Jenny’s attention was dragged suddenly to a movement at the front room window. The stairs down to the front door were visible, just like Stephen had described, they were like a diagonal stripe from the top left to the bottom right. She could see legs moving quickly down the steps. She stepped forward, her pulse racing. Stephen pushed past her. Jenny could see more of them now: two men, both wearing black shoes and black trousers. They had black vests on too — with Police written across their back. Police officers! Thank God.
‘They’re here! Stephen, they’re here, I don’t need the phone! I’m safe.’ She moved across the floor towards the front door.
‘Wait!’
She stopped. Stephen looked stern, his brow contorted in confusion. ‘Them’s not police boots. Not even police shoes. Where’s their belt, their handcuffs?’ He was leaning into the window now, trying to get a view to the right where they would be stood at the front door. Jenny heard a knock. She could see the front door from where she stood. It was a half-length frosted pane and the men appeared as two dark distortions. She saw them turn to face each other and heard a murmur between them, though not well enough to pick out the words. A face pushed against the glass. They tried the door again, this time it was thumped with the underside of a clenched fist by the man on the right.
‘POLICE!’ One of them shouted. They thumped again. Jenny didn’t know what to do; it was as if she was cemented to the ground. She turned to Stephen, who was walking towards her. He was still scowling.
‘We’ll see about that, won’t we?’ He brushed past. The hallway was so tight Jenny felt his stomach push into her. The two distortions were still at the door. They would have seen Stephen coming. Suddenly there was a tremendous bang. Stephen stumbled backwards immediately. There was another tremendous bang, then a thud against the door. Stephen was on the floor, almost at Jenny’s feet. He had a hole in his chest, it was bright red but Jenny could also see bits of white. His eyes stared up at her, his mouth gaped open and shut.
Jenny turned away and she ran. The back of the house was just as cluttered. She was in the kitchen, crowded with plates and cups now, rather than figures. There was a long window high above the sink. She stopped, desperate for a way out. There was a back door, partly concealed behind a full-length curtain. She snatched it out of the way and it came away in her hand, the curtain pole clattered to the ground making her jump. She heard another thud and the tinkling of glass. She could hear the pushing of a mountain of paper . . . they were coming in.
The handle to the back door rattled but it wouldn’t open. There was a metal knob under the handle and she spun it right around and tugged at the door. It still wouldn’t move. She spun it again, the door moved slightly, it opened inwards but it was blocked by a cat box and some litter in a tray. The scent was suddenly pungent. There was no time to move it. She yanked it as hard as she could. The cat box tipped out, the door opened enough to get her leg through. She wriggled in the door and was half through, her shoulders caught; she could feel them scraping on the metal frame, peeling her skin. She heard heavy footfalls coming through the house. Suddenly the door let her go and she stumbled out into a tiny courtyard. There was an eight-foot wall all around her; she could barely see the sky. She heard another noise behind her that came from the kitchen. She pushed off the door and ran as fast as she could at the wall. She threw herself at it. She lifted her right foot to meet it flat and reached up with her hands. Her fingers caught the top of the wall. She heaved herself up, the toes of her shoes scrabbling against the concrete. The door blew out behind her. It made her flinch, so much so that she nearly lost her tenuous grip. She managed to get one of her elbows over the top. She could see a garden spread out in front of her. The grass was overgrown, a wall had collapsed and had been left where it had fallen. She managed to hook her left leg over, her nostrils filled with the scent of dog mess. She heard a shout.
‘JENNY! WHERE YOU GOING, GIRL?’
She rolled into the grass — far enough from the edge that she couldn’t be seen from below. She heard a scrabbling sound, someone was trying to climb out the way she had. She peered down the garden. She could run, which would put her back out on the streets of Dover, or she could turn and follow the river back to the police but she couldn’t be sure she would make it. There were now fingers on the top of the wall, they were blanched white and they fidgeted as someone hung from them. She picked up the biggest chunk of collapsed wall she could find — three house bricks seized together in a roughly triangular lump. A man’s head appeared — slick black hair and a sweaty brow — concentrating on the climb. His eyes met hers. Jenny stood over him, the piece of wall over her head. She brought it down as hard as she could on the top of his head. He fell away out of sight, she heard him hit the floor, the bricks too. She heard someone else shout something — she didn’t know what. She was already running.
Chapter 5
The Major Crime floor of Langthorne House Police Station was usually a quiet, calm place at just before eight on a Monday morning. But as soon as George stepped out of the lift he could tell there was a bit of a buzz about the place. The buzz got louder as he pushed through the double doors into the department where his team of detectives and support staff lived. The department was a spacious area, open plan save for a large meeting room and two offices right next to it, one of which now belonged to George. The recent cuts to policing meant that Major Crime was now a far more transient occupation. Often George would walk through the department to acknowledge just a smattering of DCs, spread out among the banks of desks. The bulk of the team were used to moving all over the county to wherever they were needed. No one knew what would happen if there was a serious incident in more than one district.
Today the banks of desks were still unoccupied by people, but they were occupied by things. Bags and coats, steaming mugs, lunchboxes and paperwork were strewn across just about all of them and every monitor was alight and alive. Something was going on.
George had to walk past the meeting room to get to his office. Sure enough, it was teeming with movement and noise. George could see through the glass panels that ran the length of the room. He saw DS Jason Carter standing with a marker pen in his right hand and gesturing for calm with his left. The whiteboard had what looked like the start of a timeline drawn roughly through its centre. George continued his walk to his office. He pushed the door shut behind him. It barely had chance to settle in its frame before it was pushed back open again. Emily Ryker stepped through.
‘We don’t knock anymore then, Ryker?’ George flopped in his seat as he spoke. He was still carrying a travel mug with coffee in it. He rarely drank coffee, especially black. Today it was black and it was strong.
‘What are you doing in here, George?’ Emily demanded.
‘I work here, Ryker. The more pertinent question would be what are you doing in here?’
‘I came to get you. We were all summoned for a meeting. 7 a.m. start. Where have you been?’
‘At home. I didn’t know there was a meeting.’
‘I called you. What happened to our system?’
George looked puzzled. He took a sip of his coffee.
‘You know . . . where we’re allowed to hang up on each other if we don’t want to talk, but if we get a message that it’s urgent we call straight back. I sent the message, George. It was urgent.’
‘What’s up?’
‘That’s what I get? What’s up?’
‘Is there something up?’
‘I was calling you about this job. The reason most of the county’s detectives are in the room next door.’
‘What job?’
‘Jesus, George. I know you weren’t answering your phone but it’s all over the news. You couldn’t avoid it if you wanted to. The shooting. In Dover. People dead, others missing. Broad daylight. Is any of this ringing any bells?’
‘Blimey!’ George took another sip of his coffee. ‘Sounds like I chose the right day to have off.’
‘Are you c
oming next door or not? Whittaker has already asked where you are.’
Chief Inspector John Whittaker was the reason for George’s promotion, his only ally it seemed — among anyone of rank, at least. Normally George would be excited to come in and hear about shootings and missing people. Today he could really do without it. He had planned on hiding in his office and drinking strong coffee.
When George walked into the meeting room, he realised very quickly that there was nowhere to hide. There was almost nowhere to sit. He was still swigging at his coffee. There were a lot of voices all talking at once and it took the entrance of John Whittaker to silence the excited detectives. Whittaker stood at the end of the table, talking into his mobile phone. He soon pushed it back into his pocket and looked straight at George.
‘Can I have a word?’ Whittaker said, before addressing the room as a whole. ‘People, I asked for the timeline. I’ll be five minutes with Inspector Elms and then I’ll be back. I need to have this timeline up and visible to everyone, okay? Let’s get it done, please.’ He led the way out of the door and towards his office. George followed.
‘What the hell happened to you, old boy?’ Whittaker called everyone old boy. He had risen to the rank of Major in the British Army before moving to the police. He still spoke like he was on the parade ground.
George did his best to look indignant. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You look like rat shit, man. I’ve seen men come back from a tour of Afghanistan looking more up for it than you. What’s gone on? Emily said she couldn’t get you by phone.’
‘I was on a day off. I booked it—’
‘I know what you were, George. Major Crime, however, can’t always recognise a day off. Seems some selfish bastards are still content to shoot at one another on down days. You need to be contactable by phone at least.’
‘I’m sorry, boss, I know. I had a shit day and I turned my phone off. It won’t happen again.’
‘You must be sorry, calling me boss.’
‘Major, then. Sorry.’ George called him Major when they were in the right surroundings. He found it funny; Whittaker didn’t seem to.
‘What’s the matter with you? You were seeing the wife, right? She’s out of hiding. Did she not turn up?’
‘She turned up, sir.’
‘I might have known. I’m always pretty distraught when my wife turns up too. Every time she pops out to go shopping I live in hope.’
George managed a weak smile. ‘She wants a divorce.’
‘And I suppose lucky bastard is not the response you are looking for?’
‘Not really.’
‘Fine. Well, look, George, I know this is big for you but I don’t have time for one of my legendary pep talks where I tell you to dust yourself off and get back to work, okay? So I’ll just say that you need to dust yourself off and get back to work. Can you do that?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Well, you look like shit and you smell worse. Did you drink it or bathe in it?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Of course you don’t. Jesus, George, of all the days.’
‘I know, I’m sorry. It was a blowout, I needed it, but I’m fine now.’
‘Well, let’s hope so. I just got off the phone with a patrol sergeant. Totally separate to this whole mess. He’s at an address on the outskirts of Canterbury. We have a body up there too, sus circs. I’m going to need you to go up there and fly the flag for Major Crime. Everyone else is tucked up with this other job from yesterday. Murder victims, they’re like London buses.’
‘You don’t want me involved in that? In the shooting, I mean?’
‘Well, yes, I did, but that was yesterday. Now everyone’s been sucked into that job, I haven’t been able to get anyone from Major Crime up to Canterbury. We’ve been holding the scene for over twenty-four hours now. When you rolled in, I finally had a volunteer to send.’
‘Well, I guess I can’t argue with that. Twenty-four hours!?’
‘I know. It’s not ideal. Uniform have been holding the fort and doing what they can. CSI are just as strapped, there’s just one officer up there doing what she can. Most of the officers covering it are on overtime, you can imagine the sort of resource issues I’ve been having. I’ll call the sergeant back and let him know to expect you around ten.’
George glanced at his watch. ‘The outskirts of Canterbury, you said? I’m only twenty minutes away.’
‘That’s right. So that gives you time to go via your home. Get a shower, George. Comb your damned hair and maybe find a shirt you’ve actually ironed. I need you switched on up there. They’ve had a shocking service so far. And you’re it — for now at least.’
‘What do we know? Is it a good job? What makes it suspicious?’
‘The job number is fifty-two of yesterday if you want a look at the log. I have a printed copy somewhere. It has what we know up to this point — which still isn’t much. The suspicious element is a shotgun wound to our dead woman’s gut. Suspected robbery, elderly couple, that’s a brief summary.’
George stiffened up a little. ‘A proper job then.’
‘Sounds that way. Now get yourself presentable. I feel bad that we can’t send the full team to these poor saps. I think I should at least send someone who is sober.’
Chapter 6
George hadn’t seen the point in Whittaker sending him home to freshen up. Now he was glad he had. He felt much better — almost normal.
He was back to work and moving through the village of Elham. It was a beautiful smudge of green and brown set mostly in an area of outstanding natural beauty. Its closest civilisation was the equally beautiful city of Canterbury. It had extended patches of wild fern meadows and trees on either side of the road shedding their leaves as if George was part of some ticker-tape procession. He had found a detective who hadn’t been sucked into the Dover investigation to keep him company, an old friend — Paul Bearn. He was a good detective, once part of George’s team before George seriously injured him in a moment of noise and confusion. Paul was damaged forever, but it had done nothing, it seemed, to damage the strength of their friendship. Paul was in the passenger seat and he was reading out loud from the printed 999 call.
‘So, 4 a.m. Sunday morning, or just before, we get the call from a panicked male saying his wife has been shot. There’s lines of input here where they’re trying to get some sense out of him and then just a summary from the uniform patrols when they turn up. Looks like a group have turned up and tried to rob them and it’s gotten out of hand. Looks like the murder weapon might have belonged to the couple.’
George scowled. ‘This is gonna need some piecing together.’
‘Lucky you brought me, then.’
George grinned. ‘I heard something about your latest light duties being as some sort of analyst, right? I thought you might appreciate a day out.’
‘Yeah see, that’s a common error. Most people don’t realise the importance of analysing crime trends in urban areas. But what would you say if I told you that I can now show, statistically, that more crimes occur in areas that are the most densely populated? What would you say to that?’
‘That I could have told you that before you started the study.’
‘Exactly what I told them. Honestly, they’re running out of things to ask me to do. I’m terrified to finish one job because I know the next will be worse!’
‘Well, today at least you can do some real police work. You’re wasted in there, Paul. I meant what I said about you coming into Major Crime.’
‘Thanks, mate. If you can square it then I told you, I will.’
‘Excellent. The department really needs a good tea maker.’
‘Wanker!’
Both men laughed. George suddenly slowed the car, his eyes right. He read the house name out loud: ‘Kismet.’ It was etched in a solid slab of oak that was nailed to a thick tree trunk. A farm-style gate next to it was jammed open. George could only see a drive stretching away from them,
he couldn’t see any part of a house. He swung into the drive.
‘Kismet. Means fate, right?’ Paul said.
‘It certainly did for these people.’ They drove in silence, the atmosphere instantly less jovial. George took the time to contemplate what had happened here just a few hours earlier. He couldn’t imagine the fear and the panic that the couple must have been through.
Apple trees lined the drive and were dotted across the wide lawns. A low, double-wire perimeter fence wrapped around the estate. There was woodland on the other side, thick rows of mature trees reaching over and beckoning in the breeze. The drive turned gently to the right then straightened up. A large and very traditional-looking farmhouse stood in front of them. It was immediately imposing in a way that only buildings that had stood for hundreds of years could be. There were three marked police cars and a marked police van that had Forensic Investigation emblazoned down its side. They were all parked in the gritted expanse at the front of the property. To the right of the house was a substantial double garage. One of the doors was lifted and George could see the rear of a smart-looking Range Rover. Someone stepped out through the big front door that was dead centre on the ground floor of the main house. They were dressed in a white paper suit, blue boot covers and a blue mask covering their mouth. She pulled her mask off and the hood on her suit down as George’s car approached. She flicked a long, dark ponytail free from a hair net and beamed a smile. Allesandra. George was always glad when he turned up at something serious and she was the one in the suit. She had an excellent eye for detail and more importantly she was always cheery.
‘Hey!’ George stepped out. Allesandra was beaming.
‘Nice of you to turn up! Long-time no see.’
‘Well, my plan was to turn up when all the work was done.’
‘You’re about a week too early then.’
‘That bad is it? It’s been a little quiet recently. Someone must have said that out loud a couple of days ago, I reckon.’ George referenced the age-old superstition among police officers that saying the word quiet would swiftly invoke the opposite. To police officers, ‘not busy’ was always referred to as just ‘Q.’
The George Elms Trilogy Box Set Page 26