PANIC BUTTON a gripping crime thriller full of twists Read online

  CHAPTER 2

  Inspector Nigel Harman was the first at the force control centre to move. The voices calling over the air, increasingly agitated, were initially met with silence.

  ‘Sally!’ Harman called out and she turned glassy eyes to the inspector. He could see she was really struggling. Her mouth lolled slightly open and she offered a desperate shake of her head.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘Sally, let me take the air for a sec, just to give you a break.’ She stood up, headphones ready in her outstretched hands. The inspector took hold of them as the voice of Tim Betts came back through, the tension clear in his tone.

  ‘Control, this is Charlie Bravo Two Zero, can you please hold off on sending officers to PC Riley’s location, and can you resource any firearms officers? We don’t know what we have.’ The radio fell silent for just a second before the same voice was back with instructions. ‘And Control,’ Betts said, sounding a little breathless, ‘Can we keep trying to raise him, please?’

  Harman took a seat, and sliding the headphones over his ears, pushed at the foot pedal that allowed control room operatives to cut over anyone else. It gave him the air.

  ‘This is Inspector Harman at FCC. All officers are to remain clear of Canterbury Road, that is all officers are to remain clear of Canterbury Road.’ The inspector paused with his foot planted on the pedal so no one else could cut in. Everyone would have heard him exhale a long breath before he spoke again. ‘PC Riley, PC Riley, this is Inspector Harman for a welfare check.’ He released the pedal, his eyes closed and he put his hands together in silent prayer.

  There was no response.

  ‘PC Riley!’ the inspector shouted, ‘Matthew. If you can hear me, please let me know any way you can.’ He allowed another pause, longer, his head heavy on his shoulders. He spoke again, his voice quieter now, but still determined. ‘Don’t worry, lad. We’re coming to get you.’

  He released the pedal and sat up straight. He shouted at a woman working a nearby desk. She had risen to her feet and, like most people in the office, was staring over at the inspector. ‘Rachel! I need ambient listening on Riley.’

  The woman nodded and turned back to her desk. She was clumsy as she typed. After a few more seconds she held out a set of headphones for her boss.

  ‘Put it on speaker,’ he ordered, wanting to stay where he was in case his officer responded. Ambient listening was an option that needed the authorisation of an inspector. It was a way for the control centre to open the microphone of any individual officer’s radio and listen to what was happening. It was mainly used in hostage situations, but it could also be effective for finding out what was going on when an officer wasn’t responding to their radio. It was so rarely used that the inspector had almost forgotten about it.

  In a hiss of white noise the speakers came to life. Harman peered around at the silent faces. The office normally buzzed. Like any busy call centre environment, it was noisy and intense, with up to forty people talking at any one time into microphones and telephones. Now they all stood still, waiting, with just the low buzz of call alerts backing up.

  A breath sounded from the speakers. It was shallow, quick and short, but Harman bit his lip and hope seeped into the room. The second breath was quick to follow, and with it a distinctive noise, a rattle. Harman had heard it twice before during his time in the forces, from men suffering gunshot wounds to the chest. Both times the men were breathing their last.

  * * *

  Police Community Support Officer Jan Thomas had never been any good at monitoring her radio. Over the din of the primary school spilling out its chattering, laughing kids, she heard the distant sound of sirens, and her hand went to where her radio should have been. Sirens were hardly unusual but this was maybe the fifth or sixth one in the last fifteen minutes and Jan was beginning to think that something big might be going on. She cursed under her breath as she realised that for the umpteenth time she must have left the radio in her vehicle. She walked back to her car just as the latest siren, a high-revving police emergency response vehicle, flashed past. Its lights and sounds seemed somehow more intense than usual. Certainly the driver was not slowing up for the school and the elderly lollipop man in his oversized high-visibility jacket offered a scowl and a shrug. Her radio was on. She scooped it up and spun the dial on top to increase the volume. She found silence and checked the display to ensure she was on the right channel. She could hear more sirens in the distance, up on the bypass over the top end of the town.

  ‘What’s going on?’ A thirty-something woman with fashionable short hair and a pretty face spoilt by heavy makeup stood nearby. Her six-year-old daughter squirmed in her grip.

  ‘I haven’t heard anything major,’ replied Jan, which was not a lie and far better than admitting she hadn’t a clue.

  ‘So why so many police cars?’ the woman persisted.

  ‘I really don’t know. I’m trying to listen.’ Jan motioned at her radio and turned her considerable bulk aside. She was always irritable when she was too hot and she was even more flustered at being caught out by not exactly having her finger on the pulse. The woman took the hint and dragged her child away towards their car. In an attempt to avoid more questions, Jan walked over to where a separate building that housed the gym stood on the edge of the playground. She lifted her radio to her ear and was listening intently when the double doors to the gym were suddenly flung open.

  ‘Excuse me. Are you a police officer?’

  Jan recovered from her fright. ‘Oh, well no. I’m the community support officer. Can I help?’

  The man filling the doorway had bright, intense eyes. He was maybe ten years younger than Jan, and good-looking.

  His smile widened. ‘Ah, so you’re still part of the same team. I’m sure you can help. I do maintenance here. I’m due to work in the gym but there’s an unattended bag. I’m sure it’s just one of the kids leaving their packed lunch, but I wondered if you have any procedures for this type of thing. I mean, you never know these days!’ He turned sideways, holding the door. Jan thought he might have winked.

  ‘Well, I’d best have a quick look.’ Jan smiled back and stepped past him into the hall. Her eyes moved around the sparse interior. The newly built extension still smelt of wood and polish, its bars and ropes hugged the walls and hung from the ceiling. Various types of ball littered the ground. The black holdall looked out of place and Jan took a step towards it, walking through whirling dust lit up by strips of sunlight. The doors behind her clicked shut. The only sounds were her echoing footsteps, and those of the man following her.

  Jan suddenly felt uncomfortable. The hall fell silent and she turned around. The smiling man now fixed her with a cold stare. He held the oversized barrel of a handgun inches from her forehead.

  ‘Move or say anything and I will shoot you in the face. Do you understand?’

  Jan was incapable of doing either of those things. Her legs felt like lead and her mouth hung slightly open.

  ‘Listen to me.’

  ‘Don't hurt me,’ managed Jan. She shut her eyes tight, exposing the laughter lines across her plump cheeks.

  ‘You need to listen very carefully to me. Do as I say and you won’t be hurt, do you understand?’

  Jan kept her eyes closed and her head jerked in a nod.

  ‘Open your eyes and look at me.’

  After a second or two Jan did as she was told. The man had stepped back, the weapon slightly lowered. He held up an A4 piece of paper with three lines of typed text in a large font. ‘I want you to press your red button. Then read these words slowly and clearly into your radio. Can you do that?’

  In a mumble, Jan read them out, stumbling over the words. She had no idea of their meaning.

  ‘You need to do it slower. Slower and clearer so it makes sense, so they can send help. Can you do that?’ The tone had changed again, it was almost supportive, encouraging.

  Jan nodded. ‘I can . . . I can. Please don’t hurt me.’
/>   ‘Do this for me and you won’t get hurt. Now, press the button and read the words.’

  Jan shut her eyes again and felt for the button on her handset. It was a small round button, set next to the aerial. Her finger rested on it, her eyes opened wide and she pressed.

  * * *

  Canterbury Road, Langthorne. It tore directly through the heart of the town, a major artery for cars and foot traffic travelling in both directions. The 200 metre cordon either side of the house where PC Riley had last transmitted from was causing havoc. The scene was a confused mixture of annoyance, distress and hurried instructions, all played out in front of a live audience in thirty degree heat.

  It was approaching half past three, and there was not a cloud in the sky to offer protection from the unrelenting sun. Men in uniform had their tongues hanging out like dogs as they manned the cordon. Their hi-vis tabards dazzled like the sun itself. Others stood behind their shields, gripped their weapons, and prepared to take control of number 17. Armed police were approaching the target address from all angles. They were all in black, clutching assault rifles and with full ballistic vests and helmets. A helicopter accompanying their approach thumped out a bass-line. It had been over the house within seven minutes of the shooting. No one had seen anyone leave the house, no one knew where Riley had fallen.

  The tactical commander on the ground was Sergeant Hughes. He communicated by signals with the team he led on the black side (back) of the property, who readied themselves for an armed entry. The team on the white side (front) would wait for the sound of six-bang grenades before entering. Five riflemen with long-range sniper rifles covered the teams from every angle. They stood propped up at windows in the homes of willing neighbours thrilled to be involved in the drama.

  Sergeant Hughes had received information from other neighbours that the occupants of 17 Canterbury Road were Jack and Jenny Hughes: a middle-aged couple who, three months earlier, had made their final mortgage repayment and were on a Mediterranean cruise to celebrate. They would be returning home via the port of Dover in five days’ time. The current occupant, and the threat they presented, was completely unknown.

  Hughes’ raised fist was the signal for the team to freeze in silence. A three-tone on the radio had confirmed that the white side team were in position. Hughes and his team on the black side were also ready, if a little vulnerable in the long, well-kept garden bereft of any real cover. He lowered his fist and the team moved in. Hughes was in the lead, his rifle against his shoulder, gazing down the barrel. His team followed suit. A short distance from the door they broke into a run. Hughes stopped suddenly and dropped to his knees, his weapon pointing at the double patio doors that were their target. A figure ran past him to his right, holding a solid steel battering ram known as the “enforcer.” He swung it backwards as he neared the door, and then brought it forward with perfect timing, connecting with the equivalent of three tons of focused force on an area the size of an orange. The frame offered little resistance and swung inwards hard, hitting the interior wall. An expensive-looking wooden slatted blind was shaken free, to be trampled to bits by the boots of six armed men.

  Hughes was first in. He pulled the pin on his six-bang and threw it to the far side of the house. Amid the sounds of breaking glass the men shouted ‘Police!’ The six-bang ran its fuse and detonated, leaving nothing but scorch marks on the carpet. The team on the white side smashed in through the front door as the black team began to ascend the stairs. Still no contact with any hostiles. Hughes took a split second to assess the stairs through a sweat-splattered visor. He threw a second six-bang, which looped over the banister and collided with the wall before bouncing to rest on the thick carpet. By the time he had reached the top, the distraction grenade was already firing. It was a textbook operation.

  The levels of noise and confusion as they swept through the house would most likely have caused any armed man on the property to cower under a bed. But there was no armed man, nor was there a fallen officer.

  They returned to the living room, where Hughes gave a succinct and disappointed update on the radio. He pulled off his helmet and flash hood, and exhaled in relief. His team all followed suit and were all struggling to think of something to say when, suddenly, all their radios emitted a double beep.

  For the second time that day an officer had pushed their panic button.

  * * *

  ‘None of you are safe or will be spared.’ Jan’s voice came out weakly. Terrified. ‘One by one, I will take your lives.’ She gripped the radio tightly, her knuckles white. She paused and whimpered as her brain made sense of the words. She looked past the paper at the man behind it. The bastard’s lips had contorted into a smirk. He was enjoying this. ‘Oh God,’ murmured Jan. A tear ran down her cheek and found her lips. Her radio returned to black. Her ten seconds were up. The man appeared to know it and his eyes flicked from her to the screen, and back. Jan was unable to look away.

  ‘Press it again. Say the words on the paper. Or die.’

  She looked at the paper. Her hand was almost frozen around the radio and it took real effort to move her finger over the button. She pressed down on it.

  In Langthorne, everyone stood still. Again, they all waited.

  Jan read the last four words through her tears: “Like you took mine.”

  There was no pause for effect. The airwaves reverberated with two gunshots, followed by a thud and scraping noise. Jan’s final transmission was over.

  CHAPTER 3

  In the nearest town to Langthorne, Sergeant Freddie Lee stood beside his marked motorcycle resting on its stand. The tank pinged and groaned. The long shift was nearly done. The sergeant sucked at a fast-melting ice cream which had run onto his knuckles. He crunched the last of the cone as constable Jack Leslie pulled up on his own cruiser. Freddie smiled at his colleague, who rested his own bike over to one side and pulled his helmet off. His hair was slicked flat against his skull.

  ‘Fancy you arriving second.’

  Jack made a point of gazing beyond the ice cream van at the beach, where the English Channel lapped at glittering pebbles in a haze of heat.

  ‘It’s a beautiful day for a slow ride, Sergeant. I don’t race until I have to.’

  ‘No one said you had to, Jack. If you’re tired of losing just let me know.’

  ‘You really are the smuggest man alive! Shall we just get this done then? Much as I love standing in the baking heat wearing all leather and talking shit with you, Sergeant, I’ve got a cold beer in my fridge that’s calling to me.’

  Freddie pulled his gloves back on over sticky hands. ‘Right fork aren’t I today? Not that it matters.’

  Jack patted down his helmet and lifted the visor to reply. ‘Yeah. You be careful on those bends.’

  Both bikes fired and throbbed. The sergeant led the way away from the coast and through a couple of sets of traffic lights until they were able to ride side by side going up the hill that led out of Hythe. This was the starting point of their standard race to a lorry park around three miles distant. Freddie was two to one up in a four-day shift pattern, and was feeling confident of cementing his victory.

  The starting point was just after the speed camera on London Road, where the road split into two evenly distanced routes. The winner would be the rider who negotiated their route the quickest before they could merge again. The speed camera edged past, the white distance markers on the road bumped slightly under Freddie’s tyres and he leaned to take the right fork as his colleague accelerated straight on up the long hill.

  The surface of the road was clear and the grip was good. Freddie made it to the first tight left, his left knee pointed downwards for balance, before a twist of the accelerator brought him back up straight. He opened up a little in second gear and moved into the correct position on the road for a long sweeping left. He brought the BMW over to the middle of the road so the white lines vibrated through his tyres and got his braking done early. He felt the weight of the bike move forward, and he
let go of the brake and pulled down left. He grinned, feeling thin branches bounce off his shoulder, hearing them ping off his helmet. He hugged the left bank and the road in front revealed itself as he swung round into a longer straight. Then he saw a flash of sunlight off metal twenty metres in front of him on the opposite side of the road. A figure limped towards him down the middle of the road, one arm raised. Freddie stood hard on the rear brake, and the bike skidded to a stop.

  The scenery that had been a blur of green became woodland, where broad trees shook their leaves gently in the warm breeze. Freddie could now make out a racing bike lying on its side on the grey tarmac. The bike was painted black with a bolt of lurid green on the tank. Freddie was not a fan of this type of bike and often mocked Jack for owning a similar one. At least the rider was in full leathers, they were cracked black and he still wore a matching, dark helmet.

  Freddie sized him up. He was of a medium build, and limped as though he might have had a painful fall. Freddie pulled off his helmet to ask if he could be of assistance. This road was popular with bikers, and accidents on bends that had been misjudged or underestimated were common. At least the man didn’t appear to be seriously injured.

  Freddie flicked a switch on his handlebar that activated red and blue lights pointing to the rear. The bike hummed gently as it idled. ‘Hello, what happened?’

  The man limping towards him had his visor down.

  Freddie leaned over the bike towards him to try and prompt a response. ‘Are you ok?’ The man still said nothing. Freddie noticed that his limp seemed to be improving, if not disappearing, as he watched. He tried again. ‘Did you hurt your leg?’

  The man stopped a couple of metres short of him. One arm came up from behind his back, and Freddie found himself staring at a large handgun. He struggled to find words that were relevant to this situation. His hands went out towards the gunman. The movement was instinctive, desperate.