The George Elms Trilogy Box Set

by Charlie Gallagher

Chapter 8

  John Whittaker moved into the foyer at the Force Headquarters and pushed his way through the second wave of reporters, those who hadn’t made it into the main briefing room. He had been involved in some high profile jobs in his past, but he had always been a bit part, able to sit back and watch the more senior members of staff provide the lip service, while he actually got some work done. There was very little getting done right now — by him at least. Even as he was led out of the front of the building and ushered into a car that had pulled up directly outside he could see his phone was going off. Another unknown number call. He knew what that meant. Some chancer from the associated press had gotten hold of his number and was trying to penetrate the interior of his getaway car with one last question. He pressed to reject the call and threw the phone onto the front seat. Detective Sergeant Melanie Richards was in the back seat next to him.

  ‘I do hope this is the right play.’ Whittaker voiced his doubts. It was rhetorical, really. There was no answer to it.

  ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’ Melanie asked. Another sergeant, Jason Carter was driving. Whittaker saw him flick his eyes to the rear-view mirror. The car was moving towards the exit gate. Jason was under strict instructions to get him back to Langthorne House as soon as possible after the press conference.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t be using a six-month-old child as a way of stoking up a response from dangerous criminals, no matter what the circumstances.’

  ‘I thought we were just after a response from the mother?’

  ‘For all we know she is the dangerous criminal. Naming her made sense to me at the time, but the second I said it . . . I don’t know . . . it just didn’t feel right. I was a mean poker player in the forces, Mel, because I never revealed the cards I had.’

  ‘I’m not sure there’s a right answer in this situation, sir. This could end up being exactly the right play. Now we just need to wait and see.’

  ‘I’ve never been a fan of wait and see. I can live with not finding the right answer — I just can’t live with getting it wrong. Wrong in this case means another body on my patch. And an orphan not nearly old enough to know what that means.’

  ‘This woman’s been pretty good at keeping herself out of harm’s way so far. Anyway, sir, we’re pretty certain that whoever attacked that car knew the occupants, right? I’m sure we’re not telling them anything they don’t already know, which means we’re not putting her in any more danger.’

  ‘Let’s just hope she is still out of harm’s way. Has Inspector Elms been in touch yet?’ Jason had been tasked with getting an update from their second murder scene of the day.

  ‘No, sir. I tried him maybe ten times. His phone went straight to voicemail every time. I left a message on the last go asking him to call as soon as he gets it.’

  ‘Voicemail, you say? George Elms can be trusted. There’ll be a damned good reason for him not getting back to us. Get me back to the ranch and I’ll try him myself. Anywhere in fact that isn’t this wretched place.’ Whittaker sat back in the leather of the big BMW saloon that was his allocated car for the operation. He was happy to see the exit gates sliding open and for the car to drift through and pick up speed. There were two things that he hated more than anything else — the associated press and Lennockshire Police’s senior management team. And right now they were all gathered at the same place.

  * * *

  George Elms fiddled with his facemask, despite knowing that you weren’t supposed to handle it once it was in place. It was so damned uncomfortable. The science around DNA was moving far faster than the competence of a thirty-something police detective and George was tired of hearing about it. It was just a few weeks since he had attended a conference on this very subject, where he had been cheerfully informed that advances in DNA detection were very quickly approaching the point where DNA would no longer be a viable form of evidence. Any defence solicitor worth his salt would soon be able to argue that the discovery of DNA at a scene could be the result of transference, had any persons who had attended that scene ever been in the same room as the accused. And not necessarily at the same time. Try and prove they haven’t, the speaker had said, a smug look spreading over his face while he enjoyed the stunned silence of his audience. The news very quickly got worse and most of George’s attention was lost while he had carried on with tales of DNA blowing in the wind. George and his colleagues would soon be back to the methods used before DNA and forensics — pissing in the wind as George referred to it. It had prompted laughter in the bar after. George wasn’t laughing now.

  The Wingmores’ kitchen was very much in keeping with what George had seen so far. No country farmhouse was complete without the country kitchen. It had a grey, flagstone floor with a huge Aga range cooker that radiated heat and set the atmosphere just right. The room was all chunky wood, earthy colours and ornate ducks — all very tasteful — only now with a splatter of red. Janice Wingmore was on her back. Her legs lay over a stone doorstep leading into the boot room that Sergeant Banks had described. The victim was in a navy blue robe that was obviously too large for her. She had long socks on, pulled up almost to her knees. The robe was lying open to display square knickers and a light pink vest-top. Her hair was messy and spread out on the floor, as were her intestines. The gunshot wound was a mess of black and different tones of red. Ali had assured him before he had gone in that the shot had gone right through. The hole was the size of a side plate and the size was how the CSI officer had been able to tell him that it was not a self-inflicted wound. Nothing made sense about that anyway, she looked every bit the woman who had been shot in the midriff when repelling someone from entering her home. And now George had a little more of an understanding as to why it was her lying there and not Stan.

  Stanley had given a good account. It had taken nearly two hours, but George was skilled at getting to the finer details and Stan was sharp — too sharp almost. He could remember times, places and descriptions, but he also remembered sounds, smells and cries of pain. George didn’t know the way back for Stan, not from this. When the life had left the frail body of the woman lying on the floor in front of him it had left Stan as well. While taking his statement, George was always aware that he was talking to a shell of a man.

  Stan told how, at 4 a.m., the couple had been roused by strong lights — possibly headlamps — then a banging on the door and calls for help. He specifically remembered checking the time. He had leant out of an upstairs window to ask what the hell was going on. His wife Janice put the lights on at first but Stan had scolded her — he couldn’t see with them on. When she turned the lights off she couldn’t find her robe and so must have grabbed Stan’s from where it was hanging on the back of their bedroom door.

  Downstairs, Stan could see just one man. He was agitated. He said that his daughter had gone out with a boy from the village the previous night for a drive. He hadn’t heard from them since. He said that one of the boy’s friends had told him that they would sometimes park up on a track that he thought was on the land of this farm, only he didn’t know where they might mean. Stan felt bad. He wanted to help and promised he would. When he ducked back in to close the window, Janice was holding her phone; she said she was calling the police. Stan told her not to, that the man had already done that, that they were already out looking for the girl.

  Stan walked to the back door. He turned the lights on in the kitchen, his guard was down and he wasn’t concerned about being able to see out. Had he been able to, he would have noticed that one man had become four men. They were all dressed in dark clothing. The three he didn’t see until they were pushing their way through his back door were wearing balaclavas and holding blunt weapons. They demanded money instantly. He was pushed back into the kitchen and someone ran past Stan and grabbed hold of Janice, who had followed him down the stairs. He threatened her with what Stan thought might have been a cosh, something short and solid looking. There was a scuffle. Stan remembered someone gripping his arm so tight that it
was really painful. He showed George a bruise. They kept screaming at him for the money, he told them he didn’t have any money. He fell to his knees, the pain from his arm was excruciating. He heard Janice scream and he said okay, he would get the money. He said it was in a locked cabinet under the stairs. It was a stupid move, Stan reflected. It wasn’t money in the cabinet; it was his shotguns. He had three. He thought he could get hold of one, he didn’t think they would follow him so close behind. He never stood a chance, the guns weren’t loaded — not until the men took the shotguns and tipped out the boxes of ammunition. They led both Stan and Janice back into the kitchen. Stan argued some more — he was so angry that people would come to his home and threaten his wife. A gun went off. Suddenly they just left. Stan ran out after them, but they were fast. The headlights were bright again, he remembered they drove at him and he had to run back to the kitchen. He watched them leave. He could hear his heart thumping in his ears, he could smell the shot, it hung in the air but it was mingled with something else, something metallic. It was blood. Janice was on the floor. He didn’t move her. He fumbled with his phone to call an ambulance. He still had a vision in his mind of how he’d bent down to pick up his wife. He cradled her head, lifting her towards him and he spoke to her. He asked if she was all right, if she could hear him. She didn’t speak. She would never speak again. That last image was all he could think about. He couldn’t shake it.

  George took his time getting the account. But he rushed over the end. He had the detail he needed; he didn’t want to interrupt in case there was something significant, but there was no need to labour the painful bits. George was well aware that he’d have to sit Stan down to go through it all again on video. For now, at least, he had been tortured enough.

  When Stan was finished, George left him in the living room. Paul was still with him. George felt bad about that. He could only imagine the atmosphere in there.

  Now he walked back past the lounge. Ali led him out through the front door and into the fresh air. To see the scene from outside meant walking the long way round. The back door was completely off-limits. Ali pulled her mask away. George did the same. They walked up the side of the house, stopping just a few metres away from where they had started. Ali’s attention was fixed on the rutted ground.

  ‘So those are the tracks I mentioned. I got a good lift from those. They will go off for analysis, but I can tell you from experience that they are from something four-by-foury. The tyres in general are wider than a normal car and the treads are too far apart. They’re from a 4x4, but something with proper off-road tyres on.’

  George was careful to step where Ali had. He could see clear tracks, a tread mark with tyre knuckles pressed into the mud. He could also see where the tracks slipped, as if a car had skidded close to the kitchen door. It fitted exactly with Stan’s account.

  ‘So not your Chelsea Tractor type.’

  ‘Exactly. Maybe even a farm vehicle, like a proper Landy. That sort of thing.’

  George nodded. Land Rovers were the vehicle of choice for a lot of farmers. ‘And the analysis, will that be more exact?’ he said.

  ‘Well . . . yes and no. It will usually give you the make of the tyre, sometimes we can do wear analysis too. Of the tyre, that is. That can be useful if you have something to compare it to. It’s like a footprint for tyres — each one has a unique wear pattern.’

  ‘But we need something to compare it to.’

  ‘Exactly. And the sooner the better. As for our victim, the wound and the positioning of Mrs Wingmore is consistent with a single gunshot wound to the stomach. The size of the wound puts the weapon at around five metres away from the victim — possibly a little closer. Judging by the splatter and her position, it would put our shooter outside of the house when the trigger was pulled. We’ll be able to do a little bit more on the slab with the wound. With gunshots we can often tell about angles and trajectory, but shotgun wounds are harder. Her wound is basically a clump of mess. A more clinical weapon would have a far more obvious entry and exit route. I’ve measured the wound front and back, and it’s level enough for me to suggest that the attacker fired from the hip. But that’s not going to appear written up formally in any report. And it won’t appear in any court papers. They may have just aimed blindly at the doorway, but that’s for the investigation to decide.’

  ‘The levels?’

  ‘Yeah, put very simple, if the wound is higher at the front than the back the round would have been fired downwards. That’s consistent with a rifle held into the shoulder and aimed — looking down a sight. If it’s lower at the front than the back then it’s fired from the floor and if it’s level — as in this case — then it’s likely to have been from the hip.’

  ‘Sounds logical.’

  ‘It is. Whether that’s helpful or not is another question. I’ve seen it become significant in self-defence cases. One offender I remember claiming he fired blindly from the floor because he was getting a kicking. I showed very easily that that was utterly impossible. I could show he had aimed with a high velocity rifle butted up against his shoulder. It was fifty-fifty to that point — but he got twenty-five years.’

  ‘That sort of result would do me here,’ George said. ‘This scene may not be in our favour though. To prove murder, we’d have to prove intent. I’d rather you said our killer was aiming.’

  ‘Shooting at a doorway where you know people are stood . . . that’s not enough these days.’ And a shotgun spreads out. It covers a big area. From this range you can’t miss and any centre-mass wounds will always be fatal.’

  ‘It’s enough for me, Ali. A jury is an unpredictable animal, though. You get our shooter in his best suit saying he was chased and he panicked and fired a warning shot from the hip? I’ve seen it work.’

  ‘UK justice at its finest.’

  ‘We need to prove what we know is all — and beyond reasonable doubt. Anything else you can tell me?’

  ‘The scene will take a couple of days, George. It’s just me for now and I don’t see me getting any help soon. It’ll take hours just to pick up all the shot and wadding. I will give you the full report as soon as I can. Janice may give us some more when she is laid out in the morgue, but I’m not sure what else she knows. I think she was standing at her kitchen door when a shotgun round was fired into the home, through her. If that’s consistent with what our friend in the living room has said then I can say I know how she died. His account also gives us the why and the when.’

  ‘So we’re just missing out on the who.’

  ‘Indeed. The best bit. I’ll do what I can with that. The log said there were four offenders and we know they entered the home. There aren’t any foot impressions that I can see — I’ve had the UV out, and there were no obvious prints. But I’ll do a proper dust and sweep again. I’ll get a search team through for a fingertip search too. If a hair, a flake of skin or so much as a bogey has fallen off one of them I want it found. We need to get lucky. But, then, don’t we always need a bit of luck?’

  ‘We do. And if karma’s a thing then lady luck will be with us on this one. These were decent people woken up from their beds.’

  ‘Seems that way, George. You need anything more from me?’

  ‘Don’t think so. I have every faith. I’m genuinely surprised you’re bothering with the search team — like you would miss anything!’

  ‘I know, right! It’s protocol. I had this tutor at uni — a forensic scientist and a right perv, he was. I always turned the UV on his crotch by accident — that sort, you know? Anyway he always advocated as many initial searches as possible when everyone else was saying to be aware of keeping your scene as sterile as possible. He had this saying: every torch casts a different shadow. I thought yeah, whatever, but he’s right you know. I’ll never forget that.’

  ‘He definitely stole that from somewhere!’

  ‘You’re probably right. I still like it though. We all see the world ever so slightly differently, George. That includes a crime
scene.’

  ‘This just got a little deep for me. I’d better let you get back to casting your shadows.’

  ‘I’ll call you with anything really important.’

  ‘I know you will. In the meantime, I will lean on the boss and see if I can’t get you some help up here. This is a big job on your own.’

  Ali smiled. Her mouth was covered again by a new mask ripped from its packaging, but George could see the twinkle in her brown eyes. ‘Keeps me busy up here, George. Sometimes it’s nice to just be left alone, you know.’

  George suddenly felt his phone buzzing but knew there was no way he would reach it in time through a layer of clothing and a forensic suit. ‘I certainly do,’ he said. He walked round to the front of the house where Paul stepped out to meet him.

  ‘Sorry about that, Paul. I didn’t want to leave you alone with Stan but until Tim gets here one of us will need to stay with him.’

  ‘I spoke to Tim on the phone. He can’t do it, George. He’s got leave booked and he’s going away in a few days. He said he could do the next couple of days but I told him not to worry. I didn’t think you would want him to come in only to be swapped out.’

  ‘Shit!’ George said. Paul was right, the whole idea of having a FLO was to build a relationship with the witness, to get right under his skin, to become trusted. That needed someone who could be there for as long as it took — no interruptions. ‘You’re right, Paul. We need someone who can be in right from the start and keep it up. Someone Stan will trust.’

  Paul bit down on his bottom lip. ‘I don’t really know who’s on the list anymore. It’s a shame, George — Tim would have been perfect.’

  ‘He would. I need someone just like him, someone who is good at listening, who comes across as supportive and trustworthy, but who also understands investigations. Now . . . where could I find someone like that?’ George lingered on Paul.

  It took Paul a couple of seconds to cotton on. ‘Oh no! No way, George!’