* * *
‘Hello, Mum. I’m at Langthorne General. I’m just leaving, are you in for a cuppa?’
There was a hesitant, ‘Er, we’re heading out soonish.’
‘I just wanted a quick chat is all, but if you’re going out . . .’
‘You’re okay? What are you at the hospital for?’
‘Oh, I’m fine. I’m here for work, Mum.’
‘Well, okay then. What did you want to chat about?’
It was Sam’s turn to pause. She knew her mum would be delighted. She’d talked about grandchildren more times than Sam cared to remember. Sam’s dad was old school, he believed a wife should stay at home and raise the children. Sam wanted more. She had seen how empty her mother’s life had been, especially after Sam had left home.
Sam knew that her pregnancy would give her mother’s life some meaning again. The child would change her mother’s life too. She felt heavy-hearted all of a sudden. Her hand went to her stomach.
She began to move towards the car. ‘No, it’s ok. There’s someone else I need to see anyway. I’ll see you another time, Mum.’
The relief in her mother’s voice was all too clear. ‘Soon though, eh?’
‘Sure.’
Sam ended the call and got into her car. The interior was stifling. Sam drove away, heading towards the one friend she had always been able to talk to.
CHAPTER 18
‘Sam!’ George said.
‘Surprise!’ Sam hesitated, sensing that it might be a bad time. The hallway to his flat was dark after the bright sunlight outside. George had damp, uncombed hair and wore an open shirt over lounge shorts.
‘Surprise indeed. Would you like to come in?’
‘No,’ Sam said. ‘I quite like your dark hallway. If you could just grab me a chair.’
George smiled and stepped back from the doorway. He gestured for her to enter. He seemed a little hesitant, not quite meeting her eyes. He looked down. ‘I’ll er . . .’
‘At least pop some trousers on.’
‘I’ll do that.’
Sam laughed. ‘I would.’
George moved into the bedroom.
‘I’ll put your kettle on then, if you can’t be bothered,’ she called out.
‘Thought you’d never ask!’
‘Two teas it is.’ Sam went into the kitchen.
‘Coffee actually, I think.’
‘Coffee? What happened to “tea for the English, coffee for fat Americans” then?’
George reappeared, tucking a creased white shirt into creased chinos.
‘A few things have changed around here, Sam.’
‘So I see.’ Sam stared around the kitchen. ‘You sacked the cleaner for a start.’ Dirty cutlery was piled in and around the sink, and most of the surfaces she could see were stained. Cupboard doors hung open to reveal the mess inside. The remains of that morning’s breakfast was attracting flies.
‘My wife wouldn’t appreciate you calling her that.’ George gave a sort of laugh. ‘What brings you here anyway? It’s been a while.’
It had. After George’s suspension, Sam had kept in touch, visiting or phoning once a week at first, but contact had gradually tailed off, and it had been several months since they had last spoken. George led her through to the living room, where he opened the ill-fitting curtains to reveal a room that was equally unkempt and cluttered. The daylight illuminated his sagging face, marked with scrapes and bruises. It was a stark contrast to the brilliant and mentally agile detective that Sam had once so admired. She could see that the mess of George’s house was an accurate reflection of the state of his life in general.
‘I guess I just wanted to see how you were doing. I thought maybe you could do with seeing a friendly face and a bit of support. Plus I have an hour to kill and need a cup of tea.’
George laughed. ‘Well, whatever, you’re welcome. I can’t say there’s been too many friendly faces of late — they’ve mostly been stern, judging, downright angry or whatever the hell you call the expression that Helen Webb wears.’
‘Her expression has been a whole lot worse recently — well, you can imagine.’
Sam perched on the edge of a sofa, looking around at the mess. George abruptly turned to the windows and pushed them open as far as they would go. The sounds of the street and the passing traffic filled the room. He turned back to look at her.
‘Something’s bothering you?’ she said.
‘Yeah, I suppose so. I guess it’s just my cynical detective mind.’
‘Go on.’
‘I haven’t seen you in what, four or five months. Suddenly here you are, less than forty-eight hours after I become the primary suspect in a high profile case.’
Sam looked at George, standing silhouetted against the sun. ‘You taught me a fair amount, Detective Sergeant Elms, some of which was worth remembering. One thing was don’t believe in coincidences. I guess I should have expected you to question why I’m popping round now.’
‘No offence.’
‘I’ve heard all about it, of course I have, and PSD have spoken to me. They’ve talked to me about the possibility of speaking to you on the phone. They want me to somehow judge your mental state I presume, or maybe get a full confession. They want me to see if I can fill in the blanks about what you’ve been up to since you left Langthorne nick. They seem to have you down as someone who’s become all bitter and twisted, whose life has fallen apart ’cause of what happened, and who is now doing the whole diabolical revenge thing. I ain’t having it, not for a second. I know you’re not capable of doing those things and I’m just pissed off that you’re not at our side, hunting the bastard that’s still out there.’
George seemed to relax. ‘That’s a relief, because the last workmate who visited turned up here swinging a blade at me.’ George gave an unamused chuckle.
‘Really? A knife? Who was that? What was it about?’
George shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter. Seems even people that should know me better are believing what’s being said. I think I managed to change his mind.’
‘Well, one at a time then. Have you seen any of the news coverage?’
‘Yeah. I’ve seen a press conference with Helen Webb and a few others. They’re definitely rattled.’
‘They don’t have a clue, George.’
‘That’s obvious. You should have heard what they tried to pin on me. It relates to fuck all. It was an embarrassment.’
‘From the talk round the nick it’s just a matter of time before you’re brought back in and charged. Seems a lot of people are happy you’re the man.’
George leaned back against the window, a rare breeze stirring the net curtains around him. ‘People are scared. They want to believe it’s me.’
‘People are scared, and I have to admit I’m happy to be out of uniform at the moment.’
‘Ian wasn’t wearing a uniform when he was hit, Sam. You look after yourself, you hear? You shouldn’t be out on your own for a start.’
Sam laughed it off. ‘I have to work on my own. They won’t let me work the shootings because a mate of mine is the prime suspect. They’re all out three or four strong and there’s little old me picking up the rest of the work that comes in!’
‘You can handle it, I’m sure. You still working Epping Hill?’ Epping Hill, known as “Effingell,” was an estate less than two miles from George’s flat. It was the scourge of Langthorne, a nightmare for the management of Lennokshire Constabulary. It was full of drug addicts, drunks, criminals and gangs, with all the associated problems. Hence, a team of detectives had been put together to work solely in that area in an attempt to keep a lid on it. The idea had failed catastrophically. Sam had worked on the team responsible for investigating the jobs coming from the estate, the team that George led. She shook her head.
‘No, there is no one dedicated to Epping Hill anymore. They still use me for bits and bobs down there but always just for advice. I’ve not been the lead investigator on anything Epping Hill
since you’ve been gone.’
‘And Paul?’ Paul Bearn was another member of George’s team, one that had been strong and close. Until George had shot him, his mind blurred with confusion, damn near fatally. But in a piss-soaked hallway, as George was led past in handcuffs, himself bleeding, terrified, and hurting, the medics had pulled his colleague back from the brink. Paul had been hit in the front of his shoulder with a rising bullet. According to the movies it’s the best place to be hit, you will be cracking one liners and back to full fitness in time for the next day’s action. But bullets don’t follow the Hollywood rules. After entering the soft tissue of the body, they hit solid bone and then they break up, ricochet and cause havoc. In Paul Bearn’s case the bullet had struck the underside of the ball joint in his left shoulder, shattering the joint instantly and destroying the nerves that cause the left arm to function. A fragment of bullet pierced Paul’s lung, and medics at the scene had needed to decompress his chest before he stopped breathing altogether.
‘Paul’s back at work. He’s on light duties but he still gets stuck in. Do you see him anymore?’
‘I haven’t seen him for a while. He still comes round from time to time but it’s hard, you know? Paul’s great. I’ve been beating myself up ever since it happened and I feel worse when I see him.’
Sam grinned. ‘Is that where the bruising came from?’
George lifted his hand to his swollen eye. ‘My arrest was a little enthusiastic, to say the least. There were ten of them! But how are you, though?’
Sam knew this was the moment to tell him. ‘I’ve been better, George.’ Her smile dropped away.
‘Oh? You wanna talk about it?’
‘No. You know me. I don’t really do that.’
‘I do know you. You want to tell me all about it and then never mention it again.’
Sam’s face broke into a warm smile. ‘Damn you! You do know me.’
‘Well, in the last twenty-four hours I’ve been shot at, kicked, punched, dragged out of a broken window, arrested, and stabbed in the side. Just bear that in mind before you start on your problems!’
Sam’s smile vanished. ‘I’m pregnant.’
George’s expression was hard to read. ‘You’d rather be stabbed in the side, wouldn’t you?’
‘And dragged through a hundred car windows.’
‘Not planned, then.’
‘Nope.’
‘I didn’t realise you were settled down with a man. I suppose I haven’t seen you . . .’
‘I’m not. I mean, we’re together but we’re not, if you know what I mean. He’s . . . we’re . . . he’s a twat, basically.’
‘That’s not a good start. So the dad’s a twat?’
‘Firearms twat.’
‘Sam! Not a pistol!’ George used the slang for armed officers. ‘Let me guess. He’s a gym bore, wears T-shirts a size too small and believes he’s playing a part in The Wire!’
Sam smiled, despite wanting to cry. ‘That’s him.’
‘You always said, we always said, never get involved with a copper and never, never go anywhere near a pistol!’
‘I know, I know and I stuck to it . . .’
‘You must have gone pretty close to him to get pregnant!’
‘No, I mean I stuck to it to start with, but he wore me down. Oh, what can I say?’
‘Well, I never thought I’d see the day when a pistol was able to wear our Sam down. I never thought anyone would, let alone a guy wearing his sister’s T-shirt! What is he doing about it? Standing by you I hope?’
‘I haven’t told him yet. It never seems to be the right time.’
There was a silence. Then George chuckled, following with a full-on belly laugh.
Sam joined in. She couldn’t understand how or why, but suddenly she felt like everything might just turn out all right.
* * *
Sam was walking down the street, blinking in the sudden sunlight, when her phone rang.
‘How did it go?’
Sam frowned.
‘The little meeting with our friend, George. How is he?’
Inspector Manto. Sam cursed silently.
‘He’s fine, considering.’ Sam didn’t hide her contempt.
‘Talkative, is he?’
‘Not about anything that would be of any interest to you.’
‘So he said nothing that might assist with the safety of you or your fellow officers?’
‘I think you might be watching the wrong man. Assuming that it’s George you’re watching.’ Sam looked around the busy street as she made her way back towards her parked car with the phone to her ear. She knew it was highly unlikely she would be able to spot any of them. Any surveillance team worth their salt would be able to blend into this sort of environment with consummate ease.
‘We’re just trying to keep everyone safe,’ came the smug answer.
Sam hung up the phone, feeling anything but.
CHAPTER 19
‘DC Appleby, Force Intelligence Unit,’ Bryan Appleby, known as Granny, said.
‘Still on the same number then, Granny,’ George replied.
There was a pause. ‘George Elms! I heard you were dead, or dying!’
‘Almost, mate.’
‘And how can I help you?’ Bryan Appleby had lowered his voice. George could almost see his old friend leaning into his phone and checking round the office in case anyone could hear him.
‘What makes you think I want something? Can’t I just phone an old mate for a chat?’ Another strained pause. ‘Bryan, I didn’t shoot those people. I don’t kill innocent people, just the guilty ones. With lasers from my eyes!’ George tried a little chuckle.
‘You laugh, Elms, but a lot of people are saying that you did.’
‘You need me to tell you again?’
‘No, no, of course I don’t. If you hear something often enough, I guess you start to listen. My little girl’s been banging on about how good One Direction are and I found myself turning them up on the radio the other day.’
‘Well, now you know. I’m not going round killing cops, and . . . what’s One Direction?’
They both laughed.
‘So where the hell have you been? I was hearing that you were all in the clear, but you never turned up back at work. You milking it for the sick money, or what?’
‘Kind of. If only it was that simple. I got cleared of any criminal allegations but the internal investigation goes on. Quick summary, they’re never going to have me back, but while I’m still being paid I’ll make it as difficult as possible for them to get rid of me. Plus, I’ve still got this damned ringing in my ears. Does my head in.’
‘Well, I hope you’re being a right pain in the arse. Would you want to come back?’
‘No.’ George was emphatic.
‘So what do you need?’
It took a second for George to recall why he’d called. ‘Ah, yes. All right I confess that I need your help. I need some information, and who better than the country’s leading intelligence officer?’
‘Flattery will usually get you everywhere.’
‘Usually?’
‘Usually. We’ve all had the talk, mate. According to them just answering the phone to you could put officers’ lives in danger, maybe even our own.’
‘I see. To be expected, I suppose.’ George was in his living room. He went to the window, where he tugged at a greying net curtain and looked down at the street below. ‘Well, let me just ask you a question and you can choose whether you answer it or not.’
‘Go on.’
‘Do you know Helen Webb’s movements?’ George let the question sink in, ‘And would you be able to keep me informed of them?’
‘Are you mental? Now you sound like a crazed cop killer! Why on earth would you need to know that?’
‘Mate, Helen holds the key to me getting my life back together. I need to speak to her, but she’s not exactly going to organise an official meeting or chat to me on the phone.’
‘
Perhaps you should stay away from her right now. At least while you’re the prime suspect in a series of police officer shootings and she’s deemed a primary target.’
‘I need to speak to that woman.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you she definitely thinks you’re a cop killer. What’s your plan? Bump into her in the street? Or break into her home and kidnap her in the night?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
‘She’s scared of you. She’s under constant armed guard. There’s nothing more dangerous than someone who’s scared for their life.’
‘Well, maybe I can use that to my advantage. I might just get some truth out of her for once. Can you help, or not?’
‘George, I am going to help you by not telling anyone about our conversation here, but that really is all I can do. They know that we’re friends, that we used to work together closely and that I’ve shared information with you in the past that maybe I shouldn’t have. They’ve taken all the local officers off the shootings for that very reason, so that no one who was close to you can help you, even if they want to.’
‘Who’s running the intel on the shootings?’
‘I don’t even know her, mate. She’s North Lennokshire intel — literally from as far away as they could get.’
‘North Lennokshire? Ryker?’
Bryan’s pause was long enough for George to know he had guessed right.
‘I don’t know her, mate.’
George lifted his face to the sun streaming through the dirty glass of the window. ‘Ok, mate. I appreciate that.’
‘And my advice, mate, if you want it—’
‘I don’t.’ George ended the call and regretted it as soon as he’d pressed the key. He’d put his friend in a difficult situation and Bryan had done the right thing.
Maybe Emily Ryker would think differently.
CHAPTER 20
‘How are you feeling?’ Sam looked down at the old man who sat propped against the white hospital pillows.
‘I feel okay.’ Gerald Fedder didn’t sound okay. ‘A little groggy. No need to make a fuss.’
‘You’ve had quite a trauma, Mr Fedder. I think you can be forgiven for making a bit of a fuss.’
PANIC BUTTON a gripping crime thriller full of twists Page 10
