Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  Alex nodded. “See her arm?” She pointed to three needle marks in the crook of Hollie’s elbow and added quietly, “Drugged. We should take her to a doctor. She needs an assault kit, yes?”

  Alex whispered the words ‘assault kit’ but Hollie pulled herself upright.

  “No, no. He didn’t. He … ” she gulped. “He was going to, but … no. The green-eyed … monster wouldn’t let him.” Her chin dimpled and she sniffled through the tears.

  “It is okay, Hollie,” hushed Alex. “You are safe now.”

  An egg-sized lump formed in Jones’ throat.

  A low groan from the doorway brought a scream from Hollie. She tore herself from Alex’s arms and scrambled to the far side of the couch and then her mouth gaped wide in silence.

  “Steady, Hollie.” Jones raised a hand to calm her, but she pulled away. “He’s never going to harm anyone again, I promise. Stay here by the fire and I’ll sort him out.”

  Alex reached out an arm, but Hollie shoved her hand away too. Her terrified gaze fixed on the open doorway, staring at the legs framed in the rectangle of sunlight.

  Flynn’s left foot twitched and Hollie screamed again.

  “Turn away, Hollie. I’m going to bring him in here and give him a taste of his own medicine.” He meant the chain, but wasn’t sure either Hollie or Alex understood his intentions.

  Jones crossed to the doorway, bent low, and took a firm grip on each of the man’s ankles. He dragged the pervert over the rough flagstone floor to the corner diagonally opposite from the couch where he would be part-hidden by the table. Flynn’s face bounced and scraped along the way. One of his teeth snapped but who cared about the man’s previously unmarked, movie-star face?

  Jones wrapped the chain twice around Flynn’s ankles and snapped the padlock closed. Dark blood matted the hair at the back of Flynn’s head.

  Shame.

  “He’s going nowhere.”

  Jones let out a breath and turned towards the fireplace in time to hear a howl of rage. Hollie flew towards him with Flynn’s hunting knife in her hand.

  The knife arced through the air. Stainless steel glinted in the sunlight shining through the open door.

  The six-inch blade plunged between Flynn’s shoulder blades. Flynn didn’t move.

  “No!” Jones yelled.

  Alex sat frozen, open-mouthed.

  Hollie screamed and raised the knife again.

  Jones sidestepped the blade and dived behind the frenzied girl. When the knife reached the top of its arc he reached out, grasped her wrist, and twisted.

  Hollie screeched and struggled and kicked, but released the weapon.

  It tumbled to the floor. The bloody blade landed point first and snapped clean off at the bolster. The metal bounced across the flagstones and came to rest against Flynn’s face.

  Hell! No, no, no.

  Hollie collapsed to the floor and curled into a ball, wailing and mumbling something incomprehensible about “the other one.” Alex leapt from the sofa, scooped Hollie up, and walked her to the tattered couch by the fire.

  She turned to Jones, tears in her eyes. “Boss,” she managed. “I am so sorry. I looked away for only a second.”

  Jones shook his head, dropped to the flagstones, and sat, cross-legged beside Flynn, forearms resting on his thighs.

  Bubbles of blood formed in the corner of Flynn’s mouth.

  What the bloody hell do I do now?

  10

  Friday midday - The Cellar

  Time since abduction: twenty-one hours

  Jones sat and watched Flynn’s life end in a puddle of blood and a final, weak sigh. Hollie’s knife thrust must have severed an artery.

  Good bloody riddance.

  He shed no tears for Flynn, but what about Hollie and the long-term effects of killing her tormentor? He’d seen the results of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder many times during his career and didn’t wish to see Hollie suffer any further.

  On the couch, Alex spoke in soothing tones as Hollie rocked, and cried and mumbled. Jones heard the words ‘eyes’ and ‘green’ a couple of times, but the context didn’t make sense.

  He struggled to his feet—no easy proposition with legs made of jelly—and surveyed the scene.

  Flies arrived, already attracted by the scent of warm blood. The broken knife blade on the floor next to Flynn’s head dripped blood. Its handle—feet away—held Hollie’s fingerprints.

  What a mess.

  “Alex?” he whispered.

  She turned to face him, still holding tight to Hollie.

  “Going to make a phone call.”

  Pausing long enough to cover the body with a rug from the second couch, Jones stepped outside. The warm sun, at odds with the cool dark of the cottage, mocked him with its welcoming brilliance. Birds still chirruped and the stream out back still gurgled merrily. The rippling water caught the strong sunlight, flashed, and twinkled through the trees. Life returned to normal.

  Jones shook his head to clear the cobwebs, and hit the power button on his mobile. He cursed as the signal bar registered zero. He scanned the horizon. Would he have better luck at the top of the hill? He considered taking the Defender but that would leave Alex and Hollie alone.

  He didn’t have a clue what to do next. He had a dead body, a crime scene, and a victim guilty of a serious crime, possibly manslaughter. No jury in the UK would convict her, but this was France. What would they make of Hollie’s actions over here?

  Jones stared at the empty sky. Thoughts tumbled.

  Circumstantial evidence suggested Hollie had left the UK voluntarily. An aggressive prosecutor might argue her bruising was the result of rough, consensual sex, despite her youth. An English runaway killing her lover in a fit of apparent jealousy might offend the French. At the very least, they needed to take photos to document the poor girl’s injuries.

  Jones didn’t know the age of consent in France. It might not be the same as in England. Nor did he know whether he was rambling in shock, or being reasonable. He saw dead bodies all the time, but rarely witnessed a killing first hand. Hell, he’d actually played an integral part in this one.

  The only thing for certain was that he knew as much about the French legal system as he did about knitting.

  Did the French have an equivalent of the UK’s diminished responsibility clause? Was temporary insanity a legitimate defence in France? The questions kept forming. Could he risk Hollie’s freedom to the vagaries of a foreign country’s judicial system?

  On the other hand, would Hollie benefit from receiving a free pass on the killing? No. Ultimately, she had to face the consequences of her actions, but not here, and not now. She needed to be home and under the care of her parents and her family doctor, at least for the time being.

  Jones bent and absent-mindedly yanked out one of the dandelions sprouting through cracks in the courtyard. He studied its white gossamer seedpods and blew them into the air. He’d be there years if he wanted to clear the place of weeds.

  He looked at the dandelion stalk and thought of Flynn’s body lying under the cover. At least he’d removed two eyesores from the farm. A start, of sorts.

  Phil Cryer would probably be able to tell him all about the French legal system, but Phil wasn’t here and Jones couldn’t contact him. He brushed dirt from the seat of his ruined trousers, and inspected the dirt ingrained into his palms and under his fingernails. He shuddered. Would he ever get his hands clean again?

  For God’s sake, Jones, not important. Not now.

  Jones puffed out his cheeks and re-entered the cottage.

  “Alex,” he spoke softly. “Can I have a word?”

  He beckoned her from the open doorway. Hollie lay on the couch, eyes closed. Asleep after the trauma? Alex wrapped the cover around the girl. She walked towards Jones but kept her eyes on Hollie.

  Jones scratched at his stubble and shuddered at the thought of the grime transferred from his hands to his chin. “Does your mobile have a camera?”

&nb
sp; Alex nodded. “I have already taken photos of Hollie and … him.” She nodded to the corner.

  “Well done. I’d like to get Hollie to a doctor, but I’m not sure I want her to stay in France.”

  He told her of his reservations regarding French Law. She frowned in concentration while he spoke and looked as though she wanted to interrupt but held her peace until Jones finished. She nodded. “What do you propose?”

  Hollie stirred, sat up, and threw back the covers. She trembled when her eyes found Flynn’s covered body, and seemed to have great difficulty tearing her gaze away to find Jones and Alex. A puzzled frown creased her forehead. “Where’s the other one?” she asked, her voice still weak, but stronger than before.

  Jones and Alex looked at each other and then stared at her.

  “What did you say?” Jones closed the gap to the girl.

  Hollie’s chin quivered. She drew the blanket up to her neck. “The s-second man. The one in charge. He … stayed in the background, w-watched Flynn hit me. Encouraged it. Egged him on.” Her eyes filled again. “And he hit me with his stick.” She pointed to a thin but angry bruise on her upper arm.

  Jones knelt in front of her and slowly reached out a hand, but Hollie shied away. He allowed the hand to fall.

  “Do you know who he is? Had you seen him before?”

  Hollie shook her head and blinked. Fresh tears fell. She cast her eyes downward. “Didn’t s-say much. Mainly watched.”

  “Flynn didn’t call him by name?”

  “Dunno.”

  Jones had to tread carefully, but needed to press on in case the girl shut down again. “What did he look like?”

  “Green eyes. Walked with a limp. Fat face. White hair.” Hollie shuddered and lowered her head.

  “A limp, you say? What leg? How bad?”

  Steady Jones, she’s in shock. Don’t push.

  “I don’t know,” Hollie cried. “S-spent most of his time sitting … watching, playing with his … thing. That smile … oh God. The smile.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  Hollie gripped the cover and drew it under her chin. “He said they needed groceries … before Eddie took me down to the cellar. Oh God, the cellar …” She moaned, and her eyes clouded at a memory.

  What? The boss went shopping?

  Jones hated to ask. “What’s down there, Hollie?”

  Her face crumpled and she buried her head in the cloth.

  Alex cut in. “Boss, enough.”

  Jones stood and took a pace back. “When she’s ready, get a better description. And keep your ears open. In case.”

  Alex nodded.

  He crossed the room and bolted the front door.

  “I’ll have a quick look around for something useful.”

  Jones scoured the room and couldn’t believe his luck when he found a shotgun in a cabinet behind the staircase. He called Alex across.

  “How is she?”

  “Resting.” Alex nodded at the weapon. “Finding a gun was lucky.”

  “That’s what I thought, but I’m guessing, in the country shotguns are ten-a-penny. And anyway, no self-respecting abductor would be without one.”

  “Not funny, boss.”

  “Sorry. You’re the firearms expert. Take over.” He backed away.

  Alex freed the gun from its retaining bar and examined its condition.

  “Old, but as far as I can tell, operational.” She found boxes of cartridges at the bottom of the cupboard and loaded both barrels.

  Jones kept his distance from the weapon and pointed to the front door. “Keep a lookout while I see what’s in the cellar. I need to know what spooked Hollie so badly. It might determine what we do next. Won’t be long.”

  “What about preserving the scene?”

  He straightened and scowled. “Damn it, Alex. I know what I’m doing.” The moment the words passed his lips, he felt guilty as all hell and raised a hand in apology. “Sorry, Alex. Unforgiveable.”

  Alex nodded and took a guard position at the window, alternating her gaze between Hollie, resting in the foetal position under the tatty cover, and the view outside.

  Jones turned towards the staircase. He balked at the idea of descending into the black hole, but he couldn’t deny his professional curiosity. It took a couple of frustrating minutes to find Flynn’s rubber coated flashlight, which had rolled under the dining table. Thankfully, it still worked.

  Years of experience took over. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and plastic shoe covers—he always carried spares—and reversed into the dark.

  What he found chilled him to the core.

  The cold, damp, tomb-like cellar with dripping walls, a concrete floor, and oak beams, smelled like a long blocked sewer.

  Cobwebs shone translucent and silver in the torchlight’s focused glare.

  Jones swung the beam. Each illuminated item jabbed another hole through his heart. He breathed through his mouth to reduce the smell and deaden his gag reflex.

  Chains.

  A rough wooden table the size of a mortuary slab with anchoring points at each corner. Gleaming stainless steel tools, each with a recently sharpened edge were lined on a tray, side-by-side, like implements in an operating theatre. They were the only pristine things in the room.

  Jesus, it’s a horror movie.

  Worst of all, against the wall behind the steps, stood a large grey chest-freezer.

  Jones had to look. Covering his mouth with a clean handkerchief, he sucked in a lungful of foetid air and held his breath. Despite all his years investigating violent crime he’d never been able to get used to the sickly sweet stench of rotting human meat. He’d been here before in many a murder scene, but this time it was different. With Hollie involved, it was more … personal.

  He reached for the handle. It was cold. He tugged.

  The lid hissed as the vacuum seal broke.

  Empty, but the brown stains, smell, and globules of liquefied fat, said enough. Long blonde hairs, human hairs, stuck to the metal hinges.

  Jones gagged and slammed the lid shut.

  The discovery changed everything. Hollie was not the first female brought to this … abattoir.

  No way on earth would Jones leave the crime scene unattended. The freezer had contained bodies, and recently. They needed to be found. The poor girls, whoever they were, deserved a proper burial. Their families needed what little closure a funeral could offer.

  But the living came first. Hollie Jardine needed his protection.

  Jones couldn’t leave the cellar quickly enough. He raced up the ladder, dropped the trapdoor, and slid the cast iron bolt into place. He tried to hide his shock.

  “Boss? Are you okay? You are pale.”

  Jones studied Hollie.

  She sat against the corner of the couch, arms wrapped around bent legs, head resting on knees, eyes closed.

  If Jones had missed the connection between Flynn and Hollie, she would have ended up like the others victims in the cellar. He took huge comfort from the fact that his actions proved justified, but what should he do now?

  Jones stepped over Flynn’s covered body. A circle of dark blood stained the fibres of the cloth over the dead man’s head—the photo negative of a halo. He told Alex what he found in the cellar. “We need to get Hollie out of here.”

  “What about the accomplice?”

  Jones sighed. “When you were in the camper, did you see Hollie’s suitcase?”

  Alex nodded again. “Yes, and in the excitement I forgot to tell you I found these also.” She released her hold on the shotgun barrel and reached into the breast pocket of her blouson. Her hand came out with four passports. “One belongs to Hollie. The three others are from whoever was in the freezer perhaps?”

  “The sick buggers kept the passports as trophies. But we have Hollie’s, which makes my decision easier. You’re taking her back to England.”

  “What?”

  Jones raised his hand. “Hear me out. When you get to the airport, p
hone the gendarmes before boarding the plane. I’ll stay here guarding the scene until they arrive. They’ll need answers. But I don’t want Hollie questioned until she’s been treated at home and I’ve learned more about the French legal system.”

  Alex paused. Her cool blue eyes clouded and her mouth formed a straight, thin line. “I do not like it. We should not leave a crime scene and what about the second man?” She hooked a thumb towards the window. “He might be up on the hill, waiting for us.”

  “I’ll ride shotgun until you get to the road and then backtrack with the weapon. You race to the airport as fast as the Defender can take you. Get Hollie home. I’ll do the rest.”

  Alex’s expression changed. Her jaw set to its ‘decision made’ default. “Right, boss. I will fetch the suitcase. You want the weapon?”

  Jones raised his hands and took a step back. “No, no. Take it with you. We’ll be fine here for the moment.” He took the collapsed truncheon from his jacket and gave her a reassuring grin. “I’ll be okay with this.”

  He pressed the release button in the handle and the shiny telescopic bar slid open with a quiet click. Attached to the bulbous tip were a semi-congealed gobbet of blood and a single strand of Flynn’s dark hair. He wiped it on the cloth covering the body.

  At the head of the dusty, rutted farm track overlooking Flynn’s cottage, Jenkins peered through a small pair of binoculars. He focussed the lenses on the skinny, grey-haired old man standing in the courtyard and fumed.

  Five minutes earlier, the bastard had clubbed his darling Ellis over the head with a shiny metal rod and followed it up with a cowardly kick to the groin. The boy, his boy, dropped like a felled tree. His beautiful, flawless face hit the concrete and bounced.

  His poor darling boy.

  Too far away to shout a warning, Jenkins could do nothing but sit behind the wheel of the beat-up old Citroën, and watch. He saw everything. Angry tears rolled down his face. They dried in the cooling breeze blowing through the car’s open windows. He rubbed away the dry salt tracks.

  Who the fuck was the old bastard? A gendarme? How’d he find them?