BODILY HARM a gripping crime thriller full of twists

by Charlie Gallagher

  Huntington gave the officer a cold stare, and grated into first gear. ‘What was your name again?’

  ‘PC Betts, sir. You drive safe now. All the emergency services are currently tied up, you see.’

  As Huntington’s BMW pulled back into the traffic and drove away, another officer returned from the motorway services with two coffees. He looked at Playmont from under the rim of his hat, which was slightly too large and worn far too low. ‘What was that about?’

  ‘What was what about?’ Playmont repeated, watching the sports car disappear.

  ‘You just said my name.’ PC Betts placed the coffees on top of the patrol car and began fishing in his pockets for sachets of sugar.

  Playmont smiled. ‘No I didn’t.’

  * * *

  8.06 a.m. It was some time since Huntington could recall being late for work. He strode through the foyer of Lennokshire’s largest police station with a face like thunder.

  His expression didn’t scare Chief Superintendent Helen Webb. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘Sorry, Helen. I had something to do first thing and then a section of the motorway was closed—’

  ‘I need to speak to you in my office, now.’

  Helen Webb was ten years younger than Huntington and already senior to him. It hadn’t taken her long to get there either. Two reasons why Huntington disliked the woman. Added to this was the fact that she was a woman. She was generally well respected, and was a major reason why his career had stalled. She was also bossy when the pressure was on, and Huntington was not a man who enjoyed being told what to do.

  ‘What, about being late?’ A flush crept over Huntington’s cheeks.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Graham. Get yourself a cup of coffee. I need to round up George Elms and I’ll be right with you.’

  Huntington was striding towards Helen’s office, coffee in hand, when he heard Jean calling out behind him.

  His PA was slightly out of breath as she approached him. ‘You’re on your way to Helen Webb’s office, then?’

  He stopped. ‘Yes, yes, I am, Jean. What’s this about?’

  ‘I don't know. She’s been looking for you all morning and wouldn’t say why. I did a bit of digging and all I know is that the attempted robbery still seems to be at the front of everyone’s mind and—’

  ‘The school kids on the bus?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s the issue with that?’ Graham stopped suddenly. ‘Jesus, no one’s died have they?’

  Jean shook her head emphatically. ‘Well, thank fuck for that. That would be all I need right now.’ Huntington strode on. Jean dropped her notebook, apologised, picked it up and hurried along in his wake.

  ‘So do we have a suspect, then?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Certainly no one’s in for it, and I don’t think there’s a name.’

  ‘That’ll be it then. A full day since the incident and no one in the bin for it, that’s enough to give Ma’am Webb the hump.’

  Jean looked embarrassed. ‘No, sir, I don’t think that’s the case. The girl . . . You see, her auntie is the mayor. There’s been a lot of media interest.’

  Jean looked confused as Huntington suddenly burst into a smile. ‘So it is true!’

  ‘You knew, sir?’

  ‘You think I call meetings of all the area’s supervisors for every seventeen-year-old roughed up on a public bus? I got wind that she was connected, I didn’t know it was the mayor though. Helen Webb can have the hump all she likes, my response has been immaculate.’

  * * *

  The only personal touches in Helen Webb’s office were some pictures of her husband and twin two-year-old daughters. They were arranged facing out towards the person sitting opposite her.

  Huntington was rarely fazed when summoned to Helen’s office, but usually miffed. Today was unusual - he was almost looking forward to it. As Helen entered the room, he puffed himself up, he was ready.

  ‘I see you managed to get yourself a coffee.’

  ‘I did.’ Huntington picked up the cup he’d placed on Helen’s desk. He hoped she hadn’t noticed the watery ring it had left.

  ‘I’ve seen Jean hanging around outside. I’ll go and ask her to get us a fresh one.’ She stopped at the door and looked at the table. ‘I’ll get some coasters too.’

  ‘Hello, sir.’ George Elms clearly hadn’t expected to see the temporary area commander filling the only seat on the visitor side of the desk.

  ‘George!’ Huntington had met George a couple of times before. He was aware that he had a reputation as a decent detective. Huntington’s greeting was more enthusiastic than usual.

  ‘No baby, then?’

  ‘Oh, well no. We’ve had a few false alarms actually. Sorry about the timing, sir, I already need to tick the little one off when it does finally arrive.’

  ‘Ah no need, George. Now, tell me, what the hell are we doing here?’

  ‘I think it must be about this job from the other night. The mayor’s niece was the victim.’

  ‘The mayor? I see. Any idea on suspects?’

  ‘No. Seems lady luck had a night off. The bus’s CCTV is knackered and there was no one else on the bus, besides the driver. He got a look at him, but not a good one, so we have a fairly general description.’

  Huntington sighed and rubbed his chin. ‘So, I assume we’re just waiting for forensics? What about CCTV from the bus stop?’

  ‘Forensics have dusted and there are prints, but they’re not going to be much use. It’s a public bus. We’re still waiting on the CCTV review for the bus station — the driver did say that they all got on at the same stop. They also found a wrap of what we assume is heroin. It was on the top deck but towards the front. We’ll test it to see what it is and if it has any DNA, but as far as evidence for this incident goes, it’s pretty useless.’

  Helen returned as George was speaking. ‘So, George here has brought you up to date on the Sophie Hayward robbery?’

  ‘So it seems,’ said Huntington.

  Helen sat down. ‘Right, I want to know what we are doing about it.’ Helen’s voice rose when she was stressed. Huntington, who had been sitting back with an ankle over a knee and lazily trying to catch a glimpse of bra through a gap in Helen’s blouse, quickly placed both feet on the floor.

  ‘And for fuck’s sake, George, go and get yourself a chair,’ she said.

  Huntington was immediately on the defensive. ‘You know what I have been doing. I have kept you up to date on every single operation, project and exercise carried out on that area. Just yesterday morning I led a meeting where every sergeant and inspector in the area was set the challenge of assisting with finally crushing the scourge that is Epping Hill.’ He slapped his hand on the desk.

  Helen stared at the hand. ‘Nothing’s worked in there, Graham. You’re not here so I can question you about what you have and haven’t done. I know you’ve done a lot of work there, but it’s all been tried before and I’ve seen Jean’s notes from this meeting – it’s just more of the same. We’ve had community days, they were a disaster, flooding the place with uniform hasn’t worked either, the criminals just move. Epping Hill has always been a shit hole, but a contained shit hole. Now the scum from that estate are preying on good, decent people, including seventeen-year-old girls on their way home from school. It’s just not on, Graham.’

  George had returned with a wheeled chair. He had sat down next to the area commander and now rolled backwards, as if in retreat.

  ‘How do we even know this robbery was carried out by someone from Epping Hill? For all we know, it was someone who knows her from school and lives in a well-to-do area. They have bad people as well, you know.’ Huntington crossed his arms.

  ‘George?’ Helen barked at the sergeant, who was fiddling with his tie.

  ‘Oh, well, ma’am, sir, the main thing is the bus route. It was on Templar Road, which as you know has a park either side. It’s a good place for a robbery if you are from Epping Hill, as t
he park borders the estate. The dog picked up a track from the bus, something moved across the park and through the small woodland bit and out into the estate. Unfortunately it lost anything specific after that as there was a fair amount of foot traffic. Also, the description — a white male, stocky, shaved head and tattoos. Your typical Epping Hill resident, in other words. Like I mentioned, there was a bag of wraps found, probably heroin. It might not have been dropped during the incident, but we’re working on the assumption it was—’

  ‘There you are. Epping Hill strikes a-fucking-gain.’ Helen rarely swore. Huntington should have known that now was not the time to argue.

  ‘That doesn’t mean they’re from Epping Hill. It just means they made off into the estate and from there—’

  ‘Oh, come on, Superintendent, it’s a pretty obvious deduction, don't you think?’ The ensuing tense silence was broken by a tap at the door.

  ‘Come in!’ Helen and Huntington shouted together. Jean came in with a tray of three mugs, looking flustered.

  ‘Sorry for the wait, ma’am, these coffees take a little while to do their thing.’ She gave a nervous laugh as she placed the tray on the desk. No one responded. ‘Will there be anything else?’ she asked.

  ‘Thank you, Jean, no.’ Helen gave Jean a warm smile. It dropped away as she turned to the two men. ‘I want a full incident room set up for this robbery.’

  ‘I had a word with George this morning while we were waiting for you to get in,’ Helen said. ‘George and his team are leading the investigation on the ground. I want you to make sure he has all the resources he needs and, of course, to oversee the investigation. I will be handling the press, which in itself is becoming a full-time job. George pulled a double on the night the robbery came in so he’s set a few balls rolling and is taking a little time off this afternoon.’

  ‘I assume the press are picking up on the mayor link?’

  ‘That’s one aspect, yes.’

  Huntington could well imagine. A white British teenage schoolgirl with a pretty face gets attacked and the whole world is in shock. An Eastern European prostitute of the same age has two fingers cut off in a drug dispute, and a paragraph might squeeze into the middle pages of the local paper.

  Helen sighed. ‘Unfortunately, the timing could not have been worse.’

  Huntington waited while Helen tapped at her computer, moved the mouse an inch and looked up at George, who had scuttled yet further back on his chair. ‘George, you have bits to tie up before you go home, I’m sure?’ She held his gaze.

  ‘I do, yes, I do. Sir, I’ll hang around and give you an update before I shoot off, yeah?’

  ‘Yes, if you would.’

  George got up and left.

  Helen clicked her mouse again. She huffed, slid open a drawer and put on a pair of fashionable glasses. She continued to click away, her brow furrowed. Then she spun the monitor around so Huntington could see. She got up and stood behind him.

  The screen pixelated and froze, then the video began to run. Huntington narrowed his eyes. The grainy image of a police car appeared in the middle of a dark screen. The camera then swung to a group of people standing under yellow blobs that were possibly streetlights. He couldn’t make out how many people there were. They all wore dark clothing and had their hoods up, making identification impossible. The police car came to a stop and the doors could be seen opening and closing. Young, male voices came through the tinny speakers close to the camera. ‘Here they fucking come, boi,’ and ‘Fucking mugs, mate. Think they can just come in here.’ Two officers approached the group. The quality of the video was too poor to identify them, but Huntington could tell they were male, at least. One sounded middle-aged and the other a little younger.

  ‘All right, lads,’ said the older officer, ‘What you doing hanging about here at this time of night?’

  ‘What you say to me, you fucking mug?’ said a hooded youth.

  ‘Oi!’ The younger police voice lacked conviction. ‘Oi! Now we didn’t come over here swearing at you like that, did we?’

  ‘You didn’t have to fucking come over here at all, did ya, Po?’

  ‘I see a group of kids hanging about on the street corner at one in the morning and I got every right to be coming over and asking what you’re up to. Do your parents know you’re out?’

  ‘Ha! Our parents, mug? Fucking Po. We is just out here being, innit, a human being, you get me!’ The others laughed. ‘Listen to me, yeah, leave this place of sin, yeah. There ain’t no need for you here, yeah. Ya too fucking late or I swear down you will find yourself all fucked up.’

  Huntington felt his anger rising. He would show him what it was to be fucked up! He would show him a place of fucking sin. The images on the screen seemed to have frozen, but Huntington saw it was a standoff, which the middle-aged man ended.

  ‘Come on, Steve. Let’s leave these gents to their evening.’

  ‘Yeah, bye, Steve!’

  There was a short pause and then the officers turned and headed back to their patrol car and drove away. The last few seconds of footage showed the gang of hoodies cheering and whooping. One of them brandished what looked like a handgun. He pointed the weapon at the camera in a shooting stance before stuffing it back under his top.

  Helen pressed the escape key. A YouTube header came on the screen, with a list of videos under a banner reading, “up next.” The video was titled, “Epping Hill belongs to us.”

  ‘Graham, this video was uploaded in the last twenty-four hours. It’s one minute and twelve seconds long. It can do indescribable damage. A local journalist has already seen it and has mentioned it in today’s paper, making a link between the police’s total lack of control over Epping Hill and the incident with Sophie. The timing couldn’t be any worse.’

  ‘It’s just one video. We could cite hundreds of positive outcomes from Epping Hill over the last year, six months even. The amount of criminals that have been convicted, we could add up all the fines paid, it would be an impressive total—’

  ‘No, Graham,’ Helen interrupted. ‘We have been approached by a national newspaper for a response to this, and from what we understand they are looking to run it as a major story. I mean, you can just see how this could be reported. Graham, that video tells the whole world that Lennokshire Police are running scared of the very people we should be clamping down on.’

  ‘Major story?’

  ‘The press have somehow managed to get hold of quite horrific pictures of Sophie’s injuries. The mayor only needs to sanction the release of those pictures and they’ve got a significant story. Add this video to the mix and we’ve got a real problem. At least one of the nationals has given us warning that they could lead with this story anytime.’

  ‘Lead?’

  ‘Yes. Possibly on the front page.’

  Huntington ran his fingers through his hair. He struggled to find suitable words. ‘I assume you want me to prepare an official response?’

  ‘No, Graham. The media guys are doing that, along with the chief.’

  ‘The chief!’ Graham felt his chest tighten further.

  ‘Yes. Of course he must be alerted, Graham. Can you imagine if we hadn’t told him and then he read about it in his morning paper? He’s fully aware of the job, of the actions that have been taken and of the Epping Hill project as a whole.’ Huntington’s head slumped forward, and Helen’s tone softened. ‘What we would like from you now is a response. Not to the media, but to the people of Epping Hill, Graham. This is your baby and everyone knows it. You need to start making a difference in there, and fast.’

  Huntington inhaled deeply in an effort to swallow the words he really wanted to say, and muttered, ‘I will.’

  Huntington walked away from the meeting with his Blackberry to his ear. ‘Jacobs? It’s Graham Huntington here. Listen, I was thinking I could do with another one of those overpriced coffees.’

  Chapter 7

  Peto Court, Epping Hill. George Elms disliked this block of flats almost as m
uch as the residents disliked living in them. This place was hell, where the inhabitants brought out the worst in each other.

  George paused for a second, peering at the solid metal security door that would allow him access to the long, featureless corridors. A light drizzle did nothing for the sombre, brick exterior of the block with its evenly spaced windows. Some didn’t even have the regulation dirty net curtains, being covered instead with crudely cut pieces of chipboard or beach towels.

  The decay continued inside. The council had been in the process of “refurbishing” the corridors but the process had stalled at the stage where all the paint had been stripped from the walls and most of the floors ripped up, with neither being replaced. The update itself had been prompted by a problem with leaking waste water, but the damp patches and sewage smell lingered.

  He opened his notebook and reminded himself of the flat number and the notes he had hurriedly scrawled twenty minutes earlier. Peto, Flat 22, gf Liz and 2 y/o girl he read and hesitated at the bottom of the urine-soaked stairwell. This was what was known as a “just” job.

  ‘Oh, George,’ Helen Webb had said, ‘Could you just . . . ? On your way home. It shouldn’t take long.’

  He hoped that was true. His foot sent an empty cider can rolling down the stairs, the noise amplified by the emptiness of the halls and the solid concrete steps. He walked along a corridor on the second floor. George hesitated at number 20, which had the ‘0’ missing. He moved on to the next one. The door of Flat 22 looked flimsy, and the letterbox rattled with every knock. There was a muddy footprint on the door and a bit fell off it as George knocked again.

  Elizabeth Wallis was twenty years old and much prettier than her surroundings. George had been given some background. It seemed she had once been full of potential, with loving parents who had wanted her to have a decent education. Then she had met a “bad boy,” and all too quickly she’d got pregnant and was lost to his way of life.