BODILY HARM a gripping crime thriller full of twists

by Charlie Gallagher

  ‘What story?’

  ‘The girl from the bus. Her aunt, the mayor, knows people in the media and she’s been making a lot of noise. They’ve got an interview with her as well as the mother. On top of that, they’ve got hold of the YouTube video. The Sun is running it as their main story. Their headline, Graham, is “The Land the Police Forgot.” The whole piece is based around Epping Hill and the idea that it’s some sort of no-go area for us. They’ve even got interviews with Epping Hill residents, with quotes like, “we don’t see the police at all, the gangs run this estate.”’

  ‘Jesus!’

  ‘Just when you think it can’t get any worse, they finish with interviewing a police officer who has declined to give his name. He or she says that the police only go to Epping Hill if they are called, and are slow to respond, hoping that the residents would have sorted the problem between themselves before they arrive. The same officer describes it as “hell on earth.”’

  ‘Jesus!’ Huntington said again.

  ‘We need to be ready for the chief tomorrow, Graham. I’m expecting to have to answer some pretty harsh questions.’

  Helen ended the call and Huntington checked his clock. 10:25 p.m., nothing to be done now. He sighed as he climbed back into bed.

  His wife looked over at him. ‘What’s the matter, Graham?’

  He ran a hand over his face. ‘Just some problems at work, nothing major.’ He got up again and went into the bathroom. There, he found himself looking at his reflection in the mirror as though he hadn’t seen it for a while. His face seemed to be more haggard than he remembered, the eyes more sunken and the bags underneath larger.

  He returned to bed and spent the next few hours going over everything he could think of to say about Epping Hill Estate.

  * * *

  Huntington stepped out of his front door into the freezing darkness. He could hear the faint hum of a milk float somewhere in the distance. He pulled out of his drive and headed for the station.

  ‘Have you been in long?’ Helen Webb made him jump. She was dressed to kill, in a grey suit jacket with matching pencil skirt ending just below the knee. The shirt underneath was a crisp white and fitted, open just enough to show a silver pendant.

  ‘Is he here yet?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Huntington glanced at the clock. 7.40 a.m.

  Just before eight o’clock, Jean exploded through Huntington’s open office door. ‘The chief’s here!’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Huntington said, apparently quite calm.

  ‘He’s already asked for you,’ Jean puffed.

  Chapter 18

  George took his time answering the phone. Paul had brought down a round of toast and he had ripped off a large chunk just as his desk phone lit up.

  It was a familiar voice. ‘George, me ol’ mucka, you’re in then?’

  ‘Nope, this is a recorded message.’

  ‘Oh, alright. Hello, George, this is PC Brian Appleby from Force Intelligence here, yeah. You said that I should let you know if I was ever able to get any intelligence from Effingell Estate. Well, we’ve had a bit of a result on that front and I was hoping to talk to you about it. No problem, mate, I’ll catch up with you when you’re next around. Oh, and I got the test results back. I’m sorry, mate, but I think you’ll need to get yourself checked out. Okay, George, bye now.’

  The line went dead. George laughed and called Brian straight back.

  ‘Hello? PC Brian Appleby.’

  ‘Piss off, Granny, you know it’s me.’ Granny was a reference to ‘Granny Smith,’ as in the apple in his surname. The name had stuck from the days when the two men had been at training school together.

  ‘You know that no one calls me Granny anymore, don’t you, George? You see, I’m kind of a big deal up here now . . .’ Brian trailed off as George laughed louder.

  ‘So I hear. So what is so important that you feel you can interrupt my morning toast?’

  ‘We have a Lawrence Matthews in. He’s downstairs.’ Brian paused. If he was waiting for a reaction he got none.

  ‘Downstairs? What, like in custody downstairs or he’s stood at the front counter picking his nose?’

  ‘In custody — under arrest and everything. He might be picking his nose though.’

  ‘Okay?’

  ‘You know him, right?’

  ‘I know he used to be a bit of a knob in Effingell. Was on the junk when I was in uniform.’

  ‘Yeah, the very same. He’s now sat in the holding cell with a bust-up elbow or arm or something. Anyway, I’m down there on a separate job and he’s in there gobbing off. Keeps saying he’s called “Smith.” All he says is, “Don’t you know who I am? Everyone knows me, I’m Smith.” There’s some other shit, but nothing else of interest.’

  George sat up, his toast forgotten. ‘Smith? What, and you think he could be?’

  ‘Well, it would fit. I mean, we don’t know much about this Smith bloke really, do we? Just that the snouts keep telling us he’s the supply chain to Effingell. I have to say we have a top four likely candidates, and Lawrence isn’t one of them.’

  ‘Too stupid?’ George suggested.

  ‘An element of that, sure, but mostly too much of a slave to the gear. Like you, I met him when I was uniform three or four years ago, and the man was a fucking mess. I don’t know what surprises me more, that he’s claiming to be Smith or that he’s still alive.’

  Sam plonked a cup of tea on George’s cluttered desk and he gave her a thumbs-up. ‘He was always out of it, I’ll give you that.

  ‘He’s hammered today, too. He’s in for possession of heroin. A couple of probies found him wandering around looking beat up and high as a kite. They searched him, and sure enough he had a load of H on him.’

  ‘They searching his place?’

  ‘Yeah, already made sure of that.’

  ‘Are you planning on talking to him when he comes down?’

  ‘That’s another part of the reason I called. I’ve got a course today, top end of the county. I leave in about fifteen minutes. Listen, George, could you spin down there, see what he’s got to say, and report back?’

  George checked the time on the phone. He knew he already had a packed day.

  ‘Problem I’ve got, Brian, is that he’s off his head, so I’d need to get down there later. I can’t guarantee I’ll be around then, though.’

  ‘Well, he’s talking now. This might be the best time. If he is Smith, though I think it’s more likely he just knows who this Smith ghost is, now might be the best time to get the information out of him, before he gets a bit more lucid and clams up.’

  ‘All right, Granny, I’ll head down there now.’

  * * *

  The last time George had seen Lawrence Matthews was in a bedsit at Peto Court. Lawrence didn’t have a place there, or anywhere at all back then, but he had crashed out on a filthy mattress laid out over old food cartons, beer cans, bottles, tin foil and uncapped needles.

  Lawrence had been stick-thin. His face was almost a skull, with heavy eyes, sunk in their sockets. George was investigating a sudden death in the flat next to Lawrence’s, caused, it would appear, by a drug overdose. He’d gone in hoping for a witness, but had soon realised that Lawrence was painfully close to suffering the same fate.

  George recalled feeling a tinge of sadness at the state the man had been reduced to. He had met Lawrence plenty of times as a uniform officer. Lawrence’s only vice at that time had been a beer or two. He was a fighter, solidly built with a muscular torso, a denizen of the nightclub world. It had taken just two years to transform the angry fighter to the skeletal frame lying on a stinking mattress, barely able to even raise himself up.

  So George was surprised to meet Lawrence’s appearance today. The muscles had returned. His hair was worn longer than the shorn, almost military style of his drinking days, but was in good condition. Lawrence looked well. His skin was pink, and his face was full and shaven. The only visible clue to the substances worki
ng their way round his body was in his eyes. The pupils were pin-pricks and he blinked in slow motion. George also noticed his clothing. Although the leather jacket was torn and had fresh bloodstains on the chest and back, it looked expensive and fitted well.

  The arresting officer looked up briefly from his paperwork as George entered the holding cell. ‘What happened to your jacket? I thought your fighting days were over, Lawrence.’

  ‘Fighting days, you say.’ Lawrence’s laugh went on too long.

  George wasn’t sure if he recognised him.

  ‘Elm?’ said Lawrence. ‘PC Elm, or was it Oak?’ He laughed again. ‘And who is Lawrence?’

  ‘It’s Elms. Sergeant Elms.’

  ‘Like Bond! It’s Bond, Sergeant Bond. Or something.’ Lawrence looked confused.

  ‘You remember me, then?’

  ‘I never forget a gavver. ’Specially the ones that nick me. You was all right though, man, don’t get me wrong, I don’t hold it against yer. You gotta do what you gotta do.’

  ‘So you’ll know that I know your name’s Lawrence?’

  The uniform officer spoke up. ‘I think he’s had a bit of a drink, Sarge.’

  ‘It’s not drink,’ George said. Then to Lawrence, ‘How long have you been back on the gear, then?’

  Lawrence’s smile faded. ‘The gear.’ His eyes did not quite meet George’s. ‘Would you believe me, Sergeant, if I said one day?’ He leaned back until his head rested against the cold brick wall behind him, and stared off into the distance. ‘Just one day.’

  George nodded his head. ‘I would. I do.’

  ‘I never thought I would, you know? But what it is with the H, mate, see, you hear some people talk about the rush but it ain’t a rush. It’s gentler than that. You can be surrounded by piss and shit, your life ain’t nothing, no friends, family hate you . . . nothing, and yet the H, mate. The feeling . . . It takes you over, you know? You’re living here, man, and it’s like you’re surrounded by sadness, but take a hit and for just a little while it can be a glorious fucking sadness.’ Lawrence closed his eyes.

  ‘And this is how you’re feeling right now, is it?’

  Lawrence kept his eyes shut. ‘Yesterday I was somebody, you know? I was the man, and today I ain’t nothing. But it’s fucking glorious.’

  ‘And who were you yesterday?’

  There was a long pause followed by a broad smile. ‘I was someone.’

  ‘Well, you look after yourself.’ George took a last look at Lawrence and made his way out of the custody area. He left a voicemail message with Granny. ‘Yeah, Brian, just spent some time in the company of Lawrence Matthews. He looks a lot better than I remember him. He’s out of his face today but I reckon he’s only just back on it. Something’s happened to him for sure, looks a little beat up. No mention of Smith, mate. He hinted a couple of times, maybe, but nothing solid. I’ll try and speak to him when he’s thinking straight, but I don’t hold out much hope.’

  George hung up just as Helen Webb passed him on the stairs leading away from custody.

  Her expression was tense. ‘George. You got my message?’

  ‘Message?’

  ‘The chief. Haven’t you heard? He’s here.’

  George said nothing, puzzled.

  Helen tutted. ‘The chief is here. This negative press coverage about the Epping Hill Estate, we’re getting a lot of flack. He’s talking to everyone that works the estate. I’ll be directing him to you, George.’ Helen moved on down the stairs, not waiting for a reply.

  George rolled his eyes.

  Chapter 19

  ‘Tell me about Epping Hill — a summary.’ Chief Constable Alan Cottage gestured to Graham Huntington and George Elms to sit down. Helen Webb was already waiting when they arrived. Cottage dominated the meeting room, leaning back against a desk.

  ‘Well, it’s an estate on the outskirts of Langthorne and it’s always been a blight on the area. The council, well, I mean back in the seventies and eighties, they—’

  Cottage waved a hand, cutting him short. ‘I didn’t want the whole history of the place, Graham.’

  ‘It has a population of around fifteen thousand, sir,’ George offered. ‘There are just three of the old-style tenement blocks left, with plans to knock them down in the next ten years or so. All of these blocks are principal sources of trouble, but Peto Court seems to be the worst. It’s full of junkies and drunks, those the council couldn’t put anywhere else. The rest of the population live in small terraced houses, and larger ones divided into flats.’

  Cottage nodded. ‘I see. And how is it patrolled? Is there specific tasking for the estate, or is it part of everyone’s patch?’

  Huntington cut back in. ‘Well, that really falls to the individual patrol sergeants, sir. I mean, that’s not really our department.’

  ‘Not your department?’ The chief picked up a sheet of paper from the desk. ‘I am led to understand that you are the appointed area commander. That Effingell, as it has been branded by the locals and coppers alike, falls very much within your area?’

  ‘Well, yes, but—’

  ‘And is there anywhere else in the area that gives you more problems than Epping Hill?’

  ‘Well, no, sir, but—’

  ‘No, there isn’t. Hence the reason I am here, along with the world’s entire media.’ He stood up and strode to the back of the room. It was designated as the briefing room and was where all the frontline officers came before starting their shift. It had a map of the area, and the walls were lined with the latest intelligence including numerous mug shots under headings such as, “Disqual drivers,” “Prolific burglars,” and, “Where are they?” Cottage stared at one of the mug shots with his back to the others. He spun round and paced back towards them, perching on the edge of a desk.

  There was a long silence. ‘I think,’ he said at last, ‘I think, Helen, that I’ll have a little ride out there. George here can take me round, and we can visit some of the hot spots so I can get a first-hand impression. I think it would be a good idea before I have to talk to the media. George, do you have an hour or so?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ George replied.

  Huntington swung round towards the sergeant. His lips started to form words, but he said nothing.

  ‘Good man, we’ll take my car.’ The chief began walking towards the exit. He stopped with his hand on the door handle. ‘Graham, I’ll come and see you a bit later in the day. I’d like you to give me your ideas.’

  Huntington nodded.

  Chapter 20

  A uniform PC reluctantly handed George the keys to the chief’s car. ‘I’m his driver,’ he said.

  George shrugged, he had his orders.

  George opened the door to the shiny Jaguar XF saloon car and slid along the soft leather. Behind the wheel, the bewildering array of buttons, dials, and knobs threw him into a momentary panic. He selected ‘D,’ and the Jaguar slid out from its space towards where the chief was waiting for him.

  He took his place in the passenger seat. ‘Thanks, George. Fuck me! Look at all these buttons!’

  ‘Tell me about it. I reckon a jet has fewer settings. Are we taking anyone else, boss?’

  ‘No, no, just us. Helen tells me there’s a place that does reasonable takeaway coffee not far from here. I say we get some, and then we can head off into the badlands. To be honest, George, I’m just happy to be sitting in front. My driver normally makes me sit in the back.’ Cottage gave a wide smile.

  They travelled the first few minutes in silence. George was concentrating on not bouncing the fifty-thousand-pound Jaguar off anything else, moving or otherwise. Cottage gazed out of the window.

  Suddenly he gave a laugh and turned towards George. ‘I don’t think Graham likes me too much, do you?’

  ‘I don’t know what Graham does like, sir. He has his strengths though. You’ve just got to know how to take him.’

  Cottage chuckled again. ‘A very diplomatic answer, Sergeant Elms. I think he’s a bit of a prick.
’

  George felt the chief’s eyes on him, checking his reaction. He smiled — but not too much.

  ‘So, Epping Hill. Do you think Graham is a hindrance? I mean, would things on the estate be better under someone else’s remit?’

  ‘Well, sir, Epping Hill has had plenty of different people put in charge of it, both good and bad. Lots of ideas have been tried, and resources thrown at it. We have had a few successes, but on the whole we just can’t seem to make any impact.’

  ‘This is the worst it’s been, though, surely? I mean, it’s now front-page news. Epping Hill is about to be portrayed as the worst estate in Britain.’

  ‘Nothing’s happened recently that’s any worse than what’s been going on for as long as I’ve been working it. I think we’ve just been unlucky. I know that sounds like another diplomatic answer, but it seems to me that a couple of nasty incidents have been picked up by social media, making it look like we’ve completely lost control.’

  Cottage rubbed his chin. The Jaguar bumped up onto a garage forecourt. ‘You may well be right, George. I’m just not sure how this all ends. This is the place for coffee, is it?’

  ‘It’s the best place I know.’ The chief already had his door open as George was putting the gear into Park and applying the handbrake. He watched as Cottage practically skipped across to the shop entrance, thanked a young lad who held the door open, and disappeared inside.

  George was busy trying to work out the car’s menu screen, when there was a tap on the window. He began a frantic search for the electric window button. The chief rested two cardboard cups on the roof and tugged the door open.

  ‘Nice in there, aren’t they?’ The chief gestured at a petite brunette who could just about be seen through the condensation on the shop’s glass front. The chief was still looking in her general direction as the Jaguar pulled away

  ‘You married, George?’

  ‘I am, sir, yes.’