PANIC BUTTON a gripping crime thriller full of twists

by Charlie Gallagher

  Forley’s phone beeped. ‘The cavalry are coming, George. You have five minutes. The only way to protect your family is to pull that trigger. Make your choice.’

  ‘I can’t,’ George breathed.

  ‘You can be sure I won’t have the same problem when I’m standing in front of your wife and child. I expected more of you, George. After all, you’re the person who singlehandedly destroyed my family. Look at you. You’re nothing.’ Forley spat. ‘I’ll make sure they know, George, just before I do it. I’ll make sure they know that you let them down, that you had the chance to stop it all and you did nothing.’

  George pointed the gun at Forley.

  Forley laughed. ‘Shoot me and you shoot your family. You have no idea who is waiting to pull the trigger in my place. They have very strict instructions too, George. I’m sure you can work out what happens if they don’t hear from me. Seems the police are pretty easy to buy since the government decided that you lot are worth fuck-all.’

  ‘Who would?’ George lowered the gun slightly.

  ‘Oh, and Ed Kavski said to say hi.’

  ‘Kavski?’ George’s eyes widened.

  ‘Seems he’s got a bit of a history with you, George. When he found out what I wanted to do, he couldn’t wait to help.’

  George didn’t reply.

  Forley looked at his watch. ‘You have two minutes.’

  Forley backed away slightly, watching. George held the pistol pointed at the floor, but his finger remained on the trigger. He turned back to Sam. Her eyes were full of tears and she was slowly shaking her head as George looked at her.

  Forley clapped his hands, and George and Sam flinched. ‘Let’s make this interesting.’ He went over to Sam, bent down and ripped the black tape from her mouth. He backed away, pulling his mobile phone from his pocket. ‘You have ten seconds, George, or I make the call and your wife and child are dead.’

  George’s head was whooshing so loudly that it almost blocked out all other sounds, but he heard Sam speak.

  ‘You have to call it in, George.’ Her voice was quite calm, as though she was trying to reason with him. ‘He’s lying, George. He’s playing a game. No one’s going to do that, no copper on earth.’

  George lowered his eyes. ‘I can’t . . . take the risk.’

  ‘George, please think this through. You’re an innocent man and you’ll get your life back, but if you shoot that gun, you’ll lose everything and that piece of shit walks free.’

  George moved forward like an automaton. He bent down and picked up the tape, lying on the floor beside Sam’s chair.

  Sam’s voice rose. ‘What are you doing, George? George!’ He tried to be gentle as he pushed the tape back over her mouth but she bucked in the seat and the tape fell loose. He was rougher now as he tucked the gun in his trousers and pushed the tape back across her mouth.

  George held the weapon steady in both hands, and Sam closed her eyes and fell still. ‘I’m so sorry. There’s no other way for them.’

  George stepped forward. One arm came away from the gun and he wrapped it round Sam. His cheek rested against hers for a moment. His right hand pushed the barrel of the weapon hard into the fleshy area where chest met armpit. As he pulled the trigger he hooked the underside of the chair with his foot and pulled down with his left hand, rocking the chair hard backwards and letting it go. Blood leaked from Sam’s armpit and the back of her head hit the floor, knocking her out. Sam appeared to be dead.

  But Forley wasn’t fooled. He had produced another pistol, and now he pointed it at Sam, lying still and silent on the floor. He stood over her. George was frozen to the spot, gun loose in his right hand. He watched as Forley licked his lips and steadied himself, and then pulled the trigger three times.

  George didn’t see Forley leave. He threw the gun to the ground as if it was red hot and his head bent forward. He was weeping, and the noise in his ears roared so loudly that he didn’t hear the sirens. Then he saw flashes of blue against the slit windows.

  Clumsily he stumbled to his feet. He looked at Sam, at the blood pooling around her, and knew that she was gone.

  George now heard the sirens. They were closer, the noise cutting through the tinnitus. He picked up the gun and stuffed it in his pocket. He stumbled towards the door that Forley had left through minutes before. A green emergency exit sign was illuminated above his head with an arrow pointing left and he ran in the direction it pointed. At the end of this corridor he opened a door marked “Fire Exit,” and was out of the building, running down metal steps with soaking handrails. George turned sharp right and ran along the line of a fence at the back of the estate. He had no idea where he was going.

  Tears still stung his eyes and he ran blindly into the night.

  CHAPTER 30

  George tugged his jacket off and threw it high, holding one of the sleeves so it fell over the top of the perimeter fence. The fence was solid, slick with water and topped with coiled razor wire. He backed away ten paces or so and then ran at it, throwing himself as high as he could. His hands and feet desperately felt for grip. He struggled to the top and gingerly picked his way over the razor wire. His weight pushed his coat into the barbs and he had to abandon it as he dropped to the other side. He suffered a couple of nicks on his hands and arms. George barely noticed.

  He dropped onto a well-worn footpath that ran along the canal bank and away from the industrial estate. It was a short sprint before houses started appearing, their back gardens easily accessible from the path. George climbed a low fence to cut through. He jogged up a long garden between two houses, coming out in the middle of what looked like a cul-de-sac. The house opposite had a sporty-looking Audi in the drive. George ran across the road. The house was in darkness. The rear had double doors leading through to the kitchen. He could see the key sticking out the other side of the door. The garden contained a rockery around a small pond and George picked up one of the larger rocks. It took two attempts to gain entry through the double-glazed door and it was very noisy.

  George made his way quickly through the house, his eyes darting around surfaces and walls, looking for the Audi keys. A light suddenly flicked on from upstairs, it illuminated the keys lying on top of a cabinet in the hall.

  ‘What are you doing!’ someone shouted from the top of the stairs.

  George looked up to where a stocky man in boxer shorts was coming down. George scooped up the keys.

  ‘Oi!’ he shouted again.

  George pulled the pistol from his waistband and pointed it directly up the stairs. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he growled.

  A little girl appeared. She was rubbing sleep from her eyes, her hair a mess, clutching a brown bear.

  ‘What’s the matter, Daddy?’

  The man quickly pulled her behind his body. He grabbed her too hard and she yelped in pain and started to cry.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said a female voice. A woman came onto the landing. She looked down at George, and at the gun pointing up at them.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ George said again. He hesitated for just a second and fixed on the young girl who must have been a similar age to Charley. ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered, and then he was gone.

  CHAPTER 31

  Sevenscore police complex just outside Canterbury had once been the proud hub of roads policing for the whole county. Vehicle repair and servicing had all been moved to the site, and a large warehouse structure had been added to the existing office block for this purpose.

  Police activity at the site had all but disappeared in the last few years, with government cuts forcing a change in the policing structure and the deployment of resources. Sevenscore was still the service and repair shop for the east of the county, but its yard of crash-damaged, old and just plain exhausted police vehicles was an apt reflection of the state of the force as a whole.

  The whole of the top floor had sat empty and silent for more than a year. The only movement had come from the men’s urinal which still obediently flushed itself thank
s to a long forgotten timer. There, at 3 a.m., Detective Inspector Price dried his hands with a coarse paper towel. He leaned forward and peered at his reflection in a rust-spotted mirror. He sighed. He looked like shit, which made sense, he also felt like shit. He had been instructed to get some sleep and had tried. A room on the ground floor had sofas in front of an old tube television, as well as metal shutters covering every window, that kept the air thick and muggy. He had lasted just thirty minutes in the heat, and then, amid the heavy breathing, snoring and general fidgeting of the others around him, had made his escape. Not for the first time he wished he had asked to go home. He had been close, getting as far as broaching the subject with the chief superintendent.

  ‘Don’t you think we’d all benefit from a good rest? I mean we’ve had a few long days, maybe we’re not at our best.’

  She had agreed. ‘Maybe you’re right. Get everyone rested. I think there’s a rest room on the ground floor with some sofas you can use.’

  Helen herself had left for home shortly afterwards. She had said that she was going home to freshen up and that she needed to see her husband, but Price got the impression that she might not be coming back. To his surprise she had returned after just an hour, and seemed in no mood to speak when she bustled back in.

  They’d been moved to Sevenscore for security reasons. There was no public access, and the high gates and fences certainly provided peace of mind. Furthermore, no police officers had any business at the site unless invited, or more accurately summoned, by Helen Webb. Sevenscore also had a ready-made incident room, furnished with systems, phones, area maps, and all the equipment necessary for dealing with a major incident. A bearded detective sergeant, who was a Tolkien fan, had referred to it as Lennokshire Police’s Helm’s Deep.

  The incident room was quiet. It was the middle of the night and two bored detectives were watching calls come in on the screen, occasionally clicking to see live updates as the main control room typed them on.

  The sudden activation of an emergency button made everyone snap to attention. The two detectives turned their attention to the screen that identified the source. It was a radio belonging to Detective Constable Samantha Robins. They grabbed a radio that was charging in a cradle on the desk and turned it up, just as Sam’s radio gave ten seconds of silence.

  ‘Nothing?’ The two exchanged a glance. They were frozen to the spot for a couple more seconds as they listened to the control room calling DC Robins, trying to conceal the panic in their voices.

  ‘We’d better get the boss.’

  * * *

  Helen Webb and Inspector Price made it to the incident room at the same time. Helen was bleary-eyed, having actually been asleep on a soft chair in a room she was using as an office, when a breathless detective burst into her room, struggling to form the right words. The superintendent brushed past her and made her way straight to the incident room. Inspector Price had heard her running and had followed. Both stared at the screens still flashing red. Distorted radio traffic sounded loud through the room’s speakers.

  Someone called over to the superintendent. ‘We have another activation. It’s Samantha Robins, she’s a detective out of Langthorne House.’

  Helen nodded. She knew Sam well enough. ‘Where?’

  ‘An industrial estate in Hythe. The radio signal isn’t great down there so we’ve got a group of four possible units.’

  For a second Helen’s cold professional demeanour dropped away. ‘Fuck! What is she doing there?’

  ‘She shouldn’t be on duty, ma’am. She was early turn yesterday and today but it doesn’t look like she booked off.’

  ‘She didn’t book off? Why are we only just finding out about this now?’ Helen paced over to a computer. ‘Fuck,’ Helen said again as she stumbled over typing her password. Detectives were something of a law unto themselves. It wasn’t unusual for them to work all day and fail to log on, forgetting to log out their call sign as they left. Helen had sent out a message just a day ago reminding everyone of the importance of booking on and off the system in order to stay safe. Even if this was now being adhered to, it was clear that the people tasked with monitoring it had failed.

  ‘Ma’am, the first patrols are arriving now.’

  ‘Firearms?’

  ‘Yes, yes – Foxtrot One.’

  The room waited. Helen Webb went on air. She announced that she was taking command of the incident and immediately called for all patrols to maintain radio silence, with the exception of the Foxtrot patrol, until it was clear what was going on. The tension in the room mounted. People kept filing in, all silent, looking at each other.

  ‘Foxtrot one.’ The voice spoke too close to the microphone and it came across distorted, panicked. ‘We need a medic here. On the hurry up.’

  CHAPTER 32

  The world was nothing but a sodden blur through the darkened windows of the Audi. It was an S3 model and the turbo-charged engine screamed with delight as George worked it hard, keeping the car on the road through the bends, and powering into the straights. On any other day George would have enjoyed this. In his youth he had owned and loved a lively hot hatch until the inevitable had happened and he finished upside down in a ditch with the wheels spinning.

  Tonight, George’s tinnitus whooshed, and he could hear every panicked beat of his heart amid the constant racket in his ears. His hands gripped the steering wheel, palms clammy, knuckles white. His eyes were wide, his throat dry and tight. His brain teemed with what he had seen, what he could have done, what he should do now. He had no plan save to drive to where he believed his wife and child were in extreme danger, and somehow take them away to safety. He had no idea how he was going to do this, no idea what “safe” even was anymore. George kept glancing at the passenger seat where the black pistol slid and bumped around like an excited child demanding that they go faster.

  George pulled out onto the main A Road that would take him back towards Langthorne, from where he intended to head for the more rural roads in order to bypass the town. He knew from the phone call that his wife and child were headed to his mother-in-law who lived on the outskirts of Hastingleigh, a tiny village made up of well-spaced large houses. Sarah’s mother’s house was the only one at the end of a twisty road flanked by wood and field. There was only one way in and out.

  * * *

  The police medics had tried to revive their fallen colleague. When the wounds had stopped leaking, and there was no pulse and no breathing, the three medics had stretchered Sam to a waiting ambulance.

  Then the incident room, still reeling from news of Sam’s death, received a reply from a forgotten request to check in on the surveillance officer tasked with observing George Elms. It should have been a simple job, nothing more than watching from a safe distance and noting if he left his address.

  ‘She’s gone.’

  Helen stood up. ‘Gone? What do you mean, gone?’ Had the woman left her post? Helen was ready to flare in anger.

  The voice at the end of the line shook. ‘Dead. It’s . . . it’s such a mess.’ Helen sat back down suddenly, and her mouth fell open. ‘So much blood.’

  ‘Ma’am, you need to assess this call.’

  Helen rubbed her tired eyes. ‘What call?’ She didn’t have the strength to stand.

  ‘Aggravated burglary at a house on the edge of the same industrial estate where we found Robins. Occupants discovered a man with a gun in their house and he made off with their car. They said he looked disturbed.’

  ‘I bet he fucking did. George Elms, you piece of shit!’ Helen’s voice was close to breaking. Everyone in the room had turned to her for some sort of direction. Hatred and rage brought back her strength. ‘It’s our man. Vehicle details?’ she snapped.

  ‘A 62 plate, white Audi S3.’

  ‘Helicopter?’

  ‘Main Control have contacted them. They are in the air, ETA less than five minutes.’

  ‘Okay, good. Come on then, people, where’s that piece of shit going now?’
r />   CHAPTER 33

  Whitfield had started life as a quiet village on the outskirts of the town of Dover, but the ever increasing demand for property in the area had seen it increase in size and importance so that it was now merging with the town. Whitfield also had an industrial estate, which contained a Tesco superstore, numerous garages, the district council offices, and a nondescript grey warehouse which had no markings.

  At the warehouse, a security guard patrolled the sodden grounds in a high-visibility jacket, a cigarette burning between his lips, with his German Shepherd sniffing around at his side. A Vauxhall Vivaro van sat among numerous other cars in the customer parking area of the Vauxhall dealership next door. The tinted windows concealed a gang of five men, all pulling balaclavas over their faces and readying themselves for their task.

  Ed Kavski’s voice was muffled behind his balaclava. ‘Okay, let’s not fuck about.’

  * * *

  Harry was ex-police. The move to the security services suited him. He was quite happy to spend the night shifts napping or watching movies on a battered old portable DVD player. Vincent, the police dog that had retired with him, would lie next to his partner of seven years, some part of his body always touching his master. Harry had been a fantastic dog handler, something of a legend, and Vincent had been a large part of that. The German Shepherd already had the name Vincent when he came to him, and at first Harry hadn’t liked it at all, but it had grown on him and had come to rather suit the dog. Right from the beginning, Harry and Vincent had clicked, and after their first meeting Harry was the only officer that Vincent would work for.

  Harry finished his cigarette, coughed, and made his way back towards the rear door of the warehouse. He went inside and walked towards the office where his DVD player was on pause and the kettle was still warm. He passed a silent forklift truck, asleep among the rows and rows of floor-to-ceiling shelving stacked with pallets of unmarked cardboard boxes. The warehouse belonged to the ferry company, P&O, which ran out of Dover. It used the place to store several million pounds worth of cigarettes, perfumes and spirits. The company relied mainly on the building’s anonymity to keep its stocks secure. And Barry and Vincent.