridge of his nose. Will got in a couple more shots before George was able to raise a forearm and push him away. He got to his feet, but Will came at him again, punching him in the midriff and causing George to bend forward, winded. Will aimed a final hit into the side of George’s head, and broke into a run, heading for the woods.

  George picked himself up, and propelled by rage, broke into a sprint, soon catching up with the fleeing man. Will made it to a gap in the fence where a worn path led into a woodland trail. George shoved Will hard, sending him crashing into the fence post. He sank to the ground. George loomed over him.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ George landed a punch in Will’s face using the hand gripping the solid radio, adding to the force of the blow. ‘You want to fight me now?’

  He hit Will again, and met no resistance. Will was beyond fighting back. George held his fist in the air and fought against the desire to smash Will’s stupid fucking kiddie-fiddling face. His face throbbed where the blows were already starting to swell. Over the radio Control was demanding a welfare check on him. He kicked Will hard in the stomach.

  ‘Control, this is DS Elms, I’m all in order here. The male decided he fancied a fight. He is now detained and has been nicked for assaulting a police officer. Is there an ETA on that other unit, please? I don’t have any cuffs with me.’

  ‘They’ve just arrived, Sarge.’

  George peered out across the field and made out two uniform officers jogging towards him. He held up his hand in greeting.

  ‘They’re gonna kill me if I go back,’ Will whined. ‘Every day. They beat me every day.’

  George looked down at him. ‘And yet you couldn’t stop yourself, could you? You’re a danger to every one of those kids, because you just can’t help yourself, can you?’ He turned to face the uniform officers.

  ‘All right, Sarge?’ George recognised the female officer, PC Jones. She’d once smashed a door for him when he’d headed up a search team. She brushed past him and rolled Will onto his stomach, with his face pushed into the frozen mud. She wrenched his arms up behind him and put on the cuffs.

  The male officer, whose name tag read PC Carpenter, looked at George. ‘You okay, Sarge?’

  George looked down. His shoes were scuffed and sodden, his jeans were muddy at the knees, and his polo shirt had come untucked. It had been ripped at the neck. His head and ribs felt tender to the touch and his temple throbbed. ‘I’m okay, yeah.’

  ‘Right, you’ll need to make a statement. Do you want to do it at the nick or I can do it at your home?’

  George checked his watch. ‘I need to get my daughter home. I left her with a PCSO.’

  ‘She’s fine. It was the PCSO who pointed out where you’d gone. They were playing a game of I Spy.’

  George was relieved. ‘I’ll take some statement forms with me and write it up. You can just pop in and nab it a bit later, if that’s okay?’

  The officer nodded. He and his colleague hauled Will to his feet. George’s cheek had already swelled so that he could see it out of the corner of his eye. One of his eyes was half shut and the front of his shirt was sopping wet. He shivered.

  ‘Have you said the words?’ PC Jones asked.

  ‘No, he’s all yours.’

  ‘Will, you’re nicked, mate, for assaulting a police officer — and you’re in breach of your licence, aren’t you?’ She paused but Will did not respond. ‘You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’

  ‘I can’t go back there. I’ll kill myself if I go back there.’ Will’s voice was barely audible, and the two officers made no reply. They took him under the shoulders and walked him back across the field.

  George returned to his car, where the shock on his daughter’s face was clear. He looked in the rear-view mirror. His face was tender and red, his eye already turning black. ‘Right then,’ he said. ‘Let’s go home and see your mother.’

  Chapter 13

  ‘Well, you really do look like shit.’ Superintendent Helen Webb paused at the door to her office.

  George rose to his feet, and managed a smile. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  ‘On a normal day, I would say that you ought to be at home, but this isn’t a normal day, is it?’

  ‘I’ve had very few of those since I was assigned Epping Hill, ma’am.’

  ‘Quite.’ Helen went to her seat and picked up her phone.

  ‘Jean, could we possibly have a couple of coffees in here, please? Thank you.’ She looked at George. ‘Coffee okay?’

  ‘Fine.’

  Helen replaced the receiver. ‘In relation to William Forley, he was put before the next available court and was sent back to prison for breaching his licence. Apparently they were able to get statements from a few other parents who had seen him there at least twice. We can be sure he was building up to offending again. Who knows, perhaps he was planning something much worse.’

  ‘How long does he go back for?’

  ‘The rest of his sentence is three years. He should serve the lot, too — they won’t put him out on licence again. It was a good result, George. You did well.’

  ‘It’s not long enough though, is it?’

  ‘Perhaps not. But we aren’t responsible for that side of things, are we?’ Helen changed the subject. ‘Right, you know what happened last night?’

  ‘The assault? I don’t know the details.’

  ‘Soheil Afshar, our victim, is a thirty-two-year-old Iranian male. He was found outside Premier Taxis in the Epping Hill Estate at about four o’clock this morning.’

  ‘Iranian? Hate crime?’

  ‘We don’t know at this stage, we haven’t been able to speak to him.’

  ‘That taxi service is twenty-four hour, right?’ George said.

  ‘Yes, it is, and there wasn’t much business at that time of night, as you can imagine. Three taxi drivers were on and all were inside the office. Add to that one operator and we’ve got four witnesses.’

  ‘I know that rank well. It’s got a waiting room and a counter downstairs and the drivers’ room upstairs. All are glass-fronted and the visibility out onto the road is very good.’

  Helen nodded. ‘And everyone automatically looks out when a car pulls up, especially at that time in the morning.’

  ‘A car?’ George asked.

  ‘The operator said that a car pulled up and our Mr Afshar was pushed out of the back, but that’s all we have.’

  ‘Type of car?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  There was a knock on the door and Jean entered, carrying a tray with two coffees, a sugar bowl and a small plate of chocolate digestives. ‘We had some left over in the tea fund,’ she said.

  Helen smiled. ‘Thank you, Jean.’

  ‘And none of the drivers saw anything?’

  ‘So they said.’

  ‘We got their details though, right?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Helen leaned towards him. ‘Are you thinking of giving them another go?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ George replied, ‘but I say nick all four of them for the assault. Unless someone can tell me different, this man was found outside the building they were sitting in. If they won’t give us any details, maybe we should put them in a position where it’s in their interest to talk
.’

  ‘They knew him, too.’

  ‘The victim?’

  ‘Yes, he works there. He’s a taxi driver.’

  George stirred his coffee. ‘Really? Well, there you are then, all the more reason to bring them in. Was he on the clock at the time?’

  ‘No, he finished at six o’clock. Oh, and he also works here.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘He’s an interpreter. He’s only been used a couple of times but the last one was just a couple of days ago. He was in the custody area assisting an Iraqi male. Seems he speaks several of the Middle Eastern languages fluently and his English is excellent.’

  ‘An interpreter? So he’s topping up his money here — good money too, I understand. You think there’s a link to him being here and then turning up as our victim?’

  ‘I really don’t know. We won’t learn anything until we get to talk to him.’

  ‘Not necessarily, ma’am. If we go scoop up our four witnesses and put some pressure on them, we might be able to find out a little bit more at least.’

  Helen picked up her phone. ‘Jean, could you arrange for the patrol sergeant to come up here, please. Yes, a matter of urgency. Thank you. Oh, no, don’t worry. We won’t be needing an extra coffee.’

  George smiled. ‘She’s thorough.’

  ‘She’s terrified is what she is. Spends all day at Graham’s beck and call. Who wouldn’t be?’

  ‘Well, you, for one.’

  Helen gave a ghost of a smile. ‘Well, that is very true, George.’

  ‘How bad are the injuries?’

  Helen’s smile faded away. ‘Well, when he was first found there was talk of them being life-threatening, but we believe he’s out of those particular woods now.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘He looked it. He was in and out of consciousness and the paramedics said they suspected internal bleeding, head and body, but it’s mostly a lot of bruising. He has taken quite a beating and the head bleeds a lot, as you will know.’ Helen took a long sip of her coffee.

  ‘Are you okay, ma’am?’

  Helen shook her head. ‘Epping Hill, George. Tell me, do you think there’s more we could be doing with that place?’

  ‘That is a big question. It’s basically down to town planning, council decisions, political pressures, housing demands, job losses. We can’t be responsible for those things, ma’am. All we can do is react to what goes on there, and we’re as good as we can be at that. No one helps out, and there are never any witnesses.’

  ‘React? You think we should be more proactive?’

  ‘I think it’s the only way we’re going to have an impact.’

  ‘You have some ideas?’

  ‘Some.’

  ‘No one knows the Epping Hill Estate better than you, George. Have you run your ideas past Graham?’ George took a gulp of his coffee. ‘You can be as candid with me as you like, George. This is off the record. I know that Graham can be . . . difficult.’

  ‘I haven’t, ma’am. I mean, I wouldn’t waste my time.’

  Helen nodded. ‘You need to brief your team. I want them to be the ones interviewing those four. Once you’ve done that, come back and speak to me about some of your ideas for ridding us of the Epping Hill problem.’

  George swallowed the dregs of his coffee and stood up. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Keep me updated with the results of those interviews, won’t you?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘And, George . . .’ George stopped as he was walking out. ‘I know you’re stretched, so try and get your team to take on the Soheil assault. Your personal priority remains the bus attack. I need regular updates to pass up the line — the media is still all over us.’

  ‘Understood. I’m due to speak to the girl today in hospital before she goes into surgery. I’ve got some enquiries to do at the bus station and other bits and bobs, so hopefully I’ll have a positive update for you later.’

  ‘I’m sure you will.’ Helen picked up a biscuit.

  Chapter 14

  The man known to the Effingell underworld as “Smith,” pulled the door shut and stepped into the shadows. His breath floated away in the dim glow from the street lights. The cold nipped at his ears and he silently cursed himself for forgetting his hat. He tugged at the elastic hairband holding back his stubby ponytail. Smith left the shadows, satisfied that no one was watching. He walked down a stone path and crunched onto gravel, sticking close to tall garden fences, out of the light.

  Smith’s careful walk took him to the rear of a house located two up from a corner plot. He stood still, watching and listening for any movement, and checked his watch. Five twenty, as usual. Smith liked his journeys to coincide with the evening rush hour. That way his car would be lost in the traffic, just another commuter sitting in a dark, metal box with steamed-up windows.

  The garage door was chipped and peeling, revealing rusty metal. It had slipped off its rungs on one side and he had to lift it up to open it. He squeezed up the side of the Volkswagen Passat. The engine came to life first time, and Smith carefully backed out of the garage, then edged along the bumpy, potholed road as he manoeuvred round the outside of the car park. He noted movement at the back entrance to Pussycats — a massage parlour with a long list of unadvertised extras. A hooded figure stepped into the brightly lit interior and was gone. Smith switched the headlights on and drove the short distance to a main thoroughfare, where he joined the rest of the traffic. He was moving in the general direction of Coldred Industrial Estate.

  Coldred Industrial Estate was a relatively new addition to the area and could hardly have been built at a worse time. The recent global slump had touched just about every business, but had whipped the mat right out from under the manufacturing and transport companies, both of which were a significant part of Coldred’s revenue. Numerous units now stood vacant, deathly quiet under a full moon.

  Smith drove his Passat into the grounds of one of the larger units. A sign reading ‘WATT HAULAGE’ in tall yellow letters still clung to the grey metal front. Smith turned his lights off and drove past the unit, round to the back, where he stopped and turned off the engine. The air outside felt even colder after the warmth of the car, and he wrapped his arms across his chest, his breath visible in the moon’s white light. Smith watched and waited. He got back in the car, pulling the door shut and starting the engine for a blast of heat.

  Suddenly he could see headlights. It looked like two large vehicles, one a 4x4, the other a pickup. They were approaching fast, much faster than expected and there were not normally two of them. Something was wrong, but he had no time to react. The cars came round the side of the unit and split up, one sped round the back of his car while the other swerved to the right before turning and accelerating, heading straight for the passenger side of Smith’s stationary Volkswagen.

  ‘Ah, fuck!’ Smith got into first gear, but in his panic he slipped the clutch, stalling the car. The 4x4 smashed into the passenger door. Smith was thrown first towards the impact then the other way, as the side airbags exploded. There was a sudden pain in his right shoulder. The passenger door bent in towards him. The car shook as the 4x4 moved slowly backwards with a shriek of metal. It skidded to a stop fifteen metres away, its engine revving. Regaining his senses, Smith fiddled with the keys in the ignition, until finally the engine turned over and the car fired. Then there were more bright lights, but this time on the offside. He turned his head in their direction. The lights were high, and closing in quickly. The vehicle veered at the last second, so the impact was centred on the door directly behind him. The car spun, rear first, as the pickup powered through. Metal ground against metal and the steering wheel airbag inflated. Smith was whiplashed at an angle, colliding with the dash. The gear stick dug up into his chest, and his face was burnt by the charge in the airbag.

  Shaken and disorientated, Smith sat up. He put a hand to his forehead and it came away covered in blood. His head throbbed and he struggled for air. He rea
lised he’d been winded. His right shoulder screamed in agony every time he tried to move, and the arm hung, limp. Smith peered out through the car’s smashed windows, but the night was dark and silent once again.

  The driver’s door was jammed shut and Smith had to kick his way out. His legs were unsteady and he hauled himself to his feet with his left arm. He bent double and retched. Then he heard a car approaching again, this time more slowly. He stared into the headlights and stood still, waiting.

  Two car doors opened. The headlights dipped to scorched rings. He could make out a black BMW.

  ‘Lawrence,’ a voice said.

  He’d spent a great deal of time and effort hiding his real name. He recognised the voice, though.

  ‘Mr Baurman. I remember when we used to just shake hands when we met.’ Smith spat blood.

  ‘You’re a fucking idiot, Lawrence. You have not made me happy.’ Baurman lit a cigarette and revealed an untidy beard.

  ‘I guessed I might have pissed someone off.’ Smith tapped his own pockets for his cigarettes, and Baurman offered him the packet, his fashionably battered brown leather jacket creaking as he stretched forward. Smith took a cigarette and accepted a light.

  ‘The Iraqi,’ said Baurman, ‘tell me your thought process behind that.’

  Smith exhaled smoke. ‘Afshar? He’s Iranian,’ he replied, immediately regretting his correction.

  ‘I see. How many times have we met in person, Lawrence?’

  ‘Twice maybe?’

  ‘Twice. And you think I have come out to see you in the freezing cold, just to argue about his fucking nationality?’ Smith had always made considerable effort to avoid upsetting Baurman. His temper was legendary and Smith, who abided by few rules, knew that you shouldn’t cross this man.

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you did.’

  ‘Your thought process?’ Baurman said again.

  ‘I had a phone call. I get told that he’s seen coming out of the cop shop. He’s new to the business, see. I thought he might’ve made a bad decision and told them what he knew, so I made a statement to the rest of them that that wasn’t fucking acceptable. It was a show of strength.’