Jenkins stared at the grocery bag resting on the passenger seat. If only he’d headed straight back to the farm, maybe he could have helped. More likely, they’d have caught him too. A lucky break.
But why only one gendarme? Where were the others? Lying in wait? Watching him even now?
The gendarme came out again. He stood in the doorway and raised something to his ear—a mobile phone.
He’ll be lucky. No signal this far out of town.
The old man lowered the phone and stepped back into the dark. A few seconds later, he returned with a blonde. She had wide hips and a massive rack.
So, he did have help. Where are all the other little piggies?
Jenkins scanned the valley with his field glasses. No vehicles in sight, but that didn’t mean much. The woods might hide dozens of police and he’d never know.
Jenkins couldn’t think. The loss of his boy, Ellis, clouded his mind. Ellis, the heir to Jenkins’ business empire, was down and hurt. An image of his beautiful boy, smiling at him from the other side of their bed, flooded his mind with loss and anger. He let out a low sob.
Jenkins’ mind cleared. Self-pity and mourning could wait, but the anger couldn’t. He lowered the binoculars, reached across to the passenger seat, and dipped into his ever-present shoulder bag. It contained his emergency kit: spare cash, backup medical supply, a change of clothing and his electronic ears. Like a good Boy Scout, he always travelled prepared for the worst.
Careful not to strain his lower back, Jenkins leaned over and unzipped the bag’s front pocket. He extracted a black device twice the size of a mobile phone, stuck a plastic jack in his ear, and hit the power button. He dialled in the frequency for the bug planted under the dining table in the cottage. The signal had a range of five miles, more than enough to give him breathing space.
Jenkins paused for a moment and gave a silent prayer for his dear, lost boy. He turned the ignition key and the Citroën coughed into ragged life. The exhaust growled and popped.
He glared down at the cottage. “Whoever you are, you old bastard, you’re gonna pay! Nobody fucks wi’ me and mine.”
He threw the old rust bucket into gear.
Alex returned with a small white suitcase and passed the shotgun to Jones who leaned it in the corner on its stock.
Alex touched Hollie’s forearm. The girl jumped.
“I will help you dress, yes?”
They disappeared into a small bathroom near the kitchen.
Jones was washed out, exhausted. Every muscle ached. He rotated his shoulders and arched his back. Fatigue reduced his ability to concentrate. He slapped his cheeks and rubbed his face but it didn’t help for long.
The dream of a long soak in a hot bath and a pint of beer grew with insidious clarity. What would he pay to lie in a nice clean bed on crisp cotton sheets? When did he last have a decent night’s sleep? Days ago.
A sparkle of light cut into his peripheral vision.
Another glimmer flashed on the hill. The sun reflecting on moving glass?
A windscreen?
A third flare. Each glint flashed lower down the hill than the last. A vehicle, for definite, driving at speed down the track. Jones’ heart rate spiked, the fatigue gone.
“Alex!” he called. “We have visitors.”
The bathroom door flew open. Hollie, dressed in blue jeans and a demure cotton blouse followed Alex to the couch. She looked better after her wash and brush up. The bruise around her eye was less obvious.
Makeup?
Alex dragged one of the couches into the far corner of the room to form a protective, triangular cell. She pointed for Hollie to crouch down.
“Stay until I return,” Alex soothed. “We will not let anyone harm you.”
Jones returned his attention to the activity outside. Another flash, and then another. Alex picked up the shotgun and joined him at the window. Her breath rippled the fine hairs on his neck.
They had seconds, no more. Alex and he swapped places.
Jones gripped the truncheon tight. Not that it would be much use in a firefight.
From her corner den, Hollie whimpered.
11
Friday afternoon - Colonel Jean-Luc Coué
Time since Flynn’s death: twenty minutes
Flashing blue lights pulsed through the bushes, weak against the bright sunlight.
Gendarmes.
Thank God, I think, but how?
Two police SUVs, Renaults, similar in size to the Defender, bounced into view through clouds of billowing yellow dust. Obscured by trees until reaching the sparse undergrowth of the lower slope, the lights in all their wonderful blue glory, exploded into view. A short burst of police sirens shattered the recently attained silence and reprised the sound of the camper’s alarm.
The lead Renault, protected by black metal bull-bars, drove at the flimsy gate, barely reducing speed. The rotten spars offered little resistance and exploded in a barrage of flying splinters. The truck slid to a sideways halt in a storm of dust, and shot a hail of gravel at the cottage.
Behind it, the second Renault arrived in close order and pulled to a stop alongside the first. They formed a ‘V’ in front of the cottage, blocking any potential escape via the track.
Four gendarmes jumped from the far side of each SUV. Helmeted, and dressed in black military-style uniforms, they took up defensive positions behind the vehicles. Eight red laser sights trained on the front of the house, four on each window.
Jones never thought he’d be happy to see gendarmes. He relaxed and nearly whooped for joy, but remembered why he hadn’t called them in the first place.
“Alex, lower the shotgun.” He pulled her away from the window. “Go back there with Hollie and keep low until I’ve introduced myself … What’s the French for ‘don’t shoot’?”
Alex arched an eyebrow and dipped her chin at the same time. “Boss, do not be ridiculous. This is why I am here.”
It had been a while since anyone had scolded him. He thought about it for a moment, but realised the logic and with reluctance agreed. “Remember, if they ask, you’re here under my orders. Right?”
Alex shook her head. “I will not lie.”
She lowered the rifle to the floor, pulled out her warrant card, and shouted through the closed door. “Ne tirez pas! Ne tirez pas! Nous sommes des policiers! Nous sommes des policiers!”
Hollie stood and Jones raised his hand. “Wait there, Hollie, this won’t take long.”
I hope.
Alex unlocked the front door and stepped into the courtyard with both arms raised high making sure the new arrivals could see her ID card. She kept repeating that she was a police officer.
Jones raised his arms, but stayed near the doorway, keeping himself between their weapons and Hollie.
The clear, authoritative voice of a man bellowed an order. The laser sights wavered and lowered to the concrete but remained switched on. The same man asked a question. Alex responded. She pointed at Jones and gave his name and rank.
A man behind the second vehicle stood upright. He barked another command and the lasers vanished. The other gendarmes stood, lowered their automatic rifles, and removed their helmets, which must have been stifling in the heat.
The Officer-in-Charge placed his helmet on the bonnet of the Renault. He reached into the cab to retrieve the peaked flat cap of a gendarme, a képi, and marched towards Alex. He beckoned her to meet him half way.
Over six feet tall, slim build, close-cropped dark hair, and a pencil-thin moustache. The man reminded Jones of the Claude Rains character in Casablanca, but taller, and much slimmer. He exuded an air of quiet authority and wore his holster on the left.
Jones lowered his hands and tried to follow the interrogation, but his schoolboy French wasn’t up to task. He had to rely on his interpretation of their body language and, given his frazzled nerves, any conclusions he made were probably unreliable.
As the seconds dragged by, Jones’ frustrations grew. He was little mor
e than a spare wheel. He hadn’t felt so redundant at a crime scene for decades. Not since his rookie years back in Wales, and even then, he could understand the language, and had Siân as back-up.
Alex said something and the OIC yelled another order. The gendarmes snapped to attention and replaced their helmets. They formed three pairs and peeled away, presumably to search the grounds. The remaining gendarme hurried to the opening in the wall and took up a guard position facing the track.
Something touched Jones’ arm. He jumped, spun around, and raised his fists in defence in time to see Hollie jerk away and cover her face with both hands.
“Don’t hit me!” she squealed.
Jones’ heart turned into a lump of molten lead. “Oh God, Hollie! I’m so sorry,” he breathed. “You scared me half to death, lass. Are you okay?”
Hollie peered at him through the gaps between her fingers and nodded. “Am I in trouble?”
She sounded so young and frightened, Jones wanted to reach out to her, but held back. “Not if I have anything to do with it. Alex is talking to them.”
“Why are the soldiers here?”
“They’re gendarmes, police officers like me. Don’t let the uniforms fool you. They’re the good guys.”
I hope.
“That tall man sent his officers to search for the other … bastard, the one with the green eyes. He’s now asking Alex about Eddie.”
“Eddie?”
She pointed a shaky finger at the fly-speckled cloth covering Ellis Flynn.
“His real name’s Ellis. You understand French?” Jones asked.
She nodded. “A … a little,” she said, and lowered her hands. “Spanish and German too. I want to be an interpreter.”
She looked pale, but sounded more controlled.
“Good girl. What are they saying now?”
“The officer asked Alex how Eddie … Ellis, died.”
“What’s she saying?”
“She told him to talk to you. He’s now asking about me.”
Hollie’s lower lip trembled. She moved towards Jones and grabbed hold of his arm in much the same way as her mother had held on to her father the evening before.
Hell, was that only yesterday?
Hollie trembled and her heart fluttered against his arm. She pressed her forehead into his shoulder.
“Everything’s going to be all right. I’ll protect you, but you must do something for me.”
Jones disengaged her arms gently. The cut on Hollie’s lip had reopened. A thin trickle of blood seeped down her chin. Her youth and vulnerability hit him hard.
“When the officer comes over, say nothing.” He reached a hand to her chin and lifted her head. They made eye contact. “Listen carefully, Hollie, this is very important. If he asks you anything, pretend you don’t understand French. I’ll handle this, okay? Don’t say a single word.”
She nodded.
“Boss?” Alex called and signalled for him to approach.
Jones whispered in Hollie’s ear. “Come with me, but remember.” He made a zip-the-lip sign.
Hollie gave him a thin smile and then grimaced and touched a forefinger to the cut. The smile was the first time Jones had seen any expression on the girl’s face other than terror and shock. It gave him hope for her future.
They joined Alex in the sunshine. Hollie hugged Jones’ arm again.
Alex straightened. “Boss, this is Colonel Jean-Luc Coué of the Finistère Gendarmerie.” She turned to the Frenchman. “Colonel Coué, permettez-moi de vous présenter l’inspecteur-chef, David Jones de la police des Midlands.”
Jones coughed. “Bonjour, Colonel Coué,” he said. “Je suis … er … regret.” He tried his best to think of something in French but the side of his brain responsible for language had packed its bags and taken a holiday. He opened his hands and shrugged. “I’m sorry, Colonel but as you see my French is non-existent.” He turned to Alex. “Could you translate that for me?”
Alex took a breath but Colonel Coué raised his hand and smiled. “That will not be necessary, Chief Inspector. I have a little English. But before we continue with the formalities I understand the young girl, ‘Ollie, is in need of medical attention, n’est-ce pas? May we offer some assistance?” He spoke gently, his refined French accent easy on the ear.
Jones couldn’t think of anything to say but, “Yes, please.”
Coué spoke into his personal radio and a couple of seconds later the female gendarme arrived at the jog, from the direction of the barn. She opened the tailgate of the first SVU, and reappeared with a field medical kit. The acting-paramedic and a maternal Alex escorted Hollie into the cottage.
Coué signalled for Jones to follow him and they stepped across the threshold of the cottage and stood just inside the door. The Frenchman took his first sight of the crime scene. Jones studied him closely.
Rather than approach the body as many inexperienced officers might have done, Coué stood where he was, and scanned the room with a slow, sweeping gaze. He pursed his lips and smoothed his pencil-thin moustache with the thumb and index finger of his left hand.
“Chief Inspector, please uncover the body and place the blanket to one side.”
Jones understood the Frenchman’s reasoning. Jones had already touched the cover and the body and could not contaminate the crime scene further. Coué, on the other hand, needed to maintain his distance. The man’s professionalism impressed Jones. He returned to stand next to the colonel.
After a few moments, Coué spoke again. “If you will bear with me for a little longer, I will return.”
Once outside again, Coué withdrew a satellite phone from a leather pouch attached to his utility belt. He raised its chunky aerial and paced the courtyard, speaking in clipped sentences.
Jones understood about one word in twenty. Coué repeated Flynn’s name a few times and said the French words for ‘accomplice’, ‘registration’, and ‘vehicle’. Jones wished Alex had the ability to be in two places at once and translate for him, but Hollie’s needs trumped his.
Coué’s men returned from their searches and huddled near the SUVs awaiting further instruction. Jones didn’t need language skills to know they’d found nothing of interest. Three of the men lit cigarettes and stood off to one side. They all spoke in low tones and cast surreptitious glances in Jones’ direction while their boss continued his call.
After breaking the connection, Coué stared at the sky. A few seconds later, he indicated Jones should precede him into the cottage and they stood either side of the corpse. Coué squatted and studied Flynn’s remains.
Jones remained standing and allowed the Frenchman space and time to complete his inspection. He tried to see things from Coué’s perspective.
The bloody gash between Flynn’s shoulder blades, the blood on the floor and damage to the back of the kidnapper’s head didn’t exactly scream ‘accidental death’. The handcuffs and the chain wrapped around Flynn’s ankles added to the impact. It didn’t look good at all.
Jones’ warning mechanism tickled once again. The darned thing had been working overtime in the past few hours but its batteries showed no signs of running low.
After a few moments silence, the colonel craned his neck and studied Jones through dark brown eyes.
“Chief Inspector Jones,” he said quietly, “I expect you are wondering why we are ‘ere?”
Jones nodded. “You could say that.”
Coué’s emotive face creased into a quizzical frown. “But I did say that.”
“Sorry, it’s an expression we use in England. I should have said yes. I am wondering why you’re here.”
Coué paused for a moment and tilted his head in concentration. “Two-and-a-half hours ago my gendarmerie received a telephone call from a Detective Sergeant Pel-ham. He told us about your runaway girl and that you were in Brittany without official permission. He also gave us the name of Ellis Flynn and we found his address on our register of housing.” He stared at Jones and waited for a response.
Bloody Pelham! You’ll pay for this.
Jones wondered whether he should ask for a lawyer. He cleared his throat and spoke with as much confidence as he could muster, given the circumstances.
“Colonel Coué, I must point out that Hollie Jardine is fourteen and this animal”—he pointed to the corpse—“abducted her around four o’clock yesterday afternoon. She is most definitely not a runaway. Did my colleague, Detective Olganski tell you what I found in the cellar?”
“Oui, and that is why I used the satellite telephone. I called in our forensics unit from Rennes. They will be here in three or four hours.”
“How long?”
Coué gave a Gallic shrug. For some reason Jones found the action comforting.
“We are a rural establishment, monsieur, and Rennes is nearly two hundred kilometres away. Our unit in Brest does not have the experience or equipment for a multiple homicide case with cross-border implications. Our regional resources are limited? You understand?”
“Yes, Colonel,” said Jones. “I understand completely.”
Coué stood tall and tugged out the wrinkles in his tunic. “Monsieur Jones, we are professional police officers, n’est-ce pas? My name is Jean-Luc, the same as your Captain Picard in Star Trek.” His smile straightened his moustache and deepened the crow’s feet at his eyes.
Jones breathed easier and returned the smile. “Hi, I’m David. Pleased to meet you, Jean-Luc.” They shook hands. Jean-Luc’s grip was firm, his hand dry.
“Enchanté, David.” Jones half expected a heel-click and a bow. “Now that our introductions are completed,” Jean-Luc continued. “I have to tell you that I am, of course, officially mortifié that you did not come to us directly and I will lodge a strongly worded complaint to your superior, when I have the time.” His smile broadened. “Mais, je suis toujours très occupé. I am always very busy, yes? It might take me some time to post the letter, you understand?”
Jones smiled. “The policeman’s lot.”
The Frenchman frowned again.
“I mean we policemen are always busy, Jean-Luc,” Jones offered. “So much to do, but so little time.”
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