The George Elms Trilogy Box Set

by Charlie Gallagher

  George surveyed the rest of the clearing. There was nothing else that stood out. No people. No threats. And no smoking stack of wood under an ancient torture device.

  ‘What the hell?’ Emma pushed past. She walked towards the crucifix. She had her own baton in her hand. George moved to the ground pin that was holding the other end of the rope. It had been dug out and cemented in. the concrete was still a fresh-looking grey.

  ‘George! He’s alive!’ George’s head snapped up. Emma was standing under the crucifix and looking up. George ran to her and saw that the figure was no effigy. John Lawrence’s torso shivered from the abdomen and his breath rasped loudly at the same time. It looked to George like agonal breathing after the diaphragm and the lungs had given up. The last movements of an already dead man. Lawrence’s legs hung useless and clearly deformed. His arms were smeared with a dark red. The nails that had been pushed through the centre of his wrists were wide and crude. His arms were bound tightly to the wood of the cross round his elbows, too, probably to prevent his own weight from pulling his flesh from the nail.

  George searched around for something — anything — to help him reach Lawrence’s legs. If he could reach, he might be able to take some of the pressure off the lungs. Lawrence was being crushed by his own weight. George readied his shoulder. He bounced off the wooden upright. It did nothing more than vibrate enough for John’s shoes to shuffle against the wood above George’s head. George looked down. He could see what he was up against. The bottom of the wood was dug down into another cement-filled hole. There was a small gap at the front and a steel pin at the back, the cement must have been set first. The cross rose up out of it. He could picture the cross being ratcheted against the steel pin until it was upright enough to drop into the hole. It was a clever way of getting John up there. There wasn’t an obvious way to get him back down. George ran back to the ground pin. The rope was thick and strong. He had nothing that could cut it. Even if he had, he didn’t think the cutting of the rope would be enough to bring the structure down.

  ‘I can’t get him down!’ he shouted. Emma didn’t say anything. She simply stared back and forth between George and Lawrence. George ran back to the structure. ‘John! John, can you hear me?’ There was no more sound or movement. Lawrence’s mouth hung open. His eyes were open too. ‘John! Who did this? Where’s Roberts? JOHN!’ There was movement at the edge of George’s vision and then four uniform police officers burst into the clearing, one with a taser drawn. They were wide-eyed and breathing heavily as they took in the scene.

  ‘We need a ladder or something!’ George barked. ‘We need to get him down!’ The officers took a few seconds to react. Two ran back the way they had come. The other two went through the same checks as George. George let them continue, despite realising that it was hopeless. They pushed the wood base. They tried to reach up, then one linked his hands together and knelt down to give the other a boost. They made it to Lawrence’s waist. The officer tried to lift him, to relieve some of the pressure on his lungs. He couldn’t manage it. He couldn’t reach any higher. Lawrence’s shoes scuffed back against the wood. It was useless.

  The ladder took another minute. It got them higher. George stepped back to watch. He knew they were wasting their time. It didn’t take long for all the officers to realise the same thing. This wasn’t an urgent rescue. John Lawrence was dead.

  It took twenty minutes to get him down, and lay him out on the wild grass. The nails had been pushed so far in they had to be hammered out from the other side. Despite the obvious, the officers still cut off his jumper and the dog collar from around his neck and started CPR. George could see his arms. The wounds weren’t bleeding. His chest was still, his skin washed out. He was gone. As was any chance of finding out what he might know about Henry Roberts.

  Paramedics arrived shortly after. They were out of breath. They got to work immediately. They strapped machines to him while the CPR continued. They spent another twenty minutes doing what they could then stood up and stepped away. The uniform officers all looked at Emma, their senior officer. The paramedic must have picked up on it. They spoke directly to her.

  ‘I’m sorry, he’s gone. We’re gonna call it. He’s probably been gone a while to be honest, but we did all we could. I thought we might get a spark at least.’

  ‘How long do you think he’s been up there?’ George spoke over a shocked-looking Emma. The paramedic turned to him and shrugged.

  ‘That I can’t tell you with any accuracy. A little while. The poor fella wouldn’t have been able to breathe much at all. He might have supported himself for a little while but his legs look pretty bad and might not have worked at all.’

  ‘His legs are broken,’ Emma said, the shock clear in her voice.

  ‘Yeah. I guess it was to stop him supporting his weight. He would have struggled to breathe. Not a nice way to go. There are some sick people out there.’

  ‘We saw him move?’ Emma was almost whispering.

  ‘It might have been a spasm. With this sort of thing, a body will do that for a little while, after—’

  ‘Thanks for your efforts.’ George stepped in. He thought Emma might have had enough of an explanation. ‘Did my colleagues get your details?’ One of the uniform officers was close enough to hear and he took out his pocket book to complete the request. George turned to Emma. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Not really, George. You?’

  ‘Same, I guess. We need to get you swapped out. Get the duty DS out here to run the scene. You and I need to get back and work out what we have here. And where we go next.’

  ‘They’re all on their way anyway. As soon as they get here . . .’ She was still looking down at the lifeless vicar.

  ‘There was nothing more we could have done, Emma,’ George said.

  ‘I know that. But he didn’t deserve this. No one does, do they?’

  ‘He was wrapped up in all this, Emma. Somehow. I’m worried that we won’t ever find out precisely how. But, no, this isn’t the sort of justice I believe in.’

  Some of Emma’s team arrived. He stepped back to let her bring them up to speed. She did well. She did what all good officers can do, she put aside all her own emotions long enough to get the scene managed and preserved for forensics. Her team of detectives would also need to start the work on finding out how it had become a scene in the first place. There were a few leads George could see. The wood making up the crucifix, the rope, the ratchet winch. Even the type of concrete. It would all be examined in an effort to try and find where it had come from, how long it had been there. There was a lot to piece together. Four of Emma’s team were involved in the briefing. George was too far away to hear what was being said as he leant on a tree on the edge of the clearing, trying to find some space for his own thoughts. But he saw the same reactions from them that he had seen earlier that morning: shock, followed by determination. Then a couple of them looked over at him and he couldn’t help but feel that he was seen as the man who had brought this nightmare back to them. Certainly it felt like his shoulders had carried the weight of something up that motorway. And he still couldn’t shake it off.

  Emma left her team and they walked back together. There were already officers in white suits buzzing around the transit van. George could remember the last three letters of the registration that Ryker had given him: POJ. The plate on this van was different. But it was a white Renault panel van. It had to be the same one.

  They got back to the police station and sat down across from each other at Emma’s round desk. Emma had her notebook open in front of her. They were both struggling with where to start. Emma’s phone went off. She huffed. ‘I’ll just take this, George. I’ve a feeling we might not get anywhere now. I’m going to be in demand.’

  George stood up to make a drink. Emma’s phone conversation was a very short one. She spoke to George immediately after. ‘They might want to seize our shoes. Maybe some clothes too.’

  ‘I thought they might. I draw the line at the und
erpants though, they’re the only ones I brought.’

  Emma managed a half smile. ‘I don’t see the need at this point. I suggest we only worry if they come back a bit more insistent.’

  ‘Who’s running it?’

  ‘I don’t know to be honest. That was the senior forensic officer. I didn’t think to ask if they were getting any direction. I’m sure someone will call me if I’m needed. It’s probably better if it isn’t me, seeing as I’m now a key witness.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘I could do without getting stuck out at a scene for the rest of the day. We need to be looking at the bigger picture.’

  ‘We do. Which is proving more difficult than I anticipated. And I certainly don’t think our shoes hold the key to this Emma.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right. I just don’t know what does. I’ve been trying to straighten it all out in my mind. It’s such a mess, George.’

  ‘Investigations like this always are. Until they’re not. We need to simplify it all. Start again. Let’s do a VOWS assessment from where we are. We need to get everything down that we know. The stuff we don’t know is what we need to be working on.’

  ‘Makes sense to me.’

  There was a knock at the door. Emma had pushed it solidly shut, having made a point of telling the two DCs who were working at their desks that she didn’t want to be disturbed.

  ‘Yes?’ Her irritation was clear. A second passed. Maybe the person the other side was having second thoughts. Then the door opened and a uniform sergeant walked in.

  ‘Ma’am . . . sorry. They did say it was a bad time. But then I gave them a message to pass on and then they said that actually I should knock, so—’

  ‘It’s fine, Alan. Come in. This is Inspector George Elms. George, this is Alan Kemp. One of our patrol sergeants up here.’

  George shook Alan’s hand. He still looked a little unsure.

  ‘It’s a very quick thing. It’s just that there’s a slide on the briefing. I’ve been on rest days. I came in for late turn today and it was on there. I know who it is. At least I’m pretty certain.’

  ‘A slide?’

  ‘Yes. There’s not much description. Just that it’s come from Lennockshire, actually. It doesn’t say what it’s about, just that we should let you know if we recognise the person in it.’

  George was suddenly animated. ‘The CCTV stills from the petrol station. And you know who it is?’

  ‘I’m pretty certain. I went to a sudden death on my last set of day shifts. It would have been Monday. There was a lad there. He found his mum dead in the morning.’ The sergeant had his notebook in his hand. His finger was saving a page. He read from it. ‘Liam Cooney, 14 Wilbur Way, Symonds Yat.’

  ‘Liam Cooney,’ Emma repeated. ‘And you’re sure?’

  ‘I am. I know he’s a bit of a distance away on the CCTV, you can just about see enough of his face for an ID. But it’s his top, ma’am, that’s how I know. I spent an hour with him or more, while they moved his mum out in a body bag. I took her wedding ring off before they moved her and I gave it to him. He was wearing a hooded top with writing on his chest. Superdry. It was off-centre. I remember him putting that ring in his hoodie pocket. I remember it well because I thought it was a bit odd at the time. Not overly. It struck me as a bit cold, I suppose. I guess he was in shock. He took a quick look at it and then stuffed it in his pocket.’

  ‘What had happened to his mum?’ George said.

  ‘It was non-sus. She’d been ill a while. Chronic pulmonary disorder. Kept alive by constant oxygen. She was plugged into it when we found her. I guess it couldn’t keep her going any longer. We found a load of medication. She did well to last as long as she did.’

  Emma was looking over at George. He reckoned she was thinking the same thing. He received immediate confirmation.

  ‘CPD? They probably wouldn’t even do an autopsy. She would be written off as natural causes.’

  ‘She would,’ George said.

  ‘I’ll make a call to the coroner. We need to get that reopened and declared suspicious.’ Emma was talking to George. He noticed that Sergeant Kemp was looking even less sure.

  ‘Ma’am? Did I miss something?’

  ‘No. You couldn’t possibly have known, don’t worry . . .’ Emma was pacing. She bent her head.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am. Known what?’

  She lifted her head back up. ‘Oh. Sorry, Alan. That CCTV slide, the person pictured is now a suspect for murder. John Lawrence was found . . . well, he’s dead.’

  ‘I heard it on the radio. I spoke briefly with the early turn sergeant. They’re all tucked up at the scene. I’m going to be sending people out to take over.’

  ‘How many are you parading with today?’

  ‘One and seven, ma’am. Earlies have five on scene control at the moment. That leaves me with one double-crewed car to answer the calls.’

  ‘I need an arrest and search. I’ll leave your two-man car alone but can you come out with me and George? We need to get Liam Cooney in. We can worry about the search once we have him in custody. I’ll have to call in resources from elsewhere.’

  ‘Of course.’

  George stood up. He picked up his car keys and spoke directly to Alan. ‘What’s he like? Cooney, I mean?’

  The sergeant hesitated. ‘I don’t know the politically correct term. Learning difficulties? Is that it? He seemed a little slow to me. Like he wasn’t quite sure what was going on. Not the sort of lad who could plan and execute a murder, put it that way.’

  ‘Not on his own at least,’ George said. Emma led the way out the building.

  Chapter 34

  The Cooney house, 14 Wilbur Way was shrouded in low-lying cloud. The street as a whole was being prodded and probed by its grey, wispy fingers. The estate looked to George like classic council stock. Social housing before it was given the posher sounding title. The exteriors were made up of weathered-looking pebble dash and number 14 was particularly drab. Brown water stains spread out from under the windows. The lawn was neat at least.

  George knocked the door with Emma standing next to him. Alan Kemp was out of sight a little further down the street. Tactics around the door knock for Liam Cooney were the subject of the conversation on the way there. Alan described him as early twenties, dim witted, but quite a lump. George had his right hand gripped round the pepper spray in his jacket. He knocked again. They had been on the doorstep for a couple of minutes.

  ‘Section 8 warrant?’ Emma said.

  ‘I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that.’ A Section 8 warrant would need to be granted by a magistrate. It would give the police a power to kick the door down to try and locate someone wanted for a serious offence — like the murder of John Lawrence and the abduction of two young women. He had no doubt they would be granted the warrant but it was a lot of paperwork and he didn’t want to waste the time it would take to get it.

  ‘Alan!’ George called out and the sergeant appeared. ‘No answer. I’m just gonna check round the back. Do you mind holding the front in case someone makes a break for it?’

  Alan nodded. George and Emma moved round the side of the house. Immediately George could see that the garden was big. Long and thin. You wouldn’t get a garden like that anymore with your social housing. He tried the back door. It was locked too. The top half was clear glass but with a net curtain obscuring the view. He could see into the kitchen: some of the work surfaces, including the one that housed the sink. Everything was very orderly. There was no evidence of anyone being at home. He knocked at the back door, too but there was still no movement. He stepped away and looked up at the second floor. The curtains were open. The small windows were ajar. Again, nothing stirred. He turned to look down the garden. He could see a thick conifer hedge half way down. That might have fooled him into thinking it was the end of the garden but an untidy arch was cut and he could see some outbuildings beyond. He walked down the garden. The grass was a little longer at the back, his feet dragged through i
t. Emma walked with him. There was fencing along both sides but the garden was on a slope so the neighbours would still have a limited view in. He made a mental note to knock a few doors either side. There were two outbuildings. The first, on the left, was a small, brick-built structure. It had a small door that looked jammed open, stuck by its own rust. The inside was covered in a layer of black. A coal shed, George reckoned. It looked like it had been out of use for some time.

  The next shed was larger and made of wood. There was a padlock on the door but the clasp hung open. He twisted it and pulled the door.

  ‘George.’ Emma’s tone carried a warning.

  ‘I know. I’m just going to stick my head in.’

  ‘There’ll be a forensic search here, George. You know what they’re like.’

  ‘I do. We need to be sure it’s empty, though, right? Perfectly reasonable.’ George stepped in. He found a light switch. The bulb seemed hesitant and took its time to warm up to its full brightness. Everything looked very orderly, unusually so for a garden shed. Everything had its place. Saws, screwdrivers and hammers all clung to the wall and were arranged in size order. Each had a silhouette drawn round them on the wall. One tool was missing. The silhouette was the shape of a shovel.

  The main workbench looked a little too high and it had sides, like a box. It looked reinforced, too, with metal struts covering every edge. A black metal object lying on top of the bench stood out as the only thing out of place. George walked to it. It was an old clothes iron. Victorian maybe? It was solid and it was heavy. It looked like it had marked the wooden bench.

  ‘It’s hinged!’ George lifted the iron off the work surface and moved it to the floor. His eyes rested on a catch on the side of the bench. Another padlock was pushed through. Again it hung open. George pulled his sleeve over his hand to pull it out. He used the same technique to pull the lid up. It creaked open. It was empty.