BODILY HARM a gripping crime thriller full of twists

by Charlie Gallagher

  Sam and Paul had spent hours going from dosshouse to dosshouse and were ready to quit.

  Paul and Sam were eating hotdogs purchased from a van in a shopping centre car park. ‘I say we phone Huntington and tell him that we’re done with it,’ said Paul.

  Sam was busy picking out the onions from her roll. ‘We don't even need to do that, really. He didn’t ask us to do anything specific. We’ve done above and beyond, as far as I can see.’

  ‘Yeah, we know that, but he doesn’t. I don’t want him thinking that we just didn’t bother.’

  ‘Oh, I see. You after a promotion, Mr Kiss Ass?’

  ‘Bollocks, Sam.’

  ‘No, you’re right. Give him a call and tell him what you’ve done for him.’ Paul took out his mobile phone. ‘And don’t forget to ask him if he wants an apple brought back. Tell him you’ll make sure it’s well polished.’

  Paul stuck two fingers in the air. ‘Hello, sir, it’s Paul Baern. We’ve been out all day and I’m afraid . . .’ Paul stopped talking. ‘Sorry, sir, go ahead.’ He hunched forward in his seat. ‘When? Where is he now?’ Sam put her hotdog down. ‘We’ll head over there . . . I don’t care, you tell them who we are or you come out and get us yourself!’ He ended the call and started the engine.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘There’s been an explosion. George and his daughter were caught up in it. They think it might have been a car bomb.’ Paul revved hard as he pulled away.

  ‘Jesus!’

  They drove to the hospital in silence.

  * * *

  Armed police with Glocks strapped to their legs, and carrying assault rifles patrolled the perimeter of Langthorne General Hospital.

  Huntington had been assigned two personal armed guards but had told them in no uncertain terms to fuck off. He ducked under one of the many fire exits and called Ed Kavski. Jacobs was still not answering.

  ‘This was it? This was what you’d planned?’

  ‘How did it go?’ Ed sounded as if he were smirking.

  Huntington was incredulous. ‘How did it go? How did it fucking go? A police officer is fighting for his life, and his six-year-old daughter may never walk again.’

  Ed took a while to reply. ‘Attempted murder will do just fine if the girl’s involved too. Even GBH with intent would be a reasonable result.’

  ‘Reasonable . . .’ Huntington’s voice shook with emotion. ‘A reasonable result is you strung up by the fucking neck for what you’ve done.’

  Ed laughed. ‘Jacobs said you were a bitter old fossil. Now you listen to me, Graham. Your part of the job kicks in now. You need to make sure that the investigation into this ends with the arrest of two brothers from the estate. Jacobs knows all about it. He was going to take care of it himself, but it seems he’s become a little unreliable of late. Get in contact with him, get the information you need, and get the job done.’

  ‘Fuck you! What’s to stop me making a phone call right now and getting the whole lot pointed at you? You’ll never see the light of day again.’

  ‘Graham, we’ve been through this. We both know you won’t do that. You don’t seem to understand that it’s you who’s made it possible. You’re now involved in conspiracy to murder. You just maimed a six-year-old girl. Graham, your career is over the second you make that call.’

  ‘This is nothing to do with me! I’m utterly outraged—’

  ‘Listen, let’s not play this game. We both know you’re never going to expose our little arrangement. You would be better off putting your efforts into working out just how you’re going to get those Skinner brothers in the frame like I’ve asked. It really shouldn’t be difficult. I already have a crate of components for you — all you have to do is organise a walk round their property and make sure they’re found. Easy.’

  ‘You think that with one of my men lying in a hospital bed fighting for his life I’m going to help you?’

  ‘No, Graham, I think you’re going to help yourself.’

  The call was ended.

  ‘God dammit!’ Huntington kicked out at a rubbish bin which toppled over. In an instant, three armed guards appeared. Two dropped to their knees facing in different directions, rifles levelled, and the third scanned the commander and his immediate vicinity.

  ‘You okay, sir?’

  Huntington waved them away and marched back into the hospital.

  * * *

  Sarah Elms could tell something was happening. Most of the east wing of the hospital had been closed off to all but police and medical personnel. All of a sudden they seemed to be hurrying, and there was a flurry of radio chatter. Her husband and daughter were in separate but adjoining rooms. The medical team were keeping both unconscious: Charley so they could work on her shattered knee and protect her from the pain, and George while they assessed his head injury. They now suspected a perforated eardrum — a common injury in someone exposed to an explosive device.

  Sarah was struggling to make sense of it. Someone had planted a bomb under her husband’s car. A man had died, killed by a bomb intended for George. Whenever she thought of George and Charley standing by that car she began to retch.

  Sarah peered through the door of the room where she waited. The armed men were now standing in line along the corridor. A grey-haired man walked through, flanked by several more armed personnel. He stopped in front of her and removed his hat. His armed escorts stood just behind him.

  His deep voice carried authority and warmth. ‘Sarah, I’m Chief Constable Alan Cottage, a personal friend of your husband.’

  Sarah shook his hand. ‘Thank you for coming. George has a lot of respect for you.’

  ‘How are they both?’ Cottage looked beyond Sarah, through the adjoining window at the two unconscious figures.

  ‘Stable.’ Sarah’s tone hardened. ‘Do you know what this is all about? Because no one seems to have a clue.’

  ‘We will find out,’ Cottage said.

  ‘They should both be fine. As long as the scan from George’s head comes back with no issues, he’ll be out of the woods. Charley’s knee will need some work — they can’t assess just how bad it is until the swelling goes down. Apparently they’ve both been incredibly lucky. I’ll be sure to tell them that when they regain consciousness.’ Sarah broke into tears. Cottage stepped forward and she rested her head on his shoulder.

  He spoke soothingly into her hair. ‘We’re going to be in the way for a while, Sarah. When George comes round we’ll need to speak to him straight away, Charley too. It’s your family and you tell us to leave whenever you feel you need to, but remember we’re here to catch the bastard that did this. I personally will not rest until it is done. You have every single resource of Lennokshire Police at your disposal.’

  Sarah moved back a little. ‘The police have been fine. I know they’re going to need to speak to George. I just want to see him wake up. They said they would wake him up within the hour if his results were clear. They said they examined his head and couldn’t feel any soft bits — which if you know George will probably surprise you.’ Sarah managed a laugh, but it faded quickly. ‘He should be okay.’

  ‘I’ll be sticking around. I’d like a chance to take the mickey out of him myself when he does decide to open his eyes,’ Cottage said.

  Sarah nodded, wiping her eyes. ‘Could you do me a favour?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘They told me that a couple of George’s colleagues were here, from work. Paul and Sam? They stopped them coming through but I’d like to speak to them, to see if they know anything about why this has happened. George talks about them a lot, they’re all very close.’

  ‘Paul and Sam are here?’

  Sarah nodded. The chief turned and opened the door, where his two armed shadows snapped to attention. ‘DC Baern and DC Robins, where are they?’

  One of the officers spoke into his radio, and then turned back to Cottage. ‘They’ve been taken to a secure room in the hospital, sir. They’re being spoken to by Major C
rime.’

  ‘Get them here now,’ Cottage barked. ‘We need to speak to them too.’

  Chapter 40

  George sat up in his hospital bed. His return to consciousness had been slow and confusing, and it had been more than an hour before he had been able to have a conversation with Sarah that made any sense. Her relief at seeing him awake and talking soon gave way to anger at the evil he had brought into their home. He had spoken to the chief too, who had been gentle, barely touching on what had happened or the reasons behind it. George had managed to tell him where he was in the investigation, and had directed him to Paul and Sam. The chief confirmed that George and his family were to go into protective custody until the police could be sure of the motive at least.

  George just wanted to go home — but to what? Alan Cottage had told him that most of the front and all the windows had been destroyed. The building was so unsound that structural engineers had had to be called in before forensics could enter. The house was lit up by floodlights and covered by a large canopy, to prevent any evidence being lost but also to keep photographers away. Media interest was high.

  George was alone for the first time since the explosion. Sarah had gone to check on Charley and to get some rest. A bed had been set up for her in Charley’s room. He had been told that his daughter had suffered a broken shin and possible damage to her knee. He had been told they were lucky to be alive. He ran through all that had happened to him — his car destroyed by a bomb, the house a ruin, the injuries to him, to his daughter, and the mental anguish his wife had suffered. He didn’t see how any of that could be described as lucky. A high-pitched ringing noise sounded constantly in his right ear. In both, in fact, but the right one was worse. The doctor had told him it was tinnitus and said that it could last anything from five minutes to five years. George had thanked him for his precision.

  Sighing loudly, he sat up and removed the various monitoring devices attached to different parts of his body. He went over to where his coat hung at the door, and found his work mobile phone in a pocket. Taking the phone, he pulled the door open and came face to face with an armed guard.

  ‘I’m just off for a walk,’ George said.

  ‘Sorry, sir, I’m afraid I can’t let you do that right now. I’ll radio through and get a walk organised.’ The man began to lift the radio to his mouth, but George stopped him.

  ‘I don't want a walk authorised. I just want to stretch my legs. I’m going stir-crazy in there.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. Security protocols.’

  ‘Do you have armed guards on the outside doors and the perimeter?’ George cupped his hand over his right ear to see if it made a difference to the ringing noise.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And this part of the hospital is also sealed off by armed guards?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then I think I’m quite safe walking around this part of the hospital without any babysitters, don’t you?’

  ‘Sorry, sir—’

  ‘Don't be sorry. I’ll be going for a walk now, unless you want to explain to your boss why you were wrestling the man you were sent to protect.’

  ‘Well, no, but I—’

  ‘You stay here. I just want a short walk on my own.’

  ‘But, sir, we’re here for your protection. I had orders from—’

  George pointed to his right ear. ‘Sorry, can’t hear you.’

  Chapter 41

  For Graham Huntington, it had been dark all day. He stood still on his drive, oblivious to the biting cold. He leant on his sports car and faced his house, looking at it as though for the first time. He expelled a long sigh and shook his head. He’d been coming home from his job as a police officer for many years — a job that had often been hard — but he had never felt so low, so desperate, so unsure as now.

  Tinsow was still missing, and when Huntington had tried drumming up resources to look for him, he had received nothing but shrugs. ‘He’s probably just gone out somewhere and got smashed. He’ll have no idea what time it is anyway. He’ll turn up thinking he’d only been gone a couple of hours. Typical pisshead.’ Huntington knew there was more to it than some pisshead getting lost on his way home from the off-licence. But it was impossible to convey the seriousness of the matter to his colleagues without saying how he knew. And then there was George Elms, his little girl, and the conversation with Ed Kavski. Just when he was beginning to get to grips with the Tinsow crisis, George had been hospitalised and damned near killed. And somehow Huntington himself had been put in the position of accomplice. How could he have let himself be played so easily?

  The downstairs windows were in darkness, except the porch, which was lit up for his return. The master bedroom light was on, so he knew his wife would be sitting up in their bed, a novel in her hand, lost in a make-believe world. He shook his head. ‘Rather that than the real world,’ he said, and watched his words drift away in the cold night air. Still slowly shaking his head, he trudged towards the house.

  ‘Graham, there’s a dinner in the microwave. It’s on the right setting, just give it three minutes.’ He smiled. His wife had called down before he’d even closed the door. In the kitchen, he opened the microwave door to reveal sausages and mashed potato with vegetables. The microwave whirred into life and he stood watching the timer count down, suddenly realising how hungry he was.

  Fifteen minutes later, he headed wearily up the stairs to bed and, sure enough, his wife was sitting up under the bedspread, a novel on her lap.

  ‘You okay, Janice?’ She stopped reading and looked at him, a little taken aback.

  ‘Fine. Are you okay?’

  He pointed at her glasses. ‘Are they new?’

  ‘Not really — more than a year.’

  He looked down at his wife. Her eyes were her best feature. He’d always been confident around women, too much almost, but all his self-assurance flew out of the window the first time Janice looked at him. Those eyes could make him forget everything. Even now, as he looked at her properly for the first time in a long while, he still found her beautiful. Yes, her face had aged, but those high cheeks and sparkling eyes were still very much there. She had little dimples in her cheeks that only appeared when she really smiled. He felt a pang of shame when he realised that he couldn’t remember the last time he had seen her dimpled smile.

  His wife lowered her book and peered over her glasses at him. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

  ‘I do love you, Jannie.’ He hadn’t uttered those words for almost ten years and even now they had just tumbled out, unbidden.

  Janice looked surprised. She removed her glasses, revealing those eyes in all their beauty. ‘And I love you too.’

  ‘Why?’ he said.

  Janice recoiled slightly.

  ‘Why would you still love me, Jan? I’m not a good husband and, you know what, I don’t think I have been for quite some time. I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve for you to still be here at all.’ He let out a breath, an incoherent young man again. ‘You’re everything I ever wanted, you still are, Janice, and I take you for granted.’ He sat down next to her, tugging at his shirt buttons to keep his hands busy, facing away from her. She said nothing. ‘I just want you to know that I’m sorry. I’ve put work first for so long. I thought the career was all I wanted but it wasn’t, Janice, it really wasn’t. It was you, and it was here.’

  ‘You don’t need to be sorry, Graham. I always knew you wanted a career.’ Janice placed her hand on his arm and he looked at her.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘When we were first together I kept a diary. It was all about you, how you made me feel, how lucky I was and how I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘Where did I go wrong, Janice? How could I have let myself change so much?’ Tears welled in his eyes, and he shut them tightly. Janice leant forward, placed a hand on his cheek and kissed him gently on his eyelids, and then on the lips. He did nothing at first, but then began to kiss her b
ack. Her book slid off the bed and onto the floor where it was covered by his discarded shirt.

  * * *

  Huntington lay still. It was now 11 p.m. and he had been staring at the clock for almost an hour. Janice was sleeping soundly against his chest, something as rare as their lovemaking. His mind raced with thoughts of work, of George Elms and Ed Kavski and how he had let the last twenty or so years slip by without making the sort of impact he had wanted to, in or outside work. How had he let this happen? How had Kavski and Jacobs been able to play him like a fool?

  He got out of bed and padded down to the kitchen. Somehow, he was slipping on his work shirt and trousers, followed by his overcoat and scarf, before taking his keys from the kitchen table, closing the front door and starting the BMW. He had started to drive in order to clear his head, but soon he was heading in a familiar direction, and at 11:09 p.m. his car came to a halt in his allotted parking space at Langthorne House Police Station.

  The police station was silent, even the uniform patrols on night shift seemed all to be out. On his way into the station he passed a blackened window that reflected his face like a mirror. Huntington found himself stopping to look. The white of his hair stood out in sharp contrast to the black background of the glass. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes hooded, above bags that were more pronounced than usual.

  ‘Looking good,’ he said out loud.

  It was a short walk to his office from the lift. He went straight over to a tall fitted wardrobe and opened the doors, taking in the familiar sights and smells of his policing past, hanging on individual coat hangers.

  He rubbed the coarse material between his finger and thumb, feeling the heavy navy blue material that made up his dress suit or “number ones,” as they had become known. When he had first joined they had been the standard uniform and he still had the original trousers, complete with a long, thin, concealed pocket running down his right leg for the stowing of a wooden truncheon.

  A smile flickered across his face. He could still remember putting it on for the first time. His training complete, he was sent out on foot patrol with a shithouse of a man, Constable Hart, brash and impatient. He recalled Hart picking up a child and throwing him like a bowling ball at the poor lad’s chums. ‘Any one of these little oiks can become a crim. So you’ve got to make sure they realise what they’re up against right from the start if they want to go down that route,’ Hart’s voice would boom out across the town centre. The kids would hear him coming and scatter, picking up their litter and throwing it hurriedly into bins. He demanded respect, that man. Kids, crims, and colleagues alike. He was a real copper, and wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in today’s police service.