PANIC BUTTON a gripping crime thriller full of twists

by Charlie Gallagher

  ‘His wife and child? So I’m not here for leverage.’ Sam’s palms were suddenly clammy with sweat.

  ‘Don’t look so horrified all of a sudden! George will be known as one of the most notorious killers in history and you, Miss Robins, will be his final victim.’

  CHAPTER 25

  ‘What happens to the little girl now, Daddy? Now she’s a mouse?’ George’s daughter gave a wide yawn, and rubbed at her face.

  ‘Well, I tell you what, Charley, we’ll see what happens to the little girl tomorrow night, shall we? When you’re not so tired. Otherwise you’ll fall asleep and miss what happens next!’

  ‘Okay, Daddy.’ Charley brought her small white teddy bear with one missing ear a little closer. Her eyes closed, and she gave a sigh.

  George bent and kissed her forehead. He put Roald Dahl’s The Witches down on her bedside cabinet. ‘Nunnights, beautiful. How much do you love me?’

  Charley smiled without opening her eyes. ‘To the moon and back . . .’

  ‘And round the garage twice?’

  ‘And round the garage twice,’ she giggled.

  ‘Well, I love you more.’ George padded out of the bedroom. He turned back to look at his daughter lying in the soft glow of her nightlight.

  Sarah was in the kitchen pouring boiling water into a teapot. ‘She go off okay?’

  ‘She’s shattered, bless her.’

  ‘She settles better when you tuck her in.’

  ‘I am available for hire — evenings, weekends and kids’ parties!’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ Sarah made the tea and poured out two cups, adding sugar to hers.

  ‘I’ll just have this, then I’ll leave you to it,’ George said, watching for her reaction.

  Sarah didn’t answer straight away. ‘Okay,’ adding quickly, ‘But you’ll have to come over soon. We can have another day like today.’

  ‘Great.’ George knew not to push his luck. They were getting on better than they had for a long time. He put this down to him finally accepting that he needed to move at her pace.

  * * *

  George walked away from Sarah’s building feeling optimistic. It was a five-minute walk in early darkness beneath fast-approaching storm clouds. George made it to the silent bus stop just before the rain. His phone vibrated in his pocket.

  ‘Hello?’ George said.

  ‘Finally, George Elms, it is time for us to talk.’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Oh, you don’t know me, George, but I’ve been building up to a chat with you for some time.’

  ‘How did you get this number?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I’m a busy man. Don’t call me again.’ George ended the call, but the phone rang again. He swore loudly and lifted it to his ear.

  The man was already talking. ‘You should try listening more, George. Just know that every time you hang up on me, I will kill another of your precious colleagues. I will shoot them all down in cold blood until you hear what I have to say. Their blood is already on your hands, George Elms. Now you will learn to do what I say or there will be many, many more deaths.’

  George’s tone was sarcastic. ‘Well done. So you’ve seen the news, got hold of my number, and now you think you can call me up and make me do a silly little dance or something so you don’t shoot another copper. Very clever. How about you listen to me. I don’t care if you’re showing off in front of your mates, you’re winning a bet or you’re just some sick fuck at home on his own. Don’t call me again, understand?’ And he ended the call.

  * * *

  Sam jumped almost clean off the sofa. Forley had just kicked the wall hard enough to loosen the plaster.

  ‘Think I’m some fucking school kid, do you? Think this is a fucking joke? I’ll show you a joke!’ he said.

  Forley grabbed Sam roughly by the hair and yanked her forward until she tumbled off the sofa. Still grasping her hair, he twisted her head until she was facing him, lying on her side. His other hand felt on the table for the pistol and he pushed the barrel into her cheek. He let go of her hair and her head hit the floor.

  ‘Beg him for your life. Now! Beg George Elms for your fucking life!’ Forley dialled again and thrust the phone at Sam’s mouth.

  She heard George answer, distant and tinny.

  ‘Beg him for your fucking life!’

  Forley kept the gun pushed hard into her cheek, but Sam said nothing. She clamped her mouth shut, tried to control her breathing.

  Forley snapped the phone back to his own ear.

  ‘Seems I will have to provide a different sort of demonstration. That’s fine by me.’

  George sounded less sure of himself now. ‘What just happened? What are you talking about?’

  ‘You hung up on me, you insulted me, you wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘What just happened?’ George said again.

  ‘What will happen tonight is a result of you refusing to listen to me. It is a message. You will receive a message every time you disrespect me, George Elms.’

  ‘What happens tonight? What are you talking about?’

  ‘You will offer me more respect tomorrow, I am sure of that.’

  This time it was Forley who cut the call. He took a deep breath.

  Sam had pushed herself up to a sitting position. She watched Forley through matted hair. The gun was now pointed at the floor but his finger was still on the trigger.

  ‘Plan B,’ he snarled. ‘You’re going to wish you begged for your life when you had the chance.’

  Forley stepped towards Sam, swung his right foot and kicked her hard in the midriff, forcing the air out of her lungs. She gasped in pain.

  She was crying now, the fight had left her and she could do no more.

  CHAPTER 26

  Helen Webb turned off Tenterden High Street towards her house and experienced a rare sense of relief. She had sent the briefest of messages to her husband earlier in the day, explaining that she would be staying at work for the foreseeable while they were going through a major crisis. She had received a one word acknowledgement.

  They hadn’t always been so distant. She had once been impressed by him. Richard Webb was a tall, strong, stoic man who took himself and his work seriously. Shortly after they met, Richard had left a prominent position at a well-established bank to become a partner in his own business venture, assisting affluent clients to minimise tax. It appeared that people would pay handsomely to avoid losing their money to the government.

  Richard had driven himself and the business so hard that within a few years it was the first call of the rich and famous. His clients included any number of sports stars, actors, musicians and entrepreneurs, all exploiting loopholes in the tax system and saving huge amounts of money in the process. Eighteen months ago, his partner had relinquished his half of the business due to ill health, and Richard had bought him out.

  Helen had her uses. Richard was able to show off his wife, one of the most senior police officers in the country, at networking functions. In turn, Helen could introduce her husband to senior figures in the police force at similar evenings, and bask in the kudos of being married to a successful man. And she felt the fact that he was black didn’t hurt her image in the modern police force.

  Their respective careers consumed their lives. Their twin girls were four and spent much of the time with their grandparents, returning home less and less frequently for weekends. The past eighteen months would have tested the strongest of relationships. Helen had needed to work long hours, answering some very tough questions following the death of a senior police officer and a serving chief constable. Richard had his own challenges. He had taken over a company that specialised in what people thought of as tax avoidance, just as high profile cases of celebrities doing exactly that were hitting the headlines and creating a huge public outcry. The government had reacted to this by closing many of the loopholes Richard was exploiting, and suddenly he was facing a situation where he was losing clients and u
nable to assist new ones.

  Both had responded the only way they knew how, by spending longer and longer at work and therefore less and less time with each other.

  Helen had not planned on going home, but she knew Richard would be there and right now, perhaps for the first time in her working life, she needed someone. Richard was a good listener. She might not even talk to him about the stresses of work. She felt like just lying with him on the sofa watching a film, being held for a little while.

  Helen and Richard lived in a detached, four-bedroom farmhouse. Most of the land around it had now been sold off and developed. The barn that had once been a part of the same farm had been converted into three luxury homes by the previous owner.

  The Range Rover came to a stop on the gravel drive. Helen could see lights on in the kitchen and bedroom. She opened the front door and pushed at the interior door that opened into a wide downstairs hallway. She picked up some letters and looked through to the kitchen. The night was still warm and she slipped her shoes off and padded along the wooden floor of the hallway, through the living room and into the large, open kitchen at the back of the house.

  ‘Ah, Chinese!’ she said, suddenly extremely hungry. She hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. The food was in its containers on the kitchen table, laid out as if it had just been unpacked and then left, the containers still hot.

  ‘A lot of Chinese?’ Confused, she counted five tubs. Suddenly she heard a thud, and a male voice laughing. She looked round the kitchen. It was as immaculate as ever but there were a few new items — a woman’s handbag, not hers, discarded on a work surface; a bunch of keys with a Peugeot emblem lying on top of the bag; some women’s shoes kicked off next to the back door; a woman’s black suit jacket on the back of one of the tall-backed stools pushed up against the breakfast bar.

  Another thud, then the sound of a woman giggling. Helen opened the first container, revealing compressed pork chow mein. She pulled a fork from the cutlery draw and dug in. She went on to the egg-fried rice, ripped open the bag of prawn crackers, and then leaned back against the ceramic butler’s sink. And waited.

  More noises from upstairs. The sound of bed springs, another giggle, then silence. Helen pushed herself away from the sink and, keeping hold of the chow mein and fork, walked back through to the hall where she paused, listening. She could hear a woman sigh. It sounded contented. Helen sighed too. She didn’t have the energy to confront them. She felt even more drained than when she had left work. It could wait. She would tear him apart, but not tonight.

  Helen swept down the hallway towards the front door, stopping at a board just short of the entrance hall where keys were left hanging on pegs. She slipped off the keys for her husband’s BMW and continued out of the house, pulling the door shut quietly.

  Outside, she pressed the key fob that opened up the BMW and lowered herself into the driver’s seat. The car was one of the few things outside of work that Richard was passionate about. It was an M3, which seemed to impress a lot of people but meant nothing to her. She pressed the start button and the BMW purred into life. Helen threw the half-eaten Chinese food container onto the passenger seat. Some of its contents spilled out and the dirty fork smeared the leather seat. She set off down the drive, pausing to make sure the Range Rover was locked. Her spare set of keys were in a drawer at work.

  As she stopped at the end of her drive she saw a small, new-looking white Peugeot parked at the kerbside a little way down the road. It was the only car out in a road where every house had generous driveways. Helen drew up just short of the white car and pulled the M3 to the left, until it made contact with the Peugeot, almost resting against the front wing. She turned the wheel further and the bodywork started to fold. The Peugeot rocked as the BMW grated slowly along its full length. Helen accelerated away, laughing for the first time in many months as the nearside wing mirror swung and clattered off the passenger door.

  CHAPTER 27

  George’s phone shook and flashed in the darkness. Once again, he was lying awake listening to the rain. It was two a.m. and the screen read Unknown Number.

  ‘Yes? Who is this?’

  ‘This is your last chance, George. It could already be too late,’ the voice said.

  ‘Who is this? What do you want?’

  ‘Are you ready to follow my instructions?’

  ‘Listen, mate. Its two o’clock in the morning. I’m going to hang up and I’ll be turning my phone off. I suggest you stop calling me.’

  ‘George, give me just one more minute. Let me send you a picture message and then I’ll call you straight back. If you’ve turned your phone off after that, I’ve clearly got you all wrong.’

  George yawned loudly. ‘Sure, whatever.’ He swung his legs over the side of the bed. His ears whistled and buzzed as he stood and stretched. He scooped up his phone from the bed, and walked into the kitchen.

  George made himself a cup of tea. He picked up the steaming mug, walked to the living room and peered out of the window onto the street below. Since he was a child he had always liked the rain. One of his earliest memories was lying in bed with rain lashing against the window, his mum sitting by his side. He had felt so safe then, so comfortable.

  His phone beeped. He retrieved it from the kitchen and opened the message. He stared at the image and put his hand on the windowsill to steady himself. He studied it again and closed his eyes.

  The phone rang.

  ‘What have you done to her?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have done anything if you’d listened to me. I told you before, there is blood on your hands.’

  ‘My hands!’ George stood leaning against the window, his head bowed. Then rage surged through him. ‘I will find you, I will find you.’

  ‘There’s no need to go looking, George. I have a car parked out of sight in the alleyway that leads to the rear of your flat. It’s a blue Ford Focus. Make your way to it now. You’ll find it unlocked with the keys in the driver’s door pocket. There are directions in there to where you are going next.’

  ‘Why the fuck would I do that?’

  ‘You will do it, George. Because if you don’t, you can be sure I will finish the job, and I’ll make sure you get a photo that shows you exactly what you could have prevented.’

  George thought through his options. There weren’t many. He moved the phone away from his ear and kept the call connected as he scrolled back to the photo he’d been sent. As far as he could see, she was already dead. There was no job to finish. He put the phone to his ear. ‘I want to speak to her. I need to know she’s still alive.’

  ‘That might be a little difficult, George. She is still with us, she’s just not able to confirm that herself for now. She didn’t take it too well, you see.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere without confirmation.’

  George heard a scuffling on the other end of the line. Then there was breathing, harsh and laboured. He pushed the phone hard to his ear, his eyes closed tight and his lips pursed. He could hear the man’s voice in the background.

  ‘It’s George Elms.’

  ‘George . . ?’ The voice was very weak but he was in no doubt. It was Sam Robins.

  The man spoke again. ‘I have some arrangements to make. You have ten minutes, including time for you to deal with the surveillance vehicle out front.’

  George had forgotten about them. ‘Deal with them? What am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Oh, come on! You’re the ex-detective sergeant. You have enough inside knowledge of how they work to be able to sort that out! And it’s just one officer — seems they’re losing interest in you, George. She’s in the passenger seat of the silver Vauxhall parked across from the door to your flat. And, George, whatever you do, do it quickly. You have a tight deadline.’

  The man hung up. George swore. His heart raced, and a cacophony of noise rang in his ears. His balance was affected and he needed to steady himself on the windowsill. Slowly he walked into his bedroom and got dressed.

  On h
is way out, he slid open the drawer where Jack Leslie’s knife still lay. It was all he had. He slipped it into his waistband and put on a rain jacket. He was starting to panic. He stopped at the front door and then doubled back to inspect the bathroom window, which gave out onto the rear courtyard. George wasn’t sure it was possible to make his way safely down the twenty metre drop to the ground on a dry day, let alone in the middle of the night with a slick layer of water running down the tiles. He checked his watch again. He needed to get out undetected or he’d never make it. And nor would Sam.

  * * *

  The black motorbike and its rider vanished into the shadows as the light on the phone dimmed. He had used it to check the time. The ride from Dover Road to George’s place was just a few minutes but he had taken his time to check that Sam was secure.

  From where he had parked he could see the entrance to George Elms’ flat, the Ford Focus that he had parked in the alleyway leading to the rear earlier in the evening, and part of the surveillance vehicle that was in a row of cars some thirty metres beyond on the opposite side of the road. The rain was heavy now, so heavy that he had to take off his helmet so he could see at all. He checked again. He should be out by now. What was holding him up?

  He kicked the stand out and rocked the bike back onto it. He stepped off and looked across at the surveillance vehicle. He could get to it easily enough from here, using the cars and the shadows, and assuming that the occupant couldn’t see clearly in the heavy rain. He checked that the street was empty.

  CHAPTER 28

  Despite the deluge of water over the cameras, Stephanie Larkin was glad of the rain. At least it gave her something to look at, at two fifteen in the morning. The water streamed down her windscreen, it was useless to try and see out of it, and Stephanie was grateful that she didn’t have anywhere to go for at least a couple of hours. Her shift had been long and tedious. Six hours just sitting outside a bookie’s, making sure no one left the flat above. The night sky lit up all of a sudden. The rumbles of thunder had been building for some time. Stephanie was not easily unsettled, especially by the weather, but the last rumble had made the silver Vauxhall Insignia rattle. She was sitting in the passenger seat, leaving the driver’s seat empty as instructed by her covert surveillance trainer. According to him, anyone looking for persons in a vehicle will quickly check the driver’s seat but will rarely look into the rest of the vehicle. The Insignia had been adapted for surveillance: an extra battery to allow the electrics to function for prolonged periods without the engine running, and a computer monitor fixed over where the FM radio would normally be, on which the occupants could view and record via three cameras fixed at different points outside the vehicle. The occupant could thereby observe while also ducking down into the interior of the car. Another welcome accessory was the Glock sidearm nestled in a holster in the passenger side footwell. Not that Stephanie expected to use it, she was pretty convinced that her target was well and truly tucked up for the night.