Watched closely by Manto and Price, George studied both images, but in the detached manner of a police officer on an investigation.
Manto flipped over the third picture and George started slightly as he looked down at Sergeant Lee. He lay with his legs still wrapped around his motorcycle. There was less blood in this picture, it had been contained beneath his riding leathers. George recognised him, he didn’t know him well but he knew who he was.
Manto’s hand rested on the final image. He looked up at George and flipped it over. Now George gave a sharp intake of breath. Ian Cutter didn’t look much like the sarcastic, dry-witted old fossil that George had admired so much. Cutter was a very good detective, he had been protective of his team, and was well liked. Ian had a spark about him, he was sharp. There was nothing left of that in this photo.
Taken through the car window, the photo showed Ian sitting back in the driver’s seat, his right arm hanging down at his side and his face turned to the camera. Ian’s eyes were wide open. His skin was washed out and looked clammy, his lips were violet, and his mouth hung open. Cutter was wearing a white shirt, the middle of which was soaked in blood.
There was a long silence. George looked down at Ian Cutter sitting in his car. He knew the room was waiting for his reaction. ‘He was a good guy. I thought he would have retired by now.’
Price immediately cut in, sounding angry. ‘He did. But then he came back, seems he missed it.’
Manto nodded at Price, who again reached into the box at his feet. He passed across something that looked like a large mobile phone, tightly sealed in a bag marked, “Police Evidence.”
‘Do you recognise this?’ Manto held it out to George. There were specks of what looked like dried blood on it.
‘Of course. It’s a police radio.’
‘Can you be more specific?’
‘Well, not really. It’s just a police radio, and everyone out there in a uniform has one strapped to their chest or on their belt.’
‘This radio was found at the scene,’ Manto said. ‘You see, our killer has been trying to get a message across. Each of these,’ Manto swept his hand across the photos, ‘Were accompanied by a press of the officer’s panic button. The killer wanted every officer in Langthorne to be able to hear the moment when their colleague died.’
George waited, impassive.
‘When Sergeant Cutter here was shot, it seems the killer had a problem. You see, Ian was a bit old school, he never really took his radio out with him when he was working, and when he was shot he was leaving for home, so it was sat in its charging cradle up in the nick. The killer still wanted his message to be heard, so we believe he used his own, personal issue police radio. And in his rush to get away from the scene after the shooting, he left it behind.’ Manto paused. ‘This radio is yours, George. You left it there after you shot him.’
George reacted with a grin that took a few seconds to form. ‘That’s all you have that links me to any of this? Just that? You’ve got fuck all! I would question whether you have reasonable suspicion to even arrest me! But you bring me through them fucking doors to be abused by staff who are out of control. And let’s not forget you have authority to use reasonable fucking force as part of an arrest. Well, does this look reasonable to you?’ George pointed his thumbs at his swollen face. The whooshing in his ears was loud now, and he couldn’t make out Howard’s words as he tried to communicate with him. ‘Did you see any of your tactical team boys with any injuries?’
‘Your radio was at the scene, George. It was used to summon police immediately following the shooting and killing of Sergeant Cutter. How do you explain that?’
‘Well, I can’t! My radio was in the locker, which is upstairs, here! It was kept here, and as far as I am concerned it is still here in my locker. I may still have the key but come on, you know that anyone here has access to that radio.’
Manto leaned forward. ‘Didn’t Sergeant Cutter lead the investigation against you eighteen months ago, when you were involved in another shooting?’
George shook his head. ‘No. He was assigned initially I believe, but your lot stormed in and took it over. Cutter never uttered a word to me about it, and even if he had I wouldn’t have had any sort of issue with him, if that’s what you’re getting at.’
Manto leaned back and pushed his thumbs behind his braces. ‘I’m not getting at anything. It’s just that you have a reason to be upset with Ian and with Langthorne officers in general. Maybe that’s quite natural, maybe anyone would be in your situation.’
‘I’ve just told you he had nothing to do with any investigation about me. I have no reason to dislike the man, quite the opposite, I’m sad that he’s one of the victims.’
‘Forensics have said that the shots were fired from almost point-blank range,’ interjected Price.
George had to concentrate to hear him through the whooshing in his ears.
‘He would have stood no chance and he would have seen it coming.’
George looked down at the picture. Cutter’s eyes looked straight into the camera lens. Behind the fear there was something else in those eyes. It might have been sadness. ‘Is that a question? I didn’t shoot him. We were friends. I didn’t shoot any of them, and if all you have is my radio at the scene then we might as well end this conversation right now. Then I can go and make my complaint about my unlawful arrest. Have you any idea how easy it is to slip those lockers open? Are CSI even looking at my locker? They should be. They should be looking for prints, or some link to whoever’s touched it.’
Manto sniffed. ‘Those lockers are in the hallway on the ground floor. Just about anyone in the station could walk past it at any time and leave a print on the door.’
George sat back. He turned towards Howard, who was beaming. ‘I think that’s the very point my client is making.’
Manto sniffed again and exchanged a quick look with the inspector. For the first time he seemed unsure of himself.
George was done playing their games now. He now knew this was a fishing trip at best and he wanted to be sure he gave them nothing more. He answered the remaining questions with “no comment.”
* * *
George Elms was released from police custody shortly after the interview was concluded. Once the results were back from a urine test, he would return to answer to the drink-driving charge only for now. He had been given separate bail for the murder case, with strict conditions that would severely restrict his movements. Even so, George made the most of his release, enjoying waving to the custody sergeant as he left.
Howard Staples offered to walk him out. ‘Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?’
‘It could have been worse. I remember a guy I interviewed for a GBH. He spent almost two hours giving me the same story, and I was convinced he was lying. I had good evidence. I put a load of pressure on him, presented all the evidence and even got him to admit that his story was highly unlikely, but he stuck to it the whole way, never even breaking a sweat. We turned the tapes off and I said to him that he seemed to take the whole thing in his stride. I’ll always remember his reply.’
‘He said he was telling the truth, right?’
‘Exactly! He said it’s easy when you’re telling the truth! I was thinking about that bloke today while I was sat in the cell. He had an absolute belief that the truth would be enough. You and I both know the truth is just a starting point for proving a lie.’
‘Not always,’ Howard said. ‘But I have to say in this case they seemed determined to make something stick.’
‘I don’t think that will be the end of it either.’
‘You might be right, George. You have my card if you need me for anything more. Any time.’
‘Thanks.’
Before they parted, Howard stopped and half turned back towards the station. ‘Do you miss it?’
From where he stood, George could take in the whole of Langthorne House. ‘There’s a lot of the shit I really don’t miss, I think I’m better off out o
f it. But when I hear of a job like this, of coppers getting shot for no good reason, I do wish I was involved.’ George smiled at his choice of words. ‘And I don’t mean involved like they seem to think I am! I used to be able to make a difference.’
‘Make a difference, eh? That old cliché. The reason we all joined the job.’
George nodded. ‘Yeah. Bit of an understatement to say that my career hasn’t quite turned out the way I imagined.’
The two men shared a smile and shook hands.
CHAPTER 14
The media circus had begun. George turned on BBC News 24, and saw that his previous place of work was now under siege. A smartly dressed man stood in front of the Lennokshire Police station, speaking excitedly into an oversized microphone. A yellow band of text ran along the bottom of the screen, reading: “Four police officers believed shot dead in 24 hour period . . . Lennokshire Police press conference at 9 a.m.”
Footage captured from a helicopter showed Langthorne House from high above. A large white forensic tent stood at the front of the building, surrounded by temporary fencing. In the next pictures, armed police officers stood manning the cordon that surrounded the station. A second aerial shot followed, of a different location and another white forensic tent, along the front of two terraced houses.
Eating a slice of toast, George shifted to the edge of his sofa. A cup of tea rested at his feet. His curtains were still drawn. A hangover lingered behind his eyes. He turned the sound up and watched the interviews with various members of the public, out on Langthorne High Street. A young lad with a bad case of acne summed up the reason for the apparent lack of concern on the part of the general public. ‘They’re after coppers, ain’t they?’ His eyes darted right and left, playing to the gathered crowd. ‘I know that no one deserves that, yeah? But they do themselves no good the way they do what they do out on the street. Lot of people out here, they don’t like the feds.’
The camera returned to a makeshift studio, set up in a van parked against the cordon outside Langthorne House police station. While they waited for the press conference to begin, the newsman with the oversized microphone asked questions of a lecturer on criminology from a nearby university.
‘Thank you for joining us. Is it fair to say that the police may have brought this upon themselves almost, by their own conduct when dealing with members of the public? Have they made themselves a target for this sort of violent reprisal?’
‘Yeah,’ George said out loud, ‘and they deserve to be shot point-blank in the chest on their way home for it.’ He shook his head, turned the television off and wiped crumbs from his lips.
The knock at the door made him scowl in confusion. He stayed where he was. He wasn’t expecting anyone and his only visitors in the last few weeks had been either religious zealots or people trying to get him to change his power supplier. He decided on another piece of toast and got to his feet, his hearing totally lost for a second in a deep yawn and the whooshing in his ears. He stepped out of the living room and into the hallway. A second, more determined thud came from the door, followed by a scraping sound. This was not the knock of a salesman. George peered out through the peephole.
Nothing but darkness.
George cursed. The timer on the light outside his front door was useless. After some hesitation he pulled the door open, ready to shout at whoever was on the other side.
‘Jack Leslie.’ George said.
Jack’s eyes were wide, his jaw protruding slightly. The knife held firmly in Jack’s right hand was pointed directly at George.
Jack looked at him and appeared to hesitate for a second. Maybe it was seeing his former friend face to face. Maybe it was because George was a shadow of his former self, standing in front of him in a loosely tied dressing gown, barefoot and stick-thin. But it didn’t last long, and his rage seemed to propel him forward. He lunged into the flat towards his target. George used the second’s delay to step back and raise the hand still holding his plate. He swung it forward, and the plate connected with Jack’s right cheek. The plate broke and George twisted away to avoid the thrusting blade. China crunched under Jack’s feet as he drove the blade into George’s side. George punched Jack in the head. Jack pulled back his arm in order to drive the blade again. George threw another punch, and another, all at Jack’s head. Finally he dropped to one knee. George took his opportunity and reached over to grab the hand holding the knife. He pulled it towards him, trying to get Jack’s arm up behind his back.
‘Drop the knife!’ George shouted. ‘Drop the fucking knife!’ He now had Jack’s arm behind his back, but George could feel the strength returning to it. George pulled up as hard as he could. The blade was now inches from his face, pointing upwards. ‘Drop the knife!’ George managed again. Then Jack’s hand opened and the knife fell to the floor. George kicked it away.
‘What the fuck are you doing, Jack?’ George demanded. ‘What the fuck?’
Jack said nothing. His head dropped forward. George still had his arm in a lock behind his back, but he knew he couldn’t hold him like that forever.
‘Jesus, Jack. Fucking talk to me!’ George spat the words at Jack’s head.
Still no response.
George looked around. What could he do now? Jack was a big guy. George was struggling for breath, and with the adrenalin now seeping away he suddenly began to feel weak.
Jack was still on his knees and George spoke to the top of his head. ‘I’m going to let you go, Jack, and we’re going to have a conversation. And if you still want to stick me with a knife by the end of it, then so be it. I don’t have the fucking energy to be fighting you anymore. You understand?’ Jack stayed silent. ‘We used to be mates, Jack, remember that? You know me.’ George relaxed his hold and Jack’s arm fell to his side. George saw the knife lying in the centre of the hallway a couple of metres away, and he took a step towards it. A sudden jab of pain reminded him of the injury he had sustained, and he touched the wound. His fingers came away spotted with blood. He went over to the knife and put his foot on it. He looked again at the small incision in his side, it was bleeding quite a bit, but probably looked worse than it was.
George turned the knife over in his hands. It was an evil-looking thing, a double-sided blade, one side thin and sharp, the other jagged. ‘Jesus, Jack! What the hell are you doing, coming here with this?’ Receiving no answer, he strode back to where Jack still knelt, head towards the floor. George stood over him, the knife held firmly. ‘You wanna give me some sort of answer? You come here to kill me?’ But Jack didn’t move.
George snapped. He grabbed a chunk of Jack’s hair and pulled his head sharply back. Now he could see Jack’s face. George rested the point of the blade against the top of Jack’s neck with the raised teeth against the underside of his chin.
‘You came here to kill me, now tell me why I shouldn’t fucking kill you?’
‘Do it then,’ Jack whispered. ‘Like you did all the others.’
George pushed the knife against Jack’s skin, the blade resting on the top of his Adam’s apple. It would be so easy.
And then both their lives would be over.
George came to his senses and he pushed himself up off Jack’s shoulder.
‘I’m not a murderer, Jack. I didn’t kill any of those people and I don’t want to be hurting you.’ George stepped back towards his kitchen. ‘I’m gonna keep hold of this.’ He dropped the knife into a drawer and stopped for a second to catch his breath.
‘Tea or coffee?’ George called out and waited, trying to hide his shaking hands, his body still tensed to react. He couldn’t see Jack but he heard him shuffle to his feet. George reached for a small kitchen knife and put it in his dressing-gown pocket.
Jack appeared at the door, looking defeated. ‘They’re all convinced it’s you. Everyone’s saying it.’
‘Everyone’s been wrong before, Jack. You and I both know that. From what I hear this is all very personal. How much do you reckon they wanted it to be me? That would have
been nice and convenient for them, wouldn’t it?’
‘No one’s been shot since you got brought in.’
‘Fuck, Jack. You know me. We started out together, worked together. You think I’m capable of what’s gone on?’
‘You avoiding the question?’
‘What question?’
‘No one’s been shot, George. Since you got brought in.’
‘Well, of course they haven’t. You’ve seen the media coverage. If you’re the man responsible and the media announce some other poor fucker’s been nicked, of course you stop, otherwise if another job comes in the police know they don’t have the right man. Think about it. This is proper serious. You don’t get any more serious than killing coppers. Do you think they would be releasing me if they still thought I had anything to do with it? They had fuck all evidence on me, Jack. That’s why I’m stood here.’
Jack looked confused. ‘They still reckon it’s a fucking copper though, one of us. It’s gotta be someone who really hates police with a passion, enough for some real fucked-up violence.’
George looked at the kettle that had now boiled, a layer of steam hung under the window. ‘And you think that describes me?’
‘Well, doesn’t it?’
George reached for two clean mugs. ‘Jack, I don’t have the will or the ability to be out there shooting police officers. Or grandmothers dressed as community support officers, for that matter. You know me better than that.’
‘I thought I knew you. Before you shot your mate from CID. Even the chief constable ended up dead when he went out with you. That’s never been sorted — at least no one told us. All we know is that you got suspended and that eighteen months later, you still are. So maybe you are capable of it, George.’
George found the milk and made tea. He slid a mug over towards Jack, lifted his own to his lips and blew on it. ‘Maybe I am. And maybe you are too. You came here to kill me, so what does that make you?’
‘I was first to Freddie when he got shot and was left to die. The first thing I knew was when that red button was pushed and we got the sound of a man fighting for his life. When I got there, I was just in time for him to die in my fucking arms. You ask what coming here makes me? The last thing Freddie heard was me making him a promise that I would find the bastard. That I would kill him, run a dirty blade through him and have him die. That makes me very different to the sort of man who takes the life of innocent people for nothing more than some sort of fucked up way to make a point.’
PANIC BUTTON a gripping crime thriller full of twists Page 8
