PANIC BUTTON a gripping crime thriller full of twists

by Charlie Gallagher

  Helen sighed. ‘Sarah, all we did was keep him out of prison, and don’t think that was easy after what he did that night.’

  ‘Don’t you come here and tell me that you did my husband any favours! Don’t you dare,’ said Sarah.

  Helen was silent.

  ‘After the explosion at our home, and the shooting, it was impossible to just go back to normal. The insurance company put us in a hotel and offered to rebuild the place, but we couldn’t go back there, not after that. Our family home was gone and George, well he just had no desire to look for another. His tinnitus has been a real battle. He just doesn’t sleep with it, and he has to leave rooms with certain noises, and on bad days he can just black out altogether.’ Sarah looked up at Helen. Her eyes were red and full of tears. ‘He started drinking, just to try and sleep at first. He was being questioned daily by you people, sometimes for four, five hours at a time without a break, and he knew that if he said the wrong thing he would go to prison. He was terrified of that. He did his best to be normal around Charley but she knew something was up, and that broke his heart. His drinking got worse. He went from using it to get to sleep to using it just to get through the day.’

  ‘It must have been difficult for you,’ Helen said.

  ‘It became impossible. We both knew that it was affecting Charley so we agreed that George would move out for a while, just to get himself off the drink and get his head together. When the word came back from you lot that he was in the clear, I thought he might be able to beat it, but it didn’t happen. You wouldn’t let him come back to work, so he was at home on his own all day with nothing to do but self-medicate.’

  ‘People got hurt, Sarah. We couldn’t just let him come back to pick up where he left off. He was due to be assessed to find out whether he could return. I’m sure you understand that we couldn’t have him back until that was done.’

  Sarah shook her head. ‘I do, but you put that assessment back three times. George would build himself up for it, he wouldn’t touch a drop in the days leading up to it, he practised what he needed to say, and then you would cancel, and he would . . . he would hit it so hard, I started to think he would never stop.’

  ‘George must be upset about how it all worked out. I know he feels that Lennokshire Police have wronged him. I know he thinks he deserves more from a force that he put more than fifteen years’ hard slog into.’ Helen stopped and waited for the reaction.

  Sarah’s voice was low, anger bubbling under the surface. ‘I know what you’re suggesting. But he wouldn’t do that. Sure, he felt let down by you lot, but he wouldn’t shoot anyone.’

  ‘Well, now we know that isn’t true, don’t we?’ Helen chanced.

  Sarah’s reply was forced through gritted teeth. ‘We’ve done this to death. George acted in self-defence that night, and it was accepted by your independent people. They grilled him and grilled him. He told them the same story time and time again, and you never wore him down, you never made him trip himself up, because he was telling the truth. And let’s not forget that he wouldn’t have had to take any action if any of you people had known what was going on right under your own noses. You lost control, and when he opened your eyes and gave you the name of the person responsible, you ignored it, buried your heads in the sand and hoped that it would all just go away to make sure you saved your own damned careers.’ She sniffed. ‘And it probably did — for you.’

  ‘Sarah, I know how difficult it must have been for you. I know you went through it just as much as he did, but you have to believe me when I say that I did all that I could to keep George from answering for his actions in a court of law. If he had stood up in front of a jury there would have been no way of controlling the outcome and he may well have been sent to prison. For a very long time.’

  Sarah had composed herself. ‘You make it sound like you fought for George. We’re not stupid. You all fought for yourselves and your reputations. What happened to George didn’t matter to you, he was just a nuisance and if he’d gone down you might have gone with him.’ Sarah stared at Helen, who avoided her eyes. ‘Be honest, it would have been better for you if George had died that night too.’

  Helen didn’t answer.

  ‘Wouldn’t it?’ Sarah persisted.

  ‘George is in trouble now. I came here because I thought you would want to know. I shouldn’t have come.’ Helen turned towards the door.

  ‘What evidence do you have against George? I bet there’s nothing at all! You just thought you’d arrest him because of his past,’ Sarah shouted after her.

  Helen turned, slowly. ‘He has shown himself capable of taking a man’s life, Sarah. Neither of us can deny that. You say it was self-defence, and that may well have been the case eighteen months ago, but yesterday four people were shot and killed in cold blood. I’ll spare you the details but I can assure you it was a display of pure hatred towards the police. There is good evidence, enough to bring George in and for him to have to answer some very difficult questions. If you know anything, anything at all that might shed some light on this, you have to let me know. There are four families out there suddenly having to come to terms with the fact that their dad, their husband, and even a grandmother won’t ever be coming home from work. We have to make sure there are no more.’

  ‘George wouldn’t hurt anyone without good reason. He only hurt those men when they threatened us.’

  Helen looked at Sarah, directly now. ‘What about Paul Bearn?’

  ‘I don’t think any of us can really understand the sort of pressures George was under that night, the sort of fear he felt, but we all know that any choices he made came from the right place. He was protecting himself and he’s been trying to do the same ever since. If you’ve seen him you know he’s not the man he was. George is a mess.’ Sarah’s tone held sadness and acceptance.

  ‘He’s a different man from the one I knew, you’re right there. Maybe neither of us knows what he’s capable of anymore.’

  Sarah pushed past Helen and opened the door. ‘I think you should leave.’

  Helen stopped in the doorway and turned. ‘If you remember anything that you think is relevant you’ll let me know, won’t you? Or if not me, someone at the station. You can call anonymously if you’d rather. We might have to release George while the investigation continues, and you might be able to stop any other officers from coming to harm.’

  Sarah did not respond.

  ‘Think about it,’ Helen said, and stepped through the door.

  * * *

  Sarah Elms leaned against the door. She felt drained, exhausted. She was so tired of worrying, wondering. She walked back into the kitchen and picked up her mobile phone.

  ‘Sarah, hey.’

  ‘Sam, I’m so sorry to call. I didn’t know who else I could speak to. Is it true about George? Do you know anything about it?’

  Detective Constable Samantha Robins sighed. ‘Listen, Sarah. I can’t speak to you right now. I’m at the station. I’ll call you in a bit, maybe we can meet up. Is that okay?’

  ‘Thank you, Sam.’

  * * *

  Sam instantly wished she hadn’t agreed to her part in this at all. She looked up at Andrew Manto, the inspector of Lennokshire’s Professional Standards Department, who sat perched and attentive, on her desk.

  He nodded. ‘Perfect timing! Well done, Sam. Part one all sewn up.’

  CHAPTER 10

  A single cloud crept across the sun. It glowed white hot round the edges as if it had been branded in the sky. It passed, and the sun was once again unleashed.

  One man had barely noticed the intense heat. He was leaning forward with his back towards the sun. He reached out, snatched up an empty crisp packet and scrunched it into a ball. A bumblebee bounced clumsily off a large yellow rose petal. Roses had been his mum’s favourite. He stretched out a hand and touched the slab of granite, running his finger along the lettering that formed the name, ‘Anne Forley.’ Underneath the dates of her existence, was written, ‘Daughter, wi
fe, mother, missed.’ He had chosen the words himself. They were deliberately concise and orderly, whereas the last few months of her life had been anything but.

  ‘All right, lad?’ The gardener smiled at him from a kindly, wrinkled face. ‘Yours is always the prettiest.’

  ‘There was litter,’ grunted the man and stood up to face the gardener. He thrust out a hand and opened it to reveal the crisp packet.

  The gardener shrugged. ‘Kids. They have no respect. I can’t be here all the time.’

  The man cocked his head, running the notion through his head. ‘Respect? Maybe you should teach them a little.’ His eyes bored into the gardener, who picked up his rake and backed away slightly.

  ‘If I see them I’ll be sure to tell them. I’ll leave you on your own then, son. These are personal moments.’ The gardener turned away.

  For an old man, the gardener moved easily. His shirt had grass cuttings on it and there was a sweat patch on his back. He swung the rake out in front of him and let it bump the ground as he walked. He started a tuneless whistle.

  The man curled his lip in a sneer, and set off after him, with his fists balled. ‘Respect!’ He came up behind the gardener and swung his fist hard at the back of the old man’s head, connecting with the softer part. The gardener collapsed on the grass, head down. The man stood over him, his chest rising and falling, anger and adrenalin pumping round his body. The gardener twitched on the ground. The man looked at the rake, lying a few inches away.

  He picked it up and ran it through his hands. He felt the handle end of the rake, it was smoothed to a rounded tip. The gardener stirred again. He muttered something and his eyes fluttered open. He stared at the figure standing over him. The man squatted and grasped the back of the gardener’s head. He gripped the rake, turning it so that the tip pointed towards the gardener. ‘If you see them? You don’t care about them and you don’t care about her.’ He pushed the end into the gardener’s eye and the old man screamed. The handle plunged through the eye and then hit something denser.

  The gardener was silent now.

  CHAPTER 11

  ‘Well, this was a little unexpected,’ Helen Webb said.

  Her voice echoed off the stone walls. George Elms tried to open his eye and winced. His concussion had worn off and now he could do with a drink. The tinnitus was loud in his ears, whooshing and whistling as if someone was trying to tune in an old radio.

  George was lying on his side on the floor. The paper suit still lay where it had been dropped a few hours earlier. He had vomited, and his mouth was dry and tasted of blood. His trousers were stiff with dried urine. The bottoms had scorch marks from the six-bang grenades.

  George squinted up at Helen Webb. ‘Which bit?’

  Instead of answering, Helen said, ‘Can I get you anything?’

  George winced again. ‘I think you’ve done enough for me, thanks.’ His hand moved to touch his ribs. ‘I see the tactical teams have lost none of their enthusiasm.’

  ‘We couldn’t take any risks. It seems you’ve become a very dangerous man, George.’

  He expelled air in a laugh that made him wince again, and his hand rested on his ribs. ‘A dangerous man? Do I look like a dangerous man to you?’

  ‘We both know that it can be very difficult to say what a dangerous man looks like. We tend to go on the evidence.’

  ‘And what exactly do you have evidence of?’

  Helen stepped into the cell, her hands on her hips. ‘George, this may not have registered when it was said to you out on the street, but you are under arrest for the murder of four members of my police staff in the last twenty-four hours.’

  George looked up. His one good eye widened. Through the tinnitus, he had had to really concentrate to take in her words. His own smell seemed worse than ever.

  Helen’s expression was one of disgust. ‘You were also arrested for drink-driving. Seems you were some way over the limit. We’re waiting on the results to see just how far.’

  George was somehow able to muster a smile. ‘I don’t recall being read my rights, being asked about a solicitor.’

  Helen shifted the hands on her hips in a shrug. ‘Do you want a solicitor?’

  George tried to reach for the paper suit and groaned. ‘Well, I’d fucking say so, wouldn’t you? I mean I could lose my driving licence here!’ He held the suit to his chest. ‘And I need a shower.’

  * * *

  Helen Webb slammed the door to the custody office. The custody sergeant was eating a banana and the jailor was sitting with his feet up, watching the monitor showing George’s cell. The occupant lay on the floor with his arms crossed over his chest, as if lying in a coffin.

  ‘What did he say?’ asked the jailor.

  ‘He wants a shower,’ Helen said.

  ‘Anything else? Does he know what he’s here for now?’

  Helen ignored the question. She stared hard at the jailor, who still had his feet up and had now opened a bag of crisps. ‘I said, he wants a shower.’

  The jailor finally stood up.

  ‘The sooner he has a shower and a change, the sooner we can get him into an interview, and maybe get some answers.’

  The jailor gave a curt nod and hurried out of the office.

  ‘And, Sergeant, can we arrange for a solicitor please, as soon as possible?’ She spun on her heels and made her way out of the custody area and back into the belly of the station.

  * * *

  ‘Sergeant Elms,’ the jailor said.

  The door had swung open and another visitor stood blocking the light from the corridor. From his position on the floor, George made out the rotund and smiling form of a former colleague.

  George struggled to sit up. ‘Jim the jailor. Just “George” from now on, mate.’ He ran a hand through his matted hair, then down to his face, to try and assess the areas that were swollen and throbbing.

  ‘Yeah, I heard you were in a bit of trouble.’

  George gave a laugh that worsened the throbbing in the side of his face. Talk about stating the obvious.

  ‘I don’t believe it though, mate.’

  George thought he sounded uncertain. ‘You’re not in charge of the investigation, are you, Jim?’

  ‘No, mate, I’m just here to bring you a tea.’ Jim lifted a steaming mug.

  ‘Well, that’s a shame then.’

  ‘It’s proper tea though, none of that machine rubbish. I made it in the kitchen with my own tea bags.’

  George’s smile was sincere, despite the way it hurt his face. He’d always got on okay with Jim. Their relationship consisted of nothing more than small talk and a bit of banter, but Jim was always genuine. He struck George as being keen to please. He was overweight and his head was shaved close to his scalp.

  ‘And a proper mug, too,’ George added.

  ‘Yeah. I’ll have to stay with you while you drink it, mate, so I can take it away when you’re done.’

  George reached for the mug. ‘Ah, yes. So I don’t do myself any harm.’

  ‘You know how it all works, Sarge — Sorry, George.’

  George raised the mug as if in a toast. ‘Certainly I do.’ Then he looked intently at his jailor. ‘Imagine, Jim, that you live a full life. You have a family, a job and you have, well, happiness.’

  Jim cocked his head slightly, listening.

  ‘Imagine you have all that and then it suddenly all falls apart to the point where you’re sat in a prison cell in piss-soaked trousers, with sick in your beard and blood in your mouth, suffering from a hangover from three weeks’ solid drunk.’

  Jim’s eyes widened.

  ‘Imagine you’ve got to that point, a disgrace for anyone, let alone a proud man who once respected himself and his place in society. Do you think, Jim, that a man going through all of that, who might just have reached rock bottom, the lowest of the low, do you think a man like that would consider taking the final step, bringing on the total humiliation of ending it all, showing he couldn’t take it,’ George took a swi
g of the tea, ‘With a sharpened piece of a teacup?’ George finally gave way and exploded in hysterical laughter.

  And before the custody sergeant could make it to the door to see what the noise was all about, Jim the jailor had very much joined in.

  CHAPTER 12

  Detective Constable Samantha Robins was very uncomfortable. She had not been bothered by the summons from a senior officer from the Professional Standards Department. She was long past the point in her career when this made her flustered. Her discomfort was caused by the way the PSD representative was looking at her, and the tone of his voice. In short, he was leering.

  Inspector Andrew Manto was leaning back in his chair, his knees touching the underside of the table. He was a tall man in his early forties with thinning, brown hair. He wore loud red braces that stood out against his blue-checked shirt. Sam was in a long black skirt that finished high on her body, tied with a wide belt. She raised a hand to push back her hair and became aware that the inspector was staring at her bust.

  ‘Now, Sam. I know the PSD have a reputation among the norms,’ he made quotation marks in the air with his fingers. ‘But what you have to understand is that we’re not here to catch you out. We don’t want to upset the good cops.’ His laugh sounded false. ‘What we want is to let the good cops do their job without the worry of the bad cops.’ The inspector leaned back and put his thumbs under his braces. ‘Does that make sense to you?’

  Sam had been given the PSD talk as part of her initial training, and numerous times since then, during the aftermath of the chief constable’s death eighteen months ago. She’d heard it all before and each time, it seemed to become more patronising.

  Sam did her best to sound disinterested. ‘Sure.’

  ‘You need to feel like you can talk freely and comfortably to me. Do you feel comfortable, Sam?’

  The inspector sat up, leaned towards Sam, reached out a hand and went to place it on top of hers. She snatched it away.

  ‘What do you need?’ she said.

  Manto smiled. ‘That’s the attitude. George Elms, it appears, is one of the bad cops, Sam, someone the likes of me and you should be worried about. All the good, hard work and effort that you put into your career can be undone by someone like that. You can become tarnished with the same reputation that he has. Do you understand what I’m saying?’