BODILY HARM a gripping crime thriller full of twists

by Charlie Gallagher

  ‘A show of strength?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, it certainly was a show, but for whose benefit? I have my sources in Epping Hill, and they tell me the police have been at the taxi rank. It is currently cordoned off while forensic officers in white fucking paper suits get out their fine tooth-combs. This could become a murder charge, and what then? More police resources sniffing around my business asking questions of my drivers and potentially nicking them for what you did. Have you any idea what a man will say who is facing a murder charge?’ Smith was silent. ‘They will say anything, Lawrence. They might even tell the truth. Far from warning these men off from talking about you, and more importantly about me, you have put them in a position where they just might have to.’

  Smith didn’t move. He had become more accustomed to the dark and could now make out Baurman and the two men who flanked him. They were both middle-aged and impeccably dressed, with no discernible necks. Their bald heads appeared to sit directly on top of their broad shoulders. Baurman, on the other hand, wore an untidy beard which merged with his untidy hair. He habitually wore jeans with short-sleeve shirts, and tonight a leather jacket hung open, covering a wiry, muscular frame.

  ‘I’m sorry, yeah. You know, I just thought—’

  ‘You didn’t think at all, Lawrence, did you? You’ve become a liability, and I’m not willing to clear up the mess you’ve made. I will be looking for a replacement with immediate effect, someone who can work Epping Hill with a little more,’ Baurman paused, ‘common sense.’

  Smith took a step towards Baurman. ‘But you can’t . . .’ One of the henchmen stepped in front of his boss. A door opened at the back of the BMW and a third heavy got out.

  ‘The message should be clear to you by now, Lawrence.’ Suddenly the sound of an engine could be heard. Baurman stopped speaking, and all the gathered men turned and looked at a small car driving towards them from behind the unit. It pulled up a short distance away, a Vauxhall Corsa that had been converted into a sort of van. It said “Hunter Securities” on one side. A young man stepped out.

  ‘What’s going on here?’

  Baurman looked at Smith. ‘You see what happens when you’re around, Lawrence? It all gets fucked up and people get hurt unnecessarily.’ He turned away and nodded to the third heavy. ‘Clean this up.’

  Baurman sat down in the back seat of the BMW. Smith watched the heavy bring out a black object from underneath his jacket. The young security guard had lifted his radio to his mouth, but he had no time to speak. He stumbled backwards as two shots ripped through him, into the side of the Corsa, where he slumped to the ground, his eyes wide open.

  The heavy walked to the rear of the BMW and opened the boot. He stood part concealed behind the lifted boot, his hands busy, then emerged holding two flaming bottles, and walked across to the pickup and the 4x4. He brought both bottles down hard on their bonnets, one after the other. Sheets of flame instantly consumed the metal. Smith looked on helplessly as the heavy calmly walked back to the rear of the BMW, a few seconds and he was holding a third flaming bottle. He made straight for Smith.

  ‘Fuck! No!’ shouted Smith. Pain shot up his right leg and through his body, and his right arm flopped as he ran. He turned back just in time to see his Passat engulfed in flames before losing his balance and crashing to the cold ground. The heavy then brought out a fourth flaming bottle. He walked over to the Corsa and shoved the dead security guard into the open driver’s door with his free arm, before bringing the bottle down on the bonnet. He removed his blood-stained jacket and threw it into the inferno.

  The BMW’s engine gunned and the car turned, sweeping the yard and briefly illuminating Smith and the four burning cars before powering away into the night.

  Chapter 15

  The custody area was busy at Langthorne and four more prisoners, brought in for serious assault, did nothing to ease the workload. George Elms sat watching the chaos unfold and writing up a custody record, doing his best to keep out of the way. He wanted to speak to the custody sergeant, but he’d seen the tension on Andrew Musto’s face. He knew the sergeant could be prickly, so decided to wait.

  The superintendent apparently had no such qualms, and she bustled past George. ‘Andrew!’

  The custody sergeant turned away from his screen, irritation written all over his face. ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘Where are we with the four?’

  ‘Ma’am—’

  ‘How about you let me update the superintendent, Andy?’ George steered Helen Webb back into the custody office.

  ‘Is he a little stretched down here?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Musto. He seems agitated.’

  George chuckled, ‘I think anyone who works down here gets a little agitated. All I can say is, they’re welcome to it.’

  ‘So what did we get?’ Helen asked.

  George bit his bottom lip and shook his head. ‘Not much.’

  ‘We thought it might be a long shot.’

  This surprised him a little. She had taken the bad news rather well. ‘We did. It would have been better if they’d been nicked at the scene and brought straight in. Someone either got to them, or they had enough time to get their stories straight. None of them wanted legal advice and all four of them answered everything with no comment. They know we can’t pin anything on them. It’s all purely circumstantial.’

  ‘Okay, so what else have we got?’ Helen said.

  ‘The victim. I phoned earlier, and he’s being kept in a coma while they assess him for internal bleeding, but we should be able to talk to him in the next couple of days. Shame, really. I’m up the hospital in an hour or so to see Sophie, and I was hoping to do both at the same time.’

  ‘Our bus victim?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘That’s good. I would appreciate a phone call to let me know what happens with her. Have you read the first account she gave?’

  ‘I have, yeah. I’m confident we can get some more detail now she’s had a bit of recovery time.’

  ‘Okay, just give me a brief update, whatever it is.’

  ‘No problem.’

  George gave up on custody. He went to his part of the station where his team were waiting. Paul Baern was standing at the kettle. ‘Ah, Sergeant George, I remember you. How is life treating you since you left us?’

  ‘Very funny, Baerny. I’ll have a tea, please.’

  Paul put his hands on his hips. ‘Oh, tea is it now? Sure you wouldn’t prefer a coffee with the chief superintendent? I mean, this must be a bit of a come down, mustn’t it?’ Paul was in his early forties, bald and with a paunch. He looked every bit the battle-hardened detective, but in fact had been a late joiner to the police, having spent his early working life running bars on large passenger ferries. Thanks to this, he was well rounded, good at communication and had the rare talent among coppers of being able to ask people questions without making them feel as though they were in trouble.

  George laughed. ‘Well, I don’t mind slumming it with you mere mortals every now and then. Reminds me what I was lucky enough to leave behind.’

  Paul echoed his laughter.

  ‘What are we all laughing at?’ The third member of the team, DC Samantha Robins, entered the room, her blonde hair tied back in a low ponytail that swung back and forth as she walked. Sam was the newest member of the team and added a much-needed woman’s touch. Sam was more attractive than she knew, and could make the most sullen and taciturn criminal talk to her as though they were having a casual drink in a pub. Sam knew her strengths, and her investigative skills had already secured them several jobs that would have evaded them in the past.

  ‘We’re laughing at George here.’

  Sam looked at George, now sitting at his desk. ‘Oh, you’ve remembered where you sit, then?’

  Paul grinned. ‘Probably best he stays there. Outside’s full of violent paedophiles, you know.’

  George’s smile widened. ‘Tell you what, you’ve gotta
watch out for them.’

  Paul placed a mug of tea on George’s desk. ‘You off out again, boss?’

  ‘I am. I’m at the hospital to speak to our bus victim. Sam, you able to pop up with me? She might talk more easily to you.’

  ‘Because I’m a girl?’

  ‘Nah, because she’s horribly disfigured, so you’ve got something in common!’ Paul called out. The team cracked up.

  Chapter 16

  As soon as George saw her, it was clear to him why the media had got so much mileage out of the story, and why the public outcry had been so huge. Sophie was seventeen, well on the way to being a beautiful young woman. She had soft features and mousey hair that fell over her face and looked blonde under the harsh hospital lights. Her large brown eyes were bright and inquisitive. She was wearing skinny jeans that emphasised her slenderness, with Converse plimsolls. She’d pulled the sleeves of her hooded top down over her hands.

  ‘Can I offer you some tea? If I tell them it’s for me, it’ll be here quick.’ Sophie giggled, and then raised a hand to cover her wound, her laughter dying away.

  ‘I would love one, young lady, but I’ll ask myself, thank you. I have a badge, you see — one look at this and you’ll see just how fast a tea can be delivered.’ George lifted his warrant card above his head, showing it to anyone passing by. No one took any notice. He turned to Sam. ‘We’re not in the blind unit, are we?’

  ‘Don’t think so, Sarge.’ Sam smiled, shaking her head a little.

  ‘Sophie, did you tell these people just who was coming to see you today?’

  Her smile returned. ‘You know, I don’t think it got through.’

  George looked around. ‘It appears not. Sam, could you please go and find someone and tell them. And Sam, two sugars please.’

  Sam got to her feet. ‘Sophie?’

  The girl pointed to a clear jug of water standing among three vases of flowers. George wondered if one of them was from Jamie. ‘I’m fine, thanks. Make sure you let everyone know how important your sergeant is though, right?’

  Sam nodded. ‘Oh, I’ll tell them all about him.’

  The whole purpose of the visit today was to communicate with Sophie in a relaxed manner. As she beamed and dropped her hand from her neck, George cursed the piece of shit that had taken a swipe at her.

  ‘Can’t be nice being here, Sophie. If you’re anything like me, you’ll hate hospitals.’ He stood and took off his jacket, and tugged at his tie to loosen it. ‘I know you’ve already spoken to us coppers a couple of times so I wanted to apologise for coming back and bothering you again today.’

  ‘That’s okay, they said you might. The second time, they filmed it. It was just like having a chat. I forgot they were even police officers.’

  ‘Good, and you don't mind talking about it, then?’

  ‘No. It’s weird. I don’t mind talking to you about it, but it’s a nightmare talking to my mum.’

  George thought he understood. ‘Happens a lot. Mums are the worst. They’re too involved emotionally and it’s difficult for them to hear.’

  Sophie scoffed. ‘You’d think it had happened to her! She’s terrible, not been to work since, having a go at my dad, always on the phone to my auntie demanding that she throw her weight around. Really milking it, she is. Tells everyone she knows, and about how much it’s affecting her!’

  ‘Your auntie?’ George pretended not to know about her connection to the mayor. Sophie sighed.

  ‘She’s the mayor, which my dad always says is pretty apt because she’s a total mare. We’ve never got on, and yet now she thinks we should be best friends because I got attacked.’

  ‘Maybe she thinks she can help?’

  ‘She’s a twat . . . Oops! Sorry, can I say twat in front of the police?’

  ‘Well, let’s hope so, eh, you just did — twice.’

  ‘Well, if you do arrest me for it, I’ve got a powerful auntie.’

  They smiled at each other.

  Sam returned with two steaming plastic mugs. ‘It’s machine I’m afraid, and there’s only coffee.’ George sighed. He had to be pretty desperate to drink a vending machine coffee.

  George turned to Sophie. ‘So, what’s the plan for you today?’

  She shrugged. ‘The plastic surgeon’s coming in to see me and I might get to have the stitches out. I think that’s all.’

  ‘You already look a lot better than you did in that interview we filmed.’

  ‘How did I look? Horrific, I would imagine.’

  ‘You looked a little traumatised, Sophie, which is understandable. But all in all, you’ve handled this rather well.’

  Sophie looked down. ‘Some people get worse.’

  ‘And most don’t.’

  She looked up at George. ‘You look like you’ve been in the wars yourself, Sergeant.’

  George had forgotten his own facial wounds. The swelling had just about gone, but the skin around both his eyes was dark. He pointed at himself. ‘The eyes? Now let me tell you something, Sophie, if my wife asks you to do the washing up, you do the washing up, you understand?’

  Sophie giggled. ‘Got it. I think I’d like your wife.’

  ‘I’m sure you would.’ George decided it was time to get to the reason for their visit. ‘In your interview you said that you didn’t really get a look at his face, but you remember a tattoo?’

  ‘Yeah, I saw it quite well — only bit I did see really. I didn’t even know he was upstairs . . .’ Sophie fell silent.

  ‘There’s nothing you could have done differently,’ George said.

  Sophie nodded. ‘It was part of a tattoo. There was probably a lot more to it than I saw. It kind of reminded me of a crawling vine or something, you know? I think I said when I was videoed that it was really dark, like it was pretty new and I reckon that’s right. Sometimes they fade, don’t they?’

  ‘You gave a pretty good description, good enough to give us something to go on. But what if someone far more talented than me sat down with you, do you think you could help them to draw what you saw?’

  Sophie nodded again. ‘Yeah, I reckon I could do that.’

  ‘That would be great. I’ll arrange for someone arty to be in touch, and we’ll get it done sooner rather than later.’

  Sam chipped in. ‘I could do it. I used to be good at drawing.’

  ‘Used to be?’ George said.

  ‘Still am. We could give it a go at least, the sooner the better while it’s fresh in your mind.’

  A shrill voice suddenly cut off any reply. ‘Sophie, who are these people?’

  ‘Oh, you’re here. This is Sergeant George Elms and this is Sam, but I don’t know her surname.’

  Sam stood up. ‘Robins.’

  George followed suit, and faced a woman in her late thirties. She was wearing tight-fitting jeans with a white blouse that billowed out from her high waist. She carried a black leather jacket over one arm. George assessed it as being her visiting her daughter in hospital outfit.

  ‘Mrs Hayward? I’m Detective Sergeant George Elms. I’m leading the investigation into the attack on your daughter.’

  ‘And a fine job you’re doing of it, too.’ The sarcasm positively dripped. ‘Sergeant George Elms, you said? I shall have to write that down for my sister.’

  ‘We are doing all we can. We’ve just had a chat with Sophie here and have come up with a decent action plan. We’ll do all we can to get a satisfactory result.’

  ‘Action?’

  Sophie sat forward, looking enthusiastic. ‘We’re gonna draw the tattoo I saw.’

  Mrs Hayward sniffed. ‘Drawing tattoos? You should be out there questioning people, looking at CCTV, getting fingerprints, not drawing pictures, Sergeant.’

  ‘Rest assured, Mrs Hayward, we are doing all those things and more, but we do need to make sure we cover every aspect. The tattoo might turn out to be very useful, critical even.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure that’s something that can be done another day. Are you even suppos
ed to be talking to my daughter without me here with her? I know the law, Detective Sergeant.’

  ‘You’re here now.’

  ‘Lucky I am. She’s very tired, she’s had quite an ordeal and you people have already spoken to her at quite some length.’

  Sophie raised her eyebrows at George, as if to apologise for her mother. George decided it was time to leave. He took a swig of his coffee, and grimaced.

  ‘Well, Sophie, it was lovely to meet you, it really was. We’ll be in touch soon. Maybe Sam here can take you out for a coffee, and a bun as well while you get some work done.’

  ‘Are you paying?’ Sophie twinkled.

  George smiled back. ‘We’ll see about that.’

  Mrs Hayward busied herself arranging the flowers, turning her back on the two police officers.

  ‘Goodbye, Mrs Hayward,’ said George.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, still facing away. ‘Goodbye.’

  Chapter 17

  Huntington had been up for twenty minutes when the alarm rang at four thirty. He opened the door to the en-suite and reached through to turn it off. He had been awake most of the night.

  Huntington’s evenings followed a routine. He would watch the news while his wife sat reading a novel. Once in bed, they would both read silently for exactly fifteen minutes before Huntington switched off his lamp, followed soon after by his wife. Bed had once been the place where they would talk, sharing their day, exchanging news. Nowadays, there didn’t seem to be anything to talk about. Huntington sometimes wondered if his wife missed those conversations.

  Last night, the routine had been interrupted. It started with a call from Helen Webb. ‘Graham, sorry to call so late. Hope you weren’t asleep?’

  ‘No, no, is there something wrong?’

  Helen sounded flustered. ‘The media are publishing stories tomorrow about Epping Hill. Two of the nationals are running them as their main item, but just about all of them have got some sort of coverage.’

  ‘I didn’t think it was quite so imminent. I could have—’

  ‘There’s going to be media at the station tomorrow. The BBC are certainly coming, but we should also expect others. The chief . . .’ Helen sighed, ‘The chief has just called me. He’s going to be there first thing tomorrow and the rest of the day at least.’