PANIC BUTTON a gripping crime thriller full of twists

by Charlie Gallagher

  ‘You look like you’re expecting some awful monster to burst down that road any second now, guns blazing. It’s ridiculous.’

  The officer was poised. He looked ready for action. The butt of his rifle sat in his chest, and his finger rested near the trigger. The officer had been quite friendly all evening but he was ignoring Sarah now.

  She tried again. ‘Officer Toner. Billy.’

  ‘Sorry, Sarah, I’m trying to stay in touch with the radio so I know what’s going on. I’ve told you, you really need to be back in the house.’ Billy tapped at his earpiece.

  ‘You can’t just say there’s a threat coming to my door and expect me not to ask questions. We’ve already moved once tonight. How would George even know I’m not at home anymore?’

  ‘As soon as I have any answers, I’ll tell you. We’re not moving for now. There are more officers coming over, you will be perfectly safe.’

  Sarah sniffed. ‘I could have told you that. This is ridiculous. If George is coming here, fine. Let him. I’ll make him a cup of tea and find out what all this is about. ’Cause I can tell you now, he isn’t the person you people seem to think he is.’

  Sarah’s mum tugged at her daughter’s sleeve. ‘Come on, love. Let’s go back inside for now. Billy here will let us know the second something happens. We might as well make ourselves comfortable.’

  Sarah huffed, but she allowed herself to be led back to the reception room at the front of the house, which they called the snug. It had a huge fireplace, and low-slung, soft leather sofas, one of which held a sleeping Charley Elms.

  ‘Go and lie down with your daughter.’

  ‘This is ridiculous. I should never have agreed to leave my home or to have an armed guard. Guarding us from what? I don’t like guns.’

  ‘The police know what they are doing. They may be being a little overcautious, but rather that than not doing enough. We just don’t know what’s going on with George at the moment.’

  Sarah glared at her mother. ‘Don’t you start.’ She sighed, wriggled onto the sofa and wrapped her arms around her daughter. Charley slept on.

  * * *

  They were doing 60 mph when they got to the trees. George knew the road and was ready. He swung into the middle, his nearside wing mirror scraping thick branches, where he made contact with the Skoda, forcing it into the dark woodland. Both cars braked hard, and both lost control. George’s Audi surged ahead. He clipped the right bank and over-corrected, veering into a sideways skid. The Audi rode up the steep left bank and turned over. It bounced upside down back out into the road, where it collided with the opposite bank, spinning back out into the road again like a bowling ball in a buffered lane. Bits of the interior were smashed loose. George was thrown about, helpless.

  The Skoda’s demise was a lot more sudden. The front end struck a thick tree trunk. The front airbags exploded in the faces of the two police officers, but their legs and lower bodies had no protection. Knotts’ legs buckled under the pedals and the steering column while Windy hit the dashboard hard. Branches punctured the windscreen, ripping at the two men and tearing through the car roof.

  Both vehicles came to a complete stop in a sudden silence. They rested twenty metres apart. No one moved.

  Three minutes behind them, Barry Lance and his tactical team turned off the main road and headed towards Westfield Wood.

  * * *

  ‘What was that update?’ Helen’s face was stern and tense. She had been standing most of the night and she was still upright, she clamped her headphones to her ears.

  ‘Crash, crash!’ The helicopter, Kilo Quebec, was back on the radio and continuing with their excited updates. ‘Both vehicles have lost control, the lead vehicle is on its roof, the police car has entered the trees, no signs of movement at this time.’

  ‘Fuck!’ shouted Helen. She pulled her headset off her head, ready to throw it to the floor. Then she took a deep breath and hooked it back on.

  ‘Foxtrot Six, we are zero three from the location. Confirm there is no movement from the subject and no visible threat at this time?’

  The helicopter crew replied immediately. ‘There is no movement, both cars took a big hit, there will be casualties. Can we get an ambulance running?’

  Helen looked at an operator who was already on the phone trying to explain the exact location of the crash site. They exchanged nods.

  ‘The ambulance is on its way, but until we have confirmation either way, we are still treating George Elms as an armed threat.’

  Helen hoped Barry Lance took this as a reminder that he was expected to complete the job — if the car crash hadn’t done it for him.

  CHAPTER 36

  George was not immediately aware that he was upside down until he felt for his belt release button and fell in a heap onto the roof. It took some time before he was able to shuffle into a sitting position. He had taken a significant blow to the head and it leaked blood. He touched the cut, feeling for signs of a fracture. It seemed okay. The door was crumpled inwards, and was jammed shut. He moved across to the passenger door, which had suffered less in the crash, but it still took some effort to push it open. As he slid backwards out of the door his left hand brushed against cold metal — the pistol he’d been given that had been sitting on the passenger seat. He grabbed it and thrust it into his pocket.

  Swinging shut, the door caught his right foot, and what was already a painful ache became an excruciating flash of pain. George yelped. He pulled himself far enough away from the Audi to get a view across to where the blue lights of the patrol car still flashed. The front grill lights had gone, smashed to pieces against a large tree. There was no sign of life. Gingerly, George moved backwards to the steep bank. His head thumped and he could hear nothing but the ringing in his ears, which was louder than ever. His head hurt. The blood was thick on the side of his head. He managed to push himself up against the soaking bank until he could stand on one foot. His whole body ached.

  George took the gun out of his pocket and attempted to assess his options despite the roaring in his ears. Whatever he did, the outcome looked bleak. The area would be crawling with police and they would know where he was. He could stand still and be arrested within the next few minutes, or he could walk the half mile or so to his wife and child. If he reached them, he would be searched and shackled but they might just let her see him for a few moments. In that brief time he could maybe get a message to Sarah, try and persuade her of the danger they were in. That they couldn’t trust anyone.

  It was his only option. George peered into the depths of the Westfield Wood. He would have to stick to the road, but could he even walk? He tried putting some weight on the damaged foot and cried out. His foot seemed to be at a slightly wrong angle. He tried to hop on his good foot, putting as little weight as possible on the other, but the pain was so intense it nearly knocked him over. He wanted to cry, to curl up in a ball where he was and just give in. But he would never have another chance. George managed to move, in a sort of hop and drag that was just about bearable. Progress was slow, but every step brought him closer to his family.

  * * *

  ‘Foxtrot six show us arriving.’

  Barry Lance and his team of seven had reached the scene. It was surreal, unearthly — carnage lit with a blue strobe. Four officers made for the stricken Skoda. Two had their gun barrels pointed towards the upended Audi, while the others were carrying medical equipment. The remaining three were listening to the updates from above. The crew of the chopper could see clearly through their infrared camera that George was limping away, and the men felt they had a little time before they set off after him. Leaving the two medics to do their work, the five remaining men started to jog in formation towards Elms.

  It didn’t take long before the lurching figure was in their sights. Lance had the voice box. ‘George Elms, armed police, stop where you are and put your hands out to the side!’

  George was walking up the middle of the road. His right foot dragged behind him a
s he made his way towards the house. The rain persisted, the trees above offering some slight shelter for the men spread out across the road, each projecting a red dot onto George’s back. The dots moved and danced as George limped on.

  Lance lowered the voice box and radioed to the helicopter crew above. ‘Foxtrot Six to Kilo Quebec, can you give us some light please.’

  The helicopter activated a ‘Nightsun’, a 50,000 lumen searchlight that made the area around George into broad daylight. The armed officers could now clearly see the blood running down George’s right side, soaking his white T-shirt. They saw the black, short-barrelled pistol in his right hand.

  George squinted up at the source of the intense light then quickly looked down. He stumbled, trying to stay upright, his head movements seemed to have thrown him off. His right foot struck a large stone, which had been dislodged from the bank in the torrential downfall, and he clearly recoiled in pain. But George Elms kept going forward.

  * * *

  ‘Drop the weapon, drop the weapon now, George, or we will open fire!’ Helen Webb had opened up the microphones of the officers at the scene. She was still standing up, and her fists were bunched, her head slightly bent as she listened intently. The video feed from the helicopter had frozen, occasionally jerking forward, but it was useless. She could hear all of Lance’s team shouting at George to drop the weapon. Now was the time to take him out. If he did as he was commanded and dropped the weapon, there would be little justification for putting a bullet in him. She needed it done now.

  ‘Fucking shoot him!’ A couple of operators standing close to her turned and stared. Helen no longer cared. The world would be a better place without the murdering bastard. Her police force would be safe.

  * * *

  The red dots still danced on the back of George’s shirt. No one wanted to shoot him in the back. George was holding a weapon, he had demonstrated his willingness to shoot and kill police officers, but he was no threat to them now.

  ‘Take him out.’ Helen Webb’s voice came through the men’s earpieces. This was against protocol. It was their decision, but Helen had authority. Their fingers tightened on the trigger. Still they hesitated.

  ‘Take him out! What are you waiting for?’

  The men slowed their pace.

  ‘This man’s a killer, he is armed. Take him out!’

  Barry Lance knew he had to act. He broke from the formation and ran forward. ‘Hold your fire!’ he shouted. His men watched as their sergeant stopped five metres short of the subject, his weapon raised.

  ‘Drop the weapon, George!’

  * * *

  George knew officers were behind him, certain to be armed, but he hadn’t heard their instructions. He was no threat to them and he thought that if he just kept walking they might keep their distance, allowing him to get close enough to the house for his wife to come out to see what the commotion was about. It was a desperate hope. He became aware of someone coming up close behind him. Close enough he could make out the words they were shouting. George stopped.

  ‘Drop the weapon. Drop the weapon and turn slowly!’ Lance was three metres away, looking at him down his sights. George’s head thumped. It was all up. He wouldn’t be allowed to go any further. His family would have no idea he’d even tried, they wouldn’t know the danger. His whole body was in pain and he had already gone further on his injured foot than he thought possible. It was the end of the line, time for it all to stop.

  With a feeling almost of relief, George lifted his arms out to the side, his right hand higher than his left, and turned. His eyes were closed against the light, and the cool rain ran down his cheeks. In his exhausted confusion he had forgotten he was carrying a weapon. Though he didn’t realise it, it was now levelled at the pursuing officers. George was now a direct threat.

  Barry didn’t hesitate. He pulled the trigger.

  Two barbed pieces of metal hit George full in the chest. They implanted themselves six inches apart, and 50,000 volts of electricity passed between them for five seconds. George hit the floor and almost immediately felt the surge of electricity again, this time it lasted longer. George’s pistol had fallen from his grasp. His head lolled to one side as the shock finally ceased and he saw Lance trap the weapon under his boot. Lance lowered himself down to where George lay on his back. He looked up. Lance was a silhouette against the Nightsun searchlight.

  ‘You’re under arrest. For cold-blooded fucking slaughter.’ The sergeant’s face was inches from George, and his spittle fell on his face as he spoke. ‘Anything you say may be used in evidence. Have you got anything to say, you piece of shit?’

  Lance’s radio was still on open transmit as George managed to bring out his words.

  ‘I did it. I killed them all.’

  CHAPTER 37

  Helen Webb walked out of the incident room. Her head was spinning and her body, suddenly relieved of the tension, sagged. She leaned forward and rested her head against the cold plastic of the coffee machine. She didn’t want a coffee but she needed to get away and collect her thoughts.

  Was tonight a good result? George Elms was off the street, and he would be for some time. He’d admitted to the crimes that had rocked the county over the last few days, but they’d lost so much, so many, getting to this point. They’d had him once. They should have let him rot in the cells but they’d been forced to let him go. Firearms should have taken him out this time, removed a poisonous cancer from her police force so she could start rebuilding. But they hadn’t, and what now?

  She knew there would be extensive investigations into what had happened tonight. Ultimately Firearms would be applauded. They had made the right decision. George Elms had been arrested with the minimum possible force — killing a suspect created a lot of paperwork.

  Helen also knew that the tapes of the radio traffic would be part of the investigation. She could expect questions as to why she had ordered a firearms team to shoot a suspect. It was overzealous at the very least, conspiracy to murder at worst. It would depend on what angle they decided to take.

  Helen sipped at the coffee. It tasted like shit. She reckoned she would be okay. She would be able to downplay her part in tonight’s incidents. Emotions had been running high, there were many factors that would affect the judgement of even the most stoic of commanders. That’s the line she would take. She would even play the female card a little — tears in the right places, the loss of Sam, a fellow WPC — she could use that. She’d probably just get moved to head up the training department or something similar, something out of the firing line for a little while. She’d seen it happen often enough.

  ‘Ma’am?’ The voice made her jump. ‘There’s been another job that’s come in. They’ve asked that you be made aware.’

  Helen turned to face a nervous and exhausted-looking operator.

  ‘Another job? God, what is it now?’ Her throat tightened. Surely no more loss of life?

  ‘An armed robbery at P&O’s storage depot near Dover. They’ve made off with a high-value haul and the security guard’s hurt pretty bad.’

  ‘A storage depot? This has nothing to do with George Elms, has it?’

  ‘Well, no, ma’am. I was just asked to make you aware as the senior officer on duty. They even killed the guard dog.’

  Helen Webb found a smile. ‘Dead dogs and robberies. Well, by the cold light of day that will most definitely be someone else’s problem.’ Helen took another mouthful of foul-tasting coffee, and her gaze moved away into the darkness. She was suddenly aware that her messenger was still there, shuffling awkwardly from one foot to the other.

  ‘You can fuck off now,’ she said. And smiled broadly.

  CHAPTER 38

  Farthing Common. A beautiful spot at any time but maybe more so in the silence of the early hours of the morning. From this elevated position the North Downs slipped away, a vast valley bathed in the silvery light of a strong moon. Kane Forley waited in the carpark, his motorcycle tucked in among the trees. Behind him
stretched a huge area of woodland that was popular with dog-walkers and nature enthusiasts. At night it was the perfect place for a private conversation.

  ‘So this couldn’t wait?’ Billy Toner arrived just a few minutes after Kane. He was a rider too, his bike an American-style cruiser.

  ‘I thought you would be happy. We all want to get paid.’

  ‘This wasn’t about the money for me. I wanted that piece of shit punished for what he did, just like you did.’

  ‘Sure it wasn’t. He did get caught, then?’

  ‘He’s in a prison cell. Or at least he will be once they’ve finished with him at the hospital. Admitted it was all him — just like you said he would. He’s beaten up, by all accounts, but nothing lasting — shame. I hear he took another couple of us out tonight too.’

  ‘Shit, really? Anyone you know?’

  Billy shrugged. ‘We’ll hear all about it in the debrief I’m sure. Local patrols I think. I gotta be back in early doors, I reckon we’ve got a lot of writing to do.’

  ‘You’re ready to explain your actions, then?’ You’re going to need a cover story for moving the wife.’

  ‘I panicked. There’s been a lot of confusion and miscommunication tonight. I made a decision to move her on my own, worst-case scenario I get words of advice. I’ve not done anything wrong.’

  ‘Fine then. You seem to have it all worked out.’

  ‘That the money?’ Billy gestured at a large rucksack resting against Kane’s feet.

  ‘Yeah,’ Kane’s smile was visible in the moonlight, ‘but it’s not about the money, right?’ Kane tugged at a zip.