PANIC BUTTON a gripping crime thriller full of twists Page 5

  The Mondeo had been isolated.

  Barry floored the accelerator again, moving the Range Rover out where it could get alongside the Mondeo. Barry’s vehicle was the first to open fire. An assault rifle spat several rounds through the rear window of the Mondeo, shattering it. The Mondeo braked and the Volvo responded by punching it twice from behind. The target increased his speed, but any attempt to accelerate away from the faster vehicles had to be futile. More rounds smashed into the side of the car, the rim around the driver’s door sparked and rounds penetrated the roof above the passenger side at the front of the car. The Land Rover pulled back in front of the Mondeo, and stayed at a constant 60 mph. The Range Rover drove alongside. The rear occupant readied a six-bang, pulled the pin and threw. It fell through the shattered rear window of the Mondeo and bounced around on the seat. The lead car took its cue from this and hit the brakes. The target’s attention was elsewhere and the impact into the back of the Land Rover was enough to inflate two of the Mondeo’s airbags and damage a front wheel. It bucked to the right and bounced off the side of the Range Rover and veered left. Something came free from the underside of the Land Rover and made contact with the road, shooting sparks directly into the interior of the Mondeo. The driver applied the brakes hard, and the three wheels that still functioned locked up. It was trapped. It made contact with the Volvo behind for a third time and again with the chase car in front before Barry’s Range Rover veered violently into its side. The Mondeo had nowhere to go and its stop was sudden, the nearside met solidly with the raised mud bank that lined the road. The airbags were already spent and the occupant was thrown forward into the steering wheel.

  ‘Hands where I can see them, hands where I can fucking see them!’ The order came from an officer inside the Range Rover that was still side-on, and was accompanied by two rounds fired into the steaming bonnet in front of the driver. ‘Put them out of the window. On the right side. On the door, on the fucking door!’

  A second six-bang hit the steering wheel of the Mondeo and bounced into the driver’s lap. His hands disappeared back into the car as he batted it away. It finished its cycle on the floor, against the clutch pedal, and the driver lifted his legs up and hugged his knees. A man in a balaclava pointed his assault rifle through the broken windscreen and barked out, ‘Hands on the door sill, hands on the fucking door sill!’

  The Mondeo’s driver did as he was told, but his right hand shot up as it came into contact with broken glass. A second armed man, also in a balaclava, appeared at the driver’s window. He thrust his rifle through, pushing it hard into the target’s right cheek, while another officer took hold of the seated man’s hands, roughly smacking them against the driver’s door sill where he held them down, ground into the glass.

  The rifle jerked against the suspect’s cheek. ‘Move and I will blow your fucking head off. Do you understand?’

  The man nodded slightly, eyes on the rifle at his cheek. Someone put the cuffs on too tightly and he winced. Someone else reached through the window, took hold of him by the top of his trousers and hauled him upwards and out through the driver’s window. He fell hard against the tarmac, striking his forehead. He wriggled onto his side and was kicked in the ribs, causing him to cough up bile and white phlegm. A knee rested on the side of his face, pushing his cheek into the tiny shards of glass scattered over the road. Hands went through his pockets, searching him roughly. ‘Jesus! Did you piss yourself?’

  Laughing, the men stood around the trussed-up figure lying on the tarmac. One of them stamped hard on a hand. The suspect pulled his cuffed hands under his chin and brought up his knees in a foetal position. Another kicked at the stricken man’s exposed torso. ‘Don’t you fucking look at me!’

  Lance moved forward. ‘Alright, lads! I gotta call the boss.’ He lifted his phone to his ear. It only rang once.

  ‘It’s done?’ Helen Webb breathed.

  ‘It’s done. He’s in custody.’

  ‘And it’s definitely him?’

  One of Lance’s men took hold of the thick, blood-matted hair and lifted the face of their target. The man’s eyes were half shut, and one was already swollen. Blood, dirt and grit littered the untidy beard that covered his face and neck. He wore a filthy shirt with a blood-stained collar and gave off a smell of piss-soaked trousers and alcohol. Lance unfolded a picture with the name and date of birth of the target printed underneath. The man in the picture was smiling, clean shaven, wearing a shirt and tie with the top button undone, a police identity card hanging round his neck, but Lance was sure. Underneath all the shit, it was definitely the right man.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, and smiled, ‘It’s definitely him. It’s definitely George Elms.’

  CHAPTER 8

  Police officers are often guilty of putting two and two together, matching people to a crime, without the bother of evidence gathering. So Detective Sergeant George Elms immediately made a lot of sense, even to people who might have previously called him a friend. Eighteen months ago he had been suspended after being involved in the shooting of a fellow officer. The chief constable himself had fallen that night, and no one had ever got to the bottom of what had actually happened.

  News of his arrest reached Langthorne House police station long before the man was actually brought through the gates. He arrived in a marked cell van that lurched and rocked as it rode up the pavement, causing the occupant of the rear cage to slam against the cold metal. Jack Leslie had made it his business to be at the station for the return of the arrested man, and was waiting on the first floor when he heard the buzz that the van had pulled up at the back gate. He appeared outwardly calm as he stepped over to the window, parted the blinds and stared down as the van dock closed with a metallic clunk. Soon the prisoner would be escorted into the custody area.

  ‘He’s here,’ Jack muttered, his throat dry, and he turned and walked towards the double doors that led to the stairs.

  * * *

  George Elms experienced little more than a sensation of hazy familiarity as he stepped down from the high lip at the rear of the vehicle. Rough hands on his shoulders pushed him forward. Concussion still fogged his mind and his senses, and the six-bangs had aggravated his tinnitus to the point where it almost completely blocked out anything external. He turned his face towards the sun that caught in the fine metal mesh, forming an orange backdrop to the millions of black spots in front of his eyes. His movements were slow, the officers held him firmly either side, as if leading an infant making their first steps. George’s ears let through fragments of noise, the odd word, the sound of doors being slammed behind him. He felt as if he was walking underwater.

  The hands on George’s shoulders steadied him, and there were other hands under his arms. They brought him to a halt at a thick, metal door painted a heavy grey colour with a sliver of a porthole. He struggled to peer through and made out shadows, indistinct shapes. Someone shoved him hard in his back as the door swung open. His trousers were cold, damp and clammy round his thighs, his socks and shoes had been removed and his bare feet dragged on the floor.

  George could make out the beginnings of a long ramp that sloped gently up to a high-sided desk. The padded rubber flooring was surprisingly springy underfoot and helped him to walk. He smelled air tainted with unwashed and sweaty bodies, and all of a sudden he knew exactly where he was. Langthorne’s custody area opened up in front of him. The corridor was just wide enough for four people to stand across it shoulder to shoulder, then around six or seven metres in, it opened up into a much larger space. George was aware of figures to his left and right. Instinctively he kept his head bent forward, avoiding eye contact. He heard the voices though. They penetrated the white noise in his ears and some seemed familiar. He felt another couple of digs in his back and he was pushed forward to where a white-shirted sergeant stood tall behind the desk, facing him. He could sense people standing closer to him now, their breath on the back of his neck and the side of his face.

  ‘Scum!’

&nb
sp; ‘They’re gonna fucking have you!’ Someone threw a cup of water into his face. The contents spilled into his eyes and he gasped at the cold.

  ‘Look at the state of ’im!’

  ‘You’re fucked now, George, fucked, mate!’ A gob of spittle struck his neck.

  The voices were growing in number. There was a scuffle to his right, someone was being restrained by four colleagues, shouting threats of violence and vengeance.

  George received one last shove from behind and collided with the desk at chest height. His hands were now cuffed behind his back.

  A jailor took up position next to him. He looked George up and down and then turned to the desk sergeant. ‘He’s got wet trousers, Sarge. I’ll get him a paper suit.’

  The sergeant looked down from the desk. ‘No, Jim. Let him lie in it.’

  A voice shouted from behind, ‘Too fucking right!’ Another paper cup missed its target, spilling drips on the desk and rolling to the floor. The voices grew louder. George couldn’t distinguish that of anyone he knew. His head and face throbbed while his stomach was knotted, he was nauseous after the hard kicks, and it hurt to breathe. George lifted his damaged face towards the sergeant. It took all he had, but he managed a smile.

  ‘Hello, Sergeant,’ George said. ‘Don’t suppose I could get a drink?’

  The custody sergeant was a tall man made taller by the raised floor on his side of the desk. He had to stoop to where George had rested his chin on its wooden surface. ‘You’ll get fuck all from me.’

  A female voice rang out, silencing the custody area. ‘Everybody out! Leave this man alone!’ George rolled his head, and his eyes came to rest on a face he knew. The chief superintendent moved forward and stood next to him.

  ‘Why is this man standing in wet clothes?’

  The custody sergeant merely curled his lip.

  ‘Get this man a change of clothes now!’

  ‘Maybe we should get him a newspaper in the morning too?’

  ‘We will afford him his human rights, just like we do every single person that walks, or is dragged through that door. Do you understand?’ She sounded furious at his insubordination.

  ‘Yeah. I mean, I just—’

  ‘You will come and see me later with your explanation as to why this man has been subjected to such a disgraceful circus. Right now, you get him to somewhere he can sit down and you get him assessed by the custody nurse. Do you have any problems with that, Sergeant?’

  ‘No, no, I’ll get it done, ma’am.’

  The jailor reappeared, rustling a blue paper suit with matching paper slippers.

  ‘Jim, can you take this man to cell 4 please, and get him a drink. I’ll call the nurse,’ the sergeant said to him.

  Jim began to lead George towards his cell. George heard Helen Webb call out, ‘Hold on!’ and they stopped to let her catch up. She reached into her pocket and produced a small handcuff key. She unfastened the cuffs from his wrists, which were slippery with blood. She nodded for the two men to continue, and Jim guided George into the cell. The door was already open and George became aware that Helen had followed them.

  Jim announced that he was going to get a cup of water. George rubbed at his wrists and flexed his hands as he entered. He shuffled to the far corner and turned with his back against the wall. His legs gave way almost instantly. He made an untidy heap on the floor. His face and lip still leaked blood. One of his eyes was swollen shut. He was dirty and unshaven and he was aware that he stank.

  ‘You look like shit, George,’ Helen said.

  Jim came back, still holding the paper suit and with a cup of water in his other hand. Helen took both items off him and he nodded and took his opportunity to leave. She stepped into the cell. Her heels clicked on the cold stone floor, and George lifted his eyes to the figure that stood above him. He smiled, but his eyes were opaque, lifeless. She bent and placed the water beside him, then hesitated, like she was building to say something more. A few seconds passed, she dropped the paper suit to the floor and walked out without looking back.

  CHAPTER 9

  The building had once been a paper mill. Helen Webb had been a visitor here on a couple of occasions when her primary school had run trips, and she felt a sudden nostalgia. The mill had been fully functioning then of course, and she could still smell the warm aroma of pulp that had emanated from the giant vats. A natural stream had run through the middle of the factory, channelled through the thick concrete floor. Stepping out of her car, Helen heard running water and saw that the stream was still there. It didn’t run through the middle of the building anymore, the developers had seen fit to divert it around the outside into a feature for the luxury flats on the ground floor.

  Sarah Elms lived in flat nine, down a long corridor that ran straight through the middle of the building. The door, like the others, was of highly polished pine. Helen made a fist and knocked.

  Sarah Elms was shorter than Helen remembered. They had met at a formal dinner a couple of years ago. Helen had then seen her several times at the numerous hearings her husband attended after his suspension from Lennokshire Police. The hearings had ended when the Crown Prosecution Service had offered no evidence against George, deciding that a prosecution was “not in the public interest.” Lennokshire Police had convinced the Independent Police Complaints Commission that George Elms’ actions eighteen months ago in the middle of the notorious “Effingell” Estate, had been in self-defence. Had he not acted as he did, they said, he would have ended up dead like Inspector Jacobs and the chief constable. Two people were known to have walked away alive from that incident. George Elms had never been called by the courts to answer for his part and the other had never been caught. Or pursued, for that matter. Helen had been instrumental in ensuring that the investigation came to its abrupt and unsatisfactory end.

  After the formal hearings and investigations she had cut ties with the Elms family. George had remained suspended ever since. The official reason was that he suffered from tinnitus, which was so severe that it caused him confusion and concentration problems, balance issues, nausea and even blackouts. The worst effect, though, had been insomnia — George hardly slept at all. There was talk of post-traumatic stress disorder, but Lennokshire Police were keen to play this down. Helen had spent a lot of time and effort keeping a lid on the “George Elms problem,” as she referred to it. She had never stopped to think how this might have affected the man himself. Now, having seen him sitting in a custody cell, stinking of alcohol and his own urine, she found herself wondering what life must have been like for his family, and how his wife would react when they met.

  ‘Sarah!’ Helen smiled.

  Confused, uncertain eyes peered back out at her. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I was hoping to talk to you.’

  ‘I think we’re done with talking, don’t you?’ Sarah pushed the door shut.

  Helen was tempted to stick out a foot to stop it but didn’t want to act aggressively so soon. Instead she called out, ‘George has been arrested.’ She stepped closer to the door and waited. ‘For murder.’

  The door clicked open. ‘You’ve got five minutes,’ Sarah said.

  The apartment had no hallway, and Helen followed Sarah straight into a large kitchen-diner. Double doors beyond it opened onto a balcony that overhung the running stream. One of the kitchen walls had a large wooden board with numerous certificates pinned to it with brightly coloured pins. They had been awarded to Charley Elms for “best pupil,” “best story” and “best in class,” among other achievements. Sarah leaned against the kitchen units and crossed her arms, looking at Helen.

  ‘Are you and George still in touch?’ Helen asked.

  ‘What’s that got to do with you or anyone else?’ Sarah barked, and tossed her dark hair.

  So that was how it was. ‘When did you see him last?’

  ‘Why has he been arrested? After all this time, all he’s been through! You told us you were done with him, and he wasn’t facing any criminal cha
rges.’

  Helen stepped back a pace. ‘That was true. We had every intention of leaving your husband alone, Sarah. Unfortunately it seems that he had no such intention towards us.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Yesterday, four police officers were shot. Separate incidents, but we believe the same person was responsible. That person showed an in-depth knowledge of the police and how we function, and demonstrated his ability with a firearm. I have never seen such hatred for the police.’ Helen watched Sarah’s face contort in confusion.

  ‘You think George shot police officers? What police officers?’

  ‘There’s good evidence, evidence that clearly links him to the scenes. It’s early in the investigation but he certainly has some questions to answer.’

  ‘Questions to answer? Have you seen him recently?’ Sarah’s voice cracked.

  ‘Today. For the first time in a long while.’

  ‘He looks like shit, doesn’t he? You know he’s been drinking?’

  ‘I worked it out.’

  Sarah forced a laugh. ‘You worked it out? From what? The state of him? The smell? Have you seen his flat? He’s a proud man, George, and look what you lot did to him!’