PANIC BUTTON a gripping crime thriller full of twists

by Charlie Gallagher

  Sam crossed her arms. ‘I don’t see him as a bad anything.’ She had been interviewed at length by PSD with regard to her relationship with George Elms. They’d asked what she had observed about him, what he had said to her, how he conducted himself around her, and they had made it quite clear throughout that it would be good for her career if she came up with something, anything, as long as it was damaging. Sam had never changed her stance. She supported her sergeant. He was a good man and he had been good to her.

  The inspector stood up abruptly and shook his head. ‘I see. You’re aware that George is in custody facing allegations that he shot and killed four members of the police family? Four of us, Sam.’

  Sam nodded. ‘One thing I’ve learned since I started in this job is how easy it is to get arrested, especially when there’s a murder. Anyone linked to anything to do with a murder will get nicked. The fact that he’s here doesn’t mean he’s guilty.’

  The inspector pursed his lips. ‘No. You could well be right, but suppose he did shoot those people? As police officers, investigative police officers no less, we have to investigate him fully. That might show he’s guilty or of course, it might prove he is not.’

  Sam didn’t react.

  ‘We need to know a bit of background about George. I have spoken to people that knew him, they say that he’s a changed man, and we need to understand what form that change has taken. We need to find out if he feels resentment, bitterness towards Lennokshire Police, to the sort of level where he might commit the type of crimes that we have seen over the last few days. We also need to know if he’s done anything that might suggest he was preparing for it.’

  Sam sighed. ‘And you need me to help by talking to him?’

  He beamed. ‘No flies on you, are there? We may well be forced to bail him once he’s been interviewed here at the police station, and for all we know he has more unspeakable acts planned for his release. You have a relationship with him, Sam. Maybe you can get a little bit of a view of his state of mind. You never know what he might divulge to someone he trusts.’

  ‘It’s not like we’re the best of friends. I’m not his confidante. I’ve barely spoken to the man in eighteen months. He’s not sought me out to reveal his dark secrets during that time, so why would he now?’ This wasn’t quite true. Sam and George had been in infrequent contact over the last eighteen months, but it had trailed off to almost nothing.

  ‘Well, that might be the case, but George is a proud man and I wouldn’t necessarily expect him to go out confiding in people, asking for their opinions or their help. But, if he were to be contacted by a friendly voice? Someone on his side, as it were, he just might give a snippet, something that could help us save lives.’

  Sam looked up. ‘A voice?’

  ‘Of course. We’re not asking you to visit the man in person. We don’t want to be putting you in harm’s way, Sam, now do we?’

  ‘So you want me to call him?’

  ‘That’s all, and I’d like you to use this phone, just so there are no security issues. Also it gives us direct contact — a hotline to each other if you will.’

  Sam picked up the new-looking Blackberry mobile phone that he pulled out of a drawer and slid over to her. She wasn’t naïve, she knew it would have something on it, either a listening device or a simple tracker, or both. She saw her opportunity to leave and decided against arguing with this man. She stood up, with the parting words, ‘I’ll give it some thought.’ She checked the new mobile phone was switched off and dropped it in her bag.

  As she left, Ross Price rapped on the door and entered.

  CHAPTER 13

  The interview team sent to formally question George Elms entered Langthorne custody area at 08.12 hours on the last day of June. The temperature was already uncomfortably hot. The custody area lacked ventilation, and the warm air was redolent with the odour of unwashed bodies, stale alcohol and urine.

  George didn’t sleep well at the best of times, but in the muggy heat, amid the slamming of doors, bright lights and occasional shouting of other prisoners, he had not slept at all. At least he looked and smelled better, having managed some sort of a shave, and he was freshly showered and changed into the paper suit. He had looked in the shower room mirror and seen that the suit, combined with his battered face, made him look every bit the convicted criminal. His clothes had been taken away for forensic investigation. They would be prodded, tested, and inspected for the slightest link to the scenes, the victims, or the weapon that had fired the fatal shots. He had been informed that his home address had been searched too, along with his bullet-ridden car. He knew the process well, they hadn’t needed to tell him.

  Police interviews were a game, which the interviewing officers and defence solicitors played out in full awareness of what they were doing. The prisoner would also play their part, usually unaware of the rules. This prisoner, however, knew very well how the game was played. The solicitor representing George was Howard Staples, a man so large he needed to duck under the doorways in the custody area. He had spent twenty-eight years as a police officer, retiring as a sergeant. He knew the process inside and out, he knew the rules of the game and how to manipulate them. He also knew that, no matter what the evidence or the seriousness of the allegation, the odds would generally be stacked in favour of his client.

  * * *

  Howard had spent forty minutes in the custody area with Inspector Price, before meeting with George. This was the first part of the game: disclosure. The police made the legal advisor aware of why their client had been arrested, some or all of the evidence they had, and what outcome they were looking for, even at this early stage. During this meeting agreements were often reached, with talk of leniency for a confession. There had been no such offer this time. Howard left the meeting already aware that the case against George was as much personal as legal.

  Howard then asked to see his client before the interview commenced.

  George shuffled in. Howard extended his hand. ‘I won’t bother asking how you are.’ Howard had met George only occasionally, since he had spent much of his police career in Special Branch, a department kept away from the day to day policing.

  ‘I’ve been better. Have you had disclosure?’ George asked.

  Howard smiled. ‘I have, and I’ll be honest, George, they don’t seem to have very much at all.’ He took a seat opposite his client. His leather case had barely been used and he struggled with the single catch. Howard had brought in coffee in small plastic cups and offered one to George.

  George grimaced. ‘Definitely not. It’s a desperate day when I start drinking custody coffee.’

  Howard opened his notebook. ‘First off, are you fit for interview? Because, bearing in mind what they have you in here for, if you’re not on the button today, then I can make sure that—’

  George cut in. ‘No. I’m fine.’

  Howard gestured at George’s swollen face. ‘All that from the arrest?’

  George chuckled. ‘Yeah, I think they’re pissed off. You should see the state of my car!’

  ‘You want me to make a representation about the use of force on arrest?’

  George shook his head. ‘I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t get me very far, thanks.’

  Howard took a long breath and fidgeted with his pen and notebook. ‘So,’ he said, ‘What do you want to tell me about why we’re both here today?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t shoot anyone if that’s what you’re getting at.’

  ‘I’d like to know where we stand from the start, George. You know I have to ask.’

  George nodded. ‘I do. As yet no one’s told me what this is all about. I don’t know who the hell got shot, but it’s no surprise I’m in line for it. It would suit a lot of people here if I just went away. Out of sight, out of mind.’

  ‘Well, the evidence they have is frankly appalling. We’ll get the interview done and unless they suddenly pluck something out of their arses, there will be no reason to keep you here. I will oppose a
ny attempt at an extension and they certainly won’t have enough to charge you with, so remand is not an issue. My advice, at this stage, based on the flimsy evidence they have, is to answer all questions with a succinct, “no comment.” That way you do nothing to further their case, you give them no relevant lines of enquiry to go and check out, and consequently no reason to hold you here any longer.’

  ‘No comment is as good as an admission of guilt though, if it ever gets to court.’

  Howard smiled again. ‘In some cases, sure. But you’ve been beaten up. You’re confused about the whole thing and you have no idea why you’ve been arrested, so you don’t want to say anything that might incriminate yourself until you are aware of the full facts. That sounds reasonable to me and I’m sure it would to a jury of your peers.’

  ‘I’m happy to answer their questions,’ George said. ‘I’ve not left my flat for nigh on two weeks. Most of that time I was in a drunken stupor and the rest I was asleep. What possible evidence do they have linking me to any scene?’

  Howard studied his notebook. ‘It is alleged that an item was found at one of the scenes that can be attributed to you.’

  ‘An item? What item?’

  ‘They didn’t disclose that, but they must be pretty certain it can only have been left by you.’

  ‘Not a forensic link then? An actual thing?’

  ‘A physical object, I was led to believe, with possible forensics of course, and that’s about it. The rest is circumstantial, based on your past use of firearms, your resentment of the police and your close proximity to one or all of the incidents. They weren’t really playing the disclosure game, I’m afraid. We’ll just have to see what they come out with in interview.’

  George stared at him. ‘Close proximity?’

  ‘You live in the same town. I would say it’s as tenuous as that.’

  George sighed and sat back. ‘Let’s do it. And I will have that coffee after all.’

  * * *

  At 09.25 hours the two-man interview team made themselves comfortable opposite the seated prisoner. Howard had moved round to sit beside George, and the game commenced with the two officers making a show of walking into the room with two boxes of exhibits. Inspector Price positioned himself a little further back than his colleague, to make it clear who would be leading the questioning. Andrew Manto read from a piece of paper without raising his eyes. ‘George Alan Elms?’

  George made no response.

  ‘You know why you’re here?’ Manto peered over the top of the paper.

  George returned the look. ‘I know why I was arrested. Your boss popped in earlier to tell me.’

  Manto nodded. ‘You will know Inspector Price here, I assume?’ George offered no response so Manto carried on, ‘You will not know me. However—’

  ‘I know who you are,’ George cut in. ‘You’re PSD. I’ve seen plenty of you over the past year or so. You all carry yourselves the same way, like you’re better than everyone else.’

  Manto merely nodded. ‘Well, good then. And you’ll know that I have to formally identify myself for the DVD. My name is Detective Inspector Andrew Manto of the Professional Standards Department. I normally work at headquarters but I’m at Langthorne House today to conduct an interview under caution of George Elms, who was arrested for driving offences and four separate allegations of murder.’ Manto paused and raised his eyes to the cameras pointing down from two corners of the room. ‘This conversation will centre around the murder investigation.’ Manto appeared to be enjoying himself.

  The room itself was almost empty. It contained a solid white table and the chair George sat upon was bolted to the floor. A DVD recorder was positioned behind the two police officers, displaying the interview room filmed from above.

  All the men announced their name and purpose, and the caution and other formal matters were read out to the prisoner. Then Manto assumed a pained expression and started the questioning.

  George had braced himself. His recent experience with PSD had worn him out. The constant repetition was exhausting, going over and over the same ground, giving the same answers to the same questions. George made a conscious effort to calm himself. He stared at Manto, who was reading through his notes. Manto leaned on his elbows and brought his hands together under his chin.

  ‘So, George,’ he began, ‘I want to start by talking to you about how you’ve been coping with your suspension. How have you been occupying the time?’

  ‘I want to talk about the reason I’m here,’ George said. ‘The sooner you get onto that, the sooner I can go home. This interview is about something I’m supposed to have done, not how I’ve been.’

  Manto pushed himself away from the table and crossed his arms. ‘You’re accused of shooting and killing four police staff in cold blood, George. You don’t think that your mental state might be relevant to the investigation?’

  ‘I didn’t shoot anyone. So it isn’t relevant, no.’

  ‘Well, actually, we know that you did, don’t we?’ Manto watched George intently.

  George was done defending himself for any past actions, and he was damned if he was going to go through it all again. ‘I didn’t kill those people.’

  ‘And what people are those, George?’

  ‘You tell me. I don’t know anything about what’s been going on with you lot. I keep my head down these days.’

  Manto underlined something in his notes with a chewed biro. ‘Are you alcohol dependent, George?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You were drunk at the wheel. We don’t have the results yet, but I’m confident they’ll be positive.’

  ‘I didn’t shoot those people. That’s what this is about, not about drink-driving.’

  Howard cut in. ‘You stated that this interview was to discuss the offence of murder. If you wish to talk about my client’s alleged inebriation while driving a motor vehicle, then I will have to call for a break in proceedings. I have not yet discussed this offence with him, nor did you mention it in our disclosure.’

  Manto went ahead with another question. ‘Where were you going, George? Mid-afternoon and already drunk, where were you driving?’

  Howard cut in for a second time. ‘You will grant us a break if you insist on continuing to talk about the drink-drive offence.’ He turned to George. ‘I’ll remind you that you don’t have to answer any of these questions, George, especially if they’re not relevant.’

  Manto hadn’t moved his eyes from George’s face, and the prisoner stared back. ‘You don’t drink-drive, George, not a man like you, so what was so important?’

  ‘I was going to see my family.’ George immediately regretted his words. He didn’t want to talk about his family.

  Manto flipped through his notes. ‘Your wife Sarah and daughter Charley?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did they know you were going to see them?’

  ‘We’d talked about it. They were at a beach party.’

  ‘My understanding was that your wife was having little or nothing to do with you. We’ve had a number of incidents, particularly over the past few months, where police have been called to your wife’s place and have had to move you along. Apparently she’s asked for our help and advice to get something formal in place to stop you just turning up.’ Manto turned over more papers underneath his notebook. George recognised the format of intelligence reports. Manto removed one of them. ‘This one particularly. She states here that you have a drink problem and that you’d turned up drunk when you were supposed to be taking your daughter out. Sarah refused to let you take her and she has now stopped you visiting at all.’ Manto looked up. ‘Says here she is considering applying for a judge’s order blocking any contact from you except through a solicitor. It takes a lot for someone to get to that point, does it not?’

  ‘I needed to speak to her. I just needed to see Charley, even if it was only for a few minutes.’

  ‘Drunk?’

  Howard moved his arm so that it rested against George. ‘
None of this is relevant. George has basic human rights, Inspector, just like we all do. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of his right to a private life, article eight, or his right to a family life, article twelve. The police are very much governed by the Human Rights Act are they not?’

  ‘Let’s talk about the right to life. Article two, I believe.’ Manto nodded at Price.

  Price reached down and picked out four papers from the box he had carried in and placed at his feet. He passed them to Manto, who laid them out side by side on the table. Manto sighed and seemed to hesitate. Then he turned over the first sheet, a colour photograph.

  Police Constable Matthew Riley lay on his back, one arm stretched out beside his body, the other across his chest, holding down a piece of paper that showed stark white against the blood from the wound at the centre of his chest.

  George leaned towards the image a little. He could see that the blood pooled round him was a darker shade of red than normal. He knew this to be a sign of an arterial bleed, something he’d seen before too many times. It would be thick and sticky with even a skin on top where it had started to congeal — like red boiled milk. Matthew’s eyes were wide open. His open mouth looked as if he were still screaming.

  There were no questions. Manto flipped over the second picture in silence.

  PCSO Jan Thomas lay on a wooden floor. This time the photo was taken from a little further away and it was lit by sunlight, instead of a flash. It was a strange scene, peaceful almost. Shafts of sunlight came through the large windows of the sports hall. The body was slightly to the right of the frame, showing how close it was to the double doors, which had a metal bar across them with “push to exit” written in reflective green. There were drag marks left by the hard backs of PCSO Thomas’s shoes. Again, a piece of paper rested on top of the body.