Missing

by Charlie Gallagher

  MISSING

  A gripping thriller full of stunning twists

  CHARLIE GALLAGHER

  First published 2017

  Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this.

  ©Charlie Gallagher

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  THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH AND POLICE SLANG IN THE BACK OF THIS BOOK FOR US READERS.

  CONTENTS

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  CHARLIE GALLAGHER’S LANGTHORNE SERIES

  FROM CHARLIE GALLAGHER

  VOCABULARY

  FREE KINDLE BOOKS

  Author’s Note

  I am inspired by what I do and see in my day job as a front-line police detective, though my books are entirely fictional. I am aware that the police officers in my novels are not always shown positively. They are human and they make mistakes. This is sometimes the case in real life too, but the vast majority of officers are honest and do a good job in trying circumstances. From what I see on a daily basis, the men and women who wear the uniform are among the very finest, and I am proud to be part of one of the best police forces in the world.

  Charlie Gallagher

  Dedicated to the team at Joffe Books. Let’s see where this goes.

  Chapter 1

  When the carnage began, the High Street still bustled, the shops had an hour left of trading and the fashion outlets and coffee shops still sucked in passing trade from Canterbury’s ancient, cobbled streets.

  The street vendor was at his usual prime pitch opposite the entrance to Mercery Lane, the short and narrow thoroughfare that led to the city’s iconic cathedral and the surrounding square with its pubs and cafés thronged with shoppers and tourists. Just a few minutes earlier he had started packing up for the day. A warm Sunday afternoon, he should have known better.

  As he stood behind his hot plate cooking crepes and doing his best to smile at the teenage couple joining the queue, his attention was snatched to the squeal of a car tyre turned sharply on the shiny cobbles. A big blue SUV was hurtling towards them. Pedestrians shrieked as they jumped out of the way, some pulling others with them.

  ‘Look out!’ the vendor shouted — just in time for the group queuing in front of him to leap back out of the way. The car now banked hard left, the offside clipping his cart as it swung left into Sun Street. The engine revved and it picked up speed. The vendor had time to flinch but not to move. He’d been narrowly missed; his cart lay on its side with frothy batter running into the city’s drains. He could hear cries of pain and screams in the direction from which the car had come.

  He watched the car as it sped towards the cathedral square and past a pub with chairs out the front where patrons swigged drinks in the last of the sunshine. Its nearside thumped into the kerb, it was now half on the pavement. It made token efforts to swerve from people who leapt out of its way. A middle-aged man didn’t quite make it and took a glancing blow to his right hip — enough to throw him into a solid flint wall. The car pushed into the square, the noise of screams and shouts combining with screeching tyres as it pulled up harshly. Then it jerked right and out of the vendor’s sight.

  * * *

  The woman followed the boy to a table by the window. Despite the shopping hanging from her arms, she was just about able to balance the items on the tray: cake and a latte in a tall, elegant glass for her and a bottle of water with a straw for him. A young waitress walked behind with the boy’s toasted sandwich that wouldn’t fit on the tray. Before he’d even sat down, the boy tore eagerly at the new pack of football cards she had bought for him. It had been a good day for them both, she reflected.

  As she laid down the tray and hung her bags gently from the back of an empty chair, the woman was alerted to a high-pitched whine and the squeal of tyres just outside. She turned to see a big blue car reversing at speed. Less than twenty metres away, it stopped with a screeching of brakes and crunching of gears — then it surged forward. She saw passers-by flinch around it as it quickly picked up speed. It was coming right at them.

  It all happened so fast and there was no time for reaction. No time for warning. The kerb outside was low and did nothing to slow the car’s momentum and it crashed into the coffee shop window a split second later, shattering the glass like thin ice. The car bucked and bounced, plunging into the interior, where it dropped off the raised pavement. The next table — even closer to the window — was hurled aside. Chairs spilt backwards, the occupants falling under the wheels and screams of pain and panic mingled with the revving engine and splintering wood. All the while, the woman and the boy remained rooted to the spot.

  The car came to a rest against the metal railing to a staircase that led to more table space in the basement. The engine stalled and the driver’s door pushed open. Shards of glass popped beneath a black boot as a man stood up out of the car. He was tall, of strong build and dressed all in black — including the balaclava that covered his face. He levelled a black handgun and swept it around the café.

  The commotion stopped in an instant. The only sounds now were shards of glass sliding off the car’s bonnet and a terrible moaning from under its front wheels. Someone had to be trapped. The man scanned the interior of the coffee shop. He stopped when he faced the woman who pulled the young boy close to her. She could almost reach out and touch the car. Her panic increased as she realised she couldn’t see the young waitress. She scanned the shop quickly. She found her. She was sat up against the counter on the other side of the shop. Her eyes were open but were motionless, glossy and transfixed. Blood pooled steadily from where she sat. The woman took a quick breath and sucked in the dry dust that now filled the air. The man levelled the gun at the boy. Her head snapped back to the movement as she fought the urge to cough.

  ‘You!’

  It was directed right at her. She pulled the boy around so that he was behind her and she felt him grip her waist tightly. She jerked her eyes towards the shriek of a second car coming to a hard stop on the street just outside. This car was black and smaller than the one that had crashed into the café. There was movement within — maybe two more men. She heard doors pulled open. The man stood in front of her still held her attention.

  ‘You!’ he shouted again, and gestured with the gun to the car outside. ‘Get in!’

  She couldn’t move, could summon no response at all. She felt the boy push his head into her lower
back. The man now moved the gun to point right into her eyes. She could almost feel it. She stared right back, testing him. She could still hear someone moaning from under the car. Suddenly the gun went off with a terrific BANG! Her eyes slammed shut to the noise but she heard a thump into the ceiling above her. She felt pieces of debris fall into her hair.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ she croaked, but managed to stand her ground.

  ‘I won’t ask you again. Get in the car! Now!’

  She made a decision. She reached down and took a firm hold of the boy’s arm and peeled it away.

  ‘I’ve got to go, honey. But I’ll be right back, okay?’

  ‘No! Don’t go!’ The boy squealed and sprang to her side. She held her arm straight to keep him back.

  ‘He comes too!’ the man barked.

  The woman’s eyes snapped back to him. She still wasn’t moving.

  ‘Now. Or I shoot one of you and take whoever is left.’ He stepped towards her. Still she held firm. He lifted his boot and drove the heel into her thigh. The pain was excruciating and she stumbled backwards, trying her best to stifle a gasp for the boy’s sake. The boy held her up. She was grabbed from behind by the shoulders and, feeling suddenly hopeless, she did nothing to resist.

  She took the boy’s hand firmly but gently. ‘Get in the car. We’ll be okay.’ She managed to hold on to him as she was dragged outside and pushed roughly into the back seat. The armed man followed them in and the door was slammed shut. It was so cramped she could barely move. She had landed on her side and had to wriggle to get sat back up. Suddenly the car moved off and she was able to right herself, banging her head on the solid door rim. As she looked out towards the shocked faces of onlookers, she held the boy as close as she could. The car picked up speed, making for the back streets of the city.

  Chapter 2

  Sergeant Shaun Carter stepped out into the bright sunshine. It was not as warm as it had been down among the tall buildings where the air didn’t move. Up here his hair, swept over to one side and held in place by a pinch of product and a layer of sweat, still shuddered gently in the cool breeze that drifted around him.

  The man was right where the witness had said he would be: stood on the edge of the viaduct whose brick walls had a layer of black filth for each of its 170 years. It ran high over the town of Langthorne, its square legs stepping carefully over the rows of terraced houses and giving elevated views of the town to the ever-evolving rail stock. It was a hundred feet back down to the tarmac. And this was the fourth call to a jumper this year.

  The sergeant liked to take time to scan the area and see what was to be seen. No one else was around and he had been assured by the British Transport Police that the live track running along the centre was switched off. He would still have preferred to have been further away. It was a tight space, two sets of metal train tracks and two brick walls either side. It looked barely wide enough for two trains to pass. The only sound was his feet crunching on the grey gravel. He liked a quiet area in which to work. It was 3.30 p.m. on a Sunday afternoon. The man stood still at the edge, his arms by his sides and his feet shoulders’ width apart. His head was raised slightly as if he was letting the sun warm his face. It was a pleasant day in the middle of March. The sort of day where the seaside town of Langthorne might be fooled into thinking that spring had arrived.

  ‘Control, I’ve located the male. I am now going to approach.’ He received confirmation into his left earpiece and made his way forwards. He waited until he was some twenty metres from the man before he called out.

  ‘Hey. It’s cooler up here than I thought. Do you want your jacket?’ It was close enough to start a conversation, far enough away for everyone to be comfortable — as comfortable as he could be this close to the edge and with that drop on the other side of the low wall. Beyond the man he could see what looked like a coat. The man took his time, but turned eventually towards Shaun.

  ‘You came!’ A nervous smile flickered on the man’s face.

  ‘Of course I came. We’re all worried about you down there.’

  ‘But you remember me? Right?’

  Shaun used the question as an excuse to edge a little closer. Slowly and deliberately, he closed the gap to ten metres, ostensibly shading the worst of the sun from his eyes. As he got a little closer he found he was shaded.

  ‘Ah yes! I didn’t recognise you from back there. Of course! It’s Bobby, right?’

  A month ago. Shakespeare Cliff in Dover, the next town. Another popular place for jumpers. Shaun had been called out just like today; it had been a Sunday — just like today. He had found Bobby Leonard stood up on the edge, contemplating his life.

  Déjà vu.

  Shaun could usually tell in the first minutes of a conversation whether he was talking to someone who was serious or not. He had known that Bobby was serious right from the start, even before he had heard his reasons. It had been a victory when he had walked him away from the edge and back to his waiting family. Such outcomes were rare, and Shaun was acutely aware of the lengthened odds of a repeat performance.

  ‘You talked me down, Sergeant. You made me think that it was the wrong thing to do, that I could still have some sort of life.’

  ‘I was right too, Bobby. I even got you a brew, didn’t I? Not everyone gets a brew you know. We can talk again, Bobby, but can you come away from the edge a little? I’m not going to come any closer to you — I just don’t want anything bad to happen.’

  ‘Bad? You mean like falling off?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean, Bobby.’ Shaun had a bottle of water in each hand. He held one out.

  ‘Do you want a drink? I brought you some water. I reckoned you might have been up here a little while.’

  Bobby shook his head. Thick hanks of long, greasy hair fell about his face and he had to keep raising a hand to sweep them from his eyes. He wore a checked shirt and jeans, the shirt untucked over a pot belly, and a battered leather bowler-style hat that, like the rest of his outfit, looked like it had accompanied him for most of his life. ‘I’m sorry, Sarge. I’m sorry you have to go through all this again. I told you, didn’t I? About me?’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘Early-onset dementia.’

  ‘Yeah, I remember.’

  ‘Don’t take that for granted, Sergeant.’

  Shaun attempted his best warm smile. ‘Fair point. I promise I won’t. Now what about that bottle of water? You’ve been up here a little while from what I’ve been told.’

  ‘I have. You can’t rush these things, Sergeant.’

  ‘No one’s rushing you, Bobby. Just as long as we’re working towards walking you back down to your family, I can stand here all night.’

  ‘Can’t do that, Sarge. Not this time.’

  Shaun adjusted his stance and the stones crunched underfoot. There would be no sneaking forward up here. ‘Sure you can. And it’s Shaun. You know that. We had this exact same conversation the last time we met.’

  ‘We did. But I respect you lot. I never used to, but you grow up don’t you?’

  ‘I’ve seen your record, Bobby. You were a right handful once.’

  Bobby offered a fleeting smile. ‘I was a lot of things once.’

  ‘There’s plenty left in you, Bobby. You’ve not had the news long right? Once you’ve got your head round it, once you’re thinking clearly—’

  ‘They can slow it down,’ Bobby cut in. He produced a polished metal hip flask and took a swig. Shaun could make out the crest of Millwall FC on its side.

  ‘Well, okay, so that’s a positive.’

  Bobby chuckled drily and then smacked his lips a little. ‘If you were told that you were going to die confused, in pain and lonely, would you ask to slow it down?’

  ‘You’re a long way from lonely, Bobby. We talked about your family — your grandson. The one who adores you so much he even started supporting Millwall! I know he’ll take every minute he can get with you.’

  ‘I was about his age, Sarg
e — a couple of years older I suppose. Twelve years old. I watched my uncle die. He was a young man too. Young for this.’ Bobby took another swig then immediately sucked in air. Whatever the drink was, it was harsh. ‘Older than me, though. He was a bit of a loner, no one was really close to him, but we visited a lot when he got ill. At first at least. Early-onset dementia. Of course, it meant nothing to me then. It got worse quick. I couldn’t understand why he didn’t seem to know me no more. And we’d talk about the Millwall score and then have the same conversation over again. They all took the piss out of him, you know. Even I did. Then he became a burden. My dad would get calls in the middle of the night about how his brother had been found walking up the motorway in his pyjamas, or sat at a train station not knowing where he was or why he was there. Who knew this sort of shit could run in a family, eh?’

  ‘You’re nothing like that. You’re loved. You’ve got family around you.’

  ‘I have. But you know what they said about my uncle, at the time? That at least he didn’t have any kids to see it — to watch him go downhill. My boy — he’s my daughter’s kid, but she lost her own battle with this world . . . Lord knows that kid has seen enough suffering and sorrow for one lifetime already. He’s ten years old.’

  ‘So you have him full time?’

  ‘Yeah. My Lizzy was murdered — found stabbed up in some drug dealer’s hovel.’ Shaun remembered Bobby had told him this before, but he wasn’t about to point it out.

  ‘Jesus, Bobby! The boy needs you all the more then.’

  Bobby’s face twisted suddenly as if he might cry. He swigged at the flask and it seemed to pass. ‘He needs a version of me that I can’t ever be. Not now. He needs me to be strong and smart. To take him to football . . . to teach him how to hit from his core if a bully starts. He don’t need me to fall apart, to forget who he is. To forget who I am. I gotta go, Sarge, before I forget how much I fucking love them.’ Bobby did now break. He sagged forward, his tears dropped over the edge. Shaun considered rushing Bobby and taking hold, thinking this might be the time, but Bobby straightened himself up and he lifted his face back to the sun.