Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  Hollie’s safety and ultimate recovery depended upon the care she received and the speed of its delivery. Jean-Luc’s ability to see past the diplomatic and investigatory challenges ahead and focus on the human issues impressed the heck out of Jones.

  Alex helped Hollie into the back of the second Renault. Jones waved them off, overcome with an immediate sense of relief and satisfaction. A risky decision had turned out pretty well so far, but there were other pressing matters to deal with. These included the former contents of the freezer, and the missing accomplice.

  Jones watched the driver execute a sedate three-point turn, but as the vehicle pulled through the gap in the wall where the three-bar gate used to be, the SUV skidded to a halt, shooting up a cloud of dust. Hollie jumped out and ran to Jones, flinging her arms around his neck and hugging him tight. She smelled of Alex’s perfume, and looked so much better than when she climbed out of the cellar.

  Hollie cried into his lapel. “Thank you, David, I’ll never forget you.”

  Jones’ mind floated back to another hug he’d received that morning. Hollie’s huge blue eyes could have belonged to Jamie Cryer. The emotion was too much. Jones patted Hollie’s shoulder and swallowed hard.

  “My pleasure, lass,” he mumbled.

  Pathetic, Jones. Bloody pathetic.

  Hollie sniffed and loosened her grip. Jones walked her back to the waiting Renault. She smiled bravely and snapped her seatbelt into place.

  Jones cleared his throat and managed a, “Good lass. See you back in England,” before the catch in his voice forced him into silence.

  Hollie waved and kept her eyes on him until the big SUV rounded the first corner and disappeared behind a large bush. All the while, she mouthed the words, ‘thank you’.

  Jones coughed again and turned to Jean-Luc. “Right, mon ami, shall we start work?”

  14

  Friday afternoon - Hammer

  Time since Flynn’s death: One hour, forty minutes

  Jenkins pulled off the dual carriageway at the final service station before Brest, and parked the shiny new Mercedes at the far end of the deserted car park. The battery on his mobile didn’t have much life left and he needed to keep the call brief.

  “Hello, is that the Hammer?” He made himself sound calm and controlled.

  “Just Hammer.”

  “Okay. Is that Hammer?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Jenkins. You received my introductory texts and checked my bona fides?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve been highly recommended.”

  “By whom?”

  Jenkins had to remember the next part carefully. A wrong word here and he’d have to find someone else. He not only needed the exact words, but also the correct inflection.

  “A man with a Military Cross, and a silver axe to grind.” Fuck knows what it meant, but is was what PDC told him to say.

  “What else?”

  Shit. Had he forgotten something? He tried to remember the conversation he had with his police mole. Damn it, there was nothing else. He said the right phrase, emphasised the word ‘silver’.

  “What else?” The man’s guttural voice bled brooding power through the speaker.

  “Nothing. Nothing else.”

  Jenkins held his breath and waited for Hammer to ring off.

  “Okay, what do you need?”

  A test? Jenkins thought. Fucking stupid cloak and dagger, spy school bullshit. He forced his voice to stay level. “How long will it take you to reach Birmingham International Airport?”

  “Dunno. Few hours. I’m in London, south of the river.”

  Damn it.

  “I’ll be on the plane from Brest arriving at half-past seven tonight. Need you to help me do some spring cleaning.”

  “Neat and tidy? Or a big show?”

  “Haven’t decided yet. Bring equipment for both, and a bugging kit. And there might be interference so you’ll need a partner and some firepower.”

  “Right.”

  Hammer broke the connection.

  PDC had told Jenkins his mechanic didn’t waste much time or energy on words and he hadn’t been kidding. With backup on the way, Jenkins’ blood pressure eased, and not before time. He’d been fretting since killing the old crone and the added stress did nothing to ease his back, or his nerves. He popped another pill.

  He had killed her easy enough: sliced the old biddy’s throat when she got out of the car to help. Her warm blood hit the back of his hand like every other throat he’d ever sliced. Young, old, they died the same way with that questioning, disbelieving look on their faces. All those emotions expressed through dying eyes. The final ones, shock and defeat, always left Jenkins with an unbeatable sense of power. He should have felt guilt, but he didn’t. Did that make him a bad person? Probably, but what the fuck, he didn’t give a shit. Kill or be killed. The laws of life.

  After the death, it turned messy. He tried to stuff the body in the boot of the Benz, but the old bitch was heavier than she looked. His damned useless back couldn’t take the load and he had to roll the carcase into the drainage ditch after emptying the cow’s pockets.

  He searched the handbag the Good Samaritan left on the passenger’s seat: purse, cosmetics, tissues, a notepad, driving licence. When the gendarmes found the body, at least they wouldn’t know the car she’d been driving, not for a while.

  It was a fucking mess, but he still had a chance.

  He’d always been crap at the action stuff, even before the illness made him little more than a cripple.

  As he did in the Citroën, Jenkins thumped the steering wheel. This one, made of steel and covered in leather, absorbed his assault and didn’t even creak.

  He’d have to trust to luck and hope for the best.

  Yeah. Right.

  He’d had a hell of a lot of luck so far, and all of it bad.

  The rest-stop pause lasted long enough for him to drop the disguise in a metal barbeque pod, pile on some papers he’d found in the back of the car, and set it ablaze with the car’s cigarette lighter.

  Jenkins pointed the big Benz to the exit. The clock on the dashboard showed thirty-five minutes before he had to check-in at the airport. After that, he’d have another two hours to plan the next move. Whatever he came up with would have to be fucking good.

  Annabelle Dupré, Senior Customs Officer at Brest Airport, remembered the tall blonde woman from earlier that day. This time she accompanied a girl with cuts and bruises to her face.

  “Ah mademoiselle Olganski,” she said, after reading the woman’s passport. “You have had a short visit.”

  “I came to collect my niece. She had a car accident and is in a little pain.”

  “Should I call for a doctor?”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary. What do you think, Hollie?”

  The girl shook her head with great care and gave a weak smile. “I’m okay, Aunty Alex. I want to get home.” She spoke quietly, but in a clear, steady voice.

  Annabelle Dupré studied the passports. The child, Hollie Jardine, was fourteen but looked older. The woman, a police officer, appeared respectable. She opened the barrier and watched them walk arm-in-arm across the runway to the awaiting plane.

  Eight passengers later, Annabelle took a passport from a tall, thin-faced man. He wore a purple baseball cap with the word ‘Lakers’ embroidered across the front of a yellow baseball emblem. He leaned on a cane.

  “I am sorry, monsieur,” she said, and pointed to his dark sunglasses. “Please remove those.”

  The man tilted his head and removed the shades to reveal a pair of washed-out grey eyes. “So sorry. Forgot I had them on.”

  “Pas de problème, monsieur.”

  She compared his face with the picture on the passport. The man had lost a great deal of weight and had cropped his hair since having the photo taken, but the likeness was close enough. She pointed to the walking stick. “Will you need assistance to climb the steps to the aircraft, monsieur?”


  “I can manage perfectly well, thank you.”

  Annabelle smiled. “And have you had a good time in Brittany?”

  “Yes thanks. The weather’s been wonderful.”

  “Ah, you English and your talk of the weather.”

  “Hey, mind who you’re calling English. I’m frae Scotland,” he smiled and replaced the shades.

  “Désolée, monsieur Jenkins. Have a pleasant flight.”

  “Merci, mademoiselle. I will.”

  He tipped his hat, stepped through the exit door and walked across the runway.

  Part II

  Jenkins mashed his fists into his thighs. The bastards killed Ellis Flynn; murdered the beautiful, sweet boy in cold blood.

  Now they’re going to pay. He’d take care of the bitches first, and then DCI-fucking-Jones.

  15

  Friday afternoon - The Barn

  Time since Flynn’s death: four hours, fifty minutes

  Five minutes after the departure of Alex and Hollie, Jones collapsed in a heap in the middle of the courtyard. He had no warning—a slight greying of his peripheral vision and the sense of the ground rushing up to meet him.

  Strong arms encircled his chest and stopped him hitting the concrete. Jean-Luc shouted in French, dragged Jones into the shade of the cottage, and propped him against a wall. Someone removed his jacket and wafted cool air in his face. It felt great, refreshing.

  Jones opened his eyes to find a concerned Jean-Luc squatting in front of him. “Are you feeling better, mon ami? You are pale.”

  Jones took a long breath and nodded. “I’m okay now, thanks,” he said. A second later, he leaned to the left and vomited into the base of the same rosebush that had scratched his face. Acid bile tore at the lining of his throat and stung his nostrils. He spat bitter phlegm and heaved again.

  Rather than jump back as Jones might have done in his place, Jean-Luc stayed close and handed over a clean white handkerchief. He called to one of his officers who arrived at the double with a bottle of water.

  Jones sucked the liquid until he drained half the bottle. Revived, he thanked the gendarme but remained seated with his back against the wall and his knees bent up around his ears. The dizziness melted away.

  “Sorry about that, Jean-Luc. Don’t know what happened.” He breathed through his mouth and tried not to swallow.

  “You have been exerting yourself too much. And you are no longer a young man, I think.”

  “Can’t argue with that. I’m too old for all this.” He splashed a few drops of the precious water on the hankie and wiped his face. It did as much to revive his spirits as the drink did. Jones looked at his watch and sighed. “It could also have something to do with the fact that I haven’t eaten much since yesterday lunchtime, and combined with this heat …”

  Not to mention the cellar.

  Jean-Luc’s jaw dropped. “But that is unforgivable of me, David. I should have realised, but with all that is happening … I will send one of my men to the village for provisions.” He checked the time. “The boulangerie will be open now, as will the Bar Tabac. We will all need nourishment before the end of the day, I think? Les sandwichs will suffice until our mobile command centre arrives tomorrow morning with une cantine. Unfortunately, this is all I have for now.” He handed Jones a tube of mints.

  Jones took one. The sweet fire gave him an instant sugar-rush. He popped a second and revelled in the way they rolled around on his tongue.

  “That helps.” He offered to return the packet but Jean-Luc raised his hands in a, ‘no you keep it’, gesture. Jones slid the sweets into the breast pocket of his shirt and nodded his thanks. “What’s this about a mobile unit?”

  “Mais oui, mon ami. We have a fully equipped field operations trailer. The Gendarmerie is part of the French Military, under the control of the Ministère de l'Intérieur. We share our equipment, including the forensic suite, with the army. It is essential for a rural police force such as ours. I think we will be spending a great deal of time at this crime scene and will need a canteen, latrines, tents, cold storage for any perishable evidence we find. Until it arrives we will have to make do with what we have?”

  “That all sounds most impressive.”

  Jean-Luc straightened his tie and puffed out his chest. “We may be a small force, David, but we are properly funded and well supported.” He glowed with pride as he added, “When the forensics team arrives they will bring with them a field laboratory. If necessary, they will be able to analyse tissue samples for DNA. I am thinking of the freezer in the cellar.”

  “Portable DNA analysers? I’m in the wrong police force. We have to wait weeks for test results.” Jones shook his head. “Now, if you’ll help me up”—he offered his hand—"we can get this investigation started.”

  Jean-Luc pulled Jones to his feet and Jones leaned against the wall as a vicious head-rush threatened his balance.

  “But,” Jean-Luc said, “we can do nothing in the cottage until the forensics team arrives from Rennes. Un moment s'il vous plaît.”

  Jean-Luc sauntered away and made a call while Jones brushed at the seat of his trousers. He’d been doing a great deal of brushing himself down recently. He also realised he’d been foolish enough to accept Jean-Luc’s invitation to stay in France without as much as a toothbrush, let alone a change of underwear. Since arriving in France, he’d done little but ruin his one set of clothing. One look at his reflection in the cottage window told him no amount of cleaning would rescue his trousers, or his shirt.

  The chinos, torn at the left knee, filthy from his crawl through the pasture and his examination of the cellar, were fit for nothing but the bin. Then he remembered the stench released by the dead freezer and gagged. He turned away from his mess at the base of the rosebush and tried to clear his fuddled brain.

  Jones’ hands, stiff with grime and Flynn’s dried blood, his captured evil, no longer felt part of him. They needed a good scrubbing with bleach, but he couldn’t use the kitchen in the cottage.

  After three deep breaths, he felt strong enough to walk to the SUV where one of Jean-Luc’s men guarded the equipment. He pointed to the medical kit and mimed washing his hands. He also said the words ‘alcohol wipes’ slowly.

  The gendarme remained stony-faced but opened his hand in a, ‘be my guest’ gesture towards the rear doors. It didn’t take Jones long to find the large medical kit and in it, a bag of foil sachets. He tore open the first of many and pocketed a handful. The clean, sharp smell of the evaporating cleaning fluid reminded him of a hospital ward. He breathed it in, and scrubbed his hands and face until they were raw. He dabbed at the graze on his cheek, the present from the rosebush. It didn’t matter that the cuts and grazes stung as though he’d immersed them in battery acid, he was delighted to remove Ellis Flynn from his skin, if not his mind.

  It took seven wipes before he considered his hands being even close to acceptable, but the black lines of dirt under his fingernails proved resolute, immovable.

  While Jones scrubbed, Jean-Luc paced the courtyard and waved his arms with increasingly frantic gesticulations. This time his phone call lasted a few moments, but by the end, Jean-Luc’s voice had risen to a shout. He ended the call and yelled “Merde!” into the dead mouthpiece.

  Jones returned to the shade and leaned against the rough wall. The dirt under his fingernails didn’t matter anymore. Well, not as much.

  Jean-Luc joined him. The frown on his lean Gallic face and the set of his angular jaw showed frustration. “I am sorry, mon ami, but there has been a bombing on the Rennes tramline. Terrorists. Many casualties. This has taken priority over our crime scene. Police headquarters apologised, but they are sending a helicopter unit from our sister force in Nantes. It will take time to organise, but that is all they can do.”

  Jean-Luc smoothed his moustache and gave Jones the benefit of another of those Gallic shrugs. He pointed through the open cottage doorway at Flynn’s body. “You are the expert in murder investigation, David,�
�� he said with a grimace. “What do you suggest we do next?”

  Good question.

  “As we can’t enter the house, it would be a good idea to search the farm again. There are a few outbuildings to sweep. And we could look for any disturbance to the grounds.”

  Jean-Luc’s eyes narrowed. Deep vertical furrows creased his tanned forehead. “You think there may be bodies?”

  “’Fraid so. Ellis Flynn’s father was imprisoned for abduction and murder in the mid-1990s and the Flynns have owned this property for decades. There’s no telling what we might uncover when we start searching. But …” Jones scratched at the stubble on his chin.

  “But?”

  “Forgive me, Jean-Luc, but I didn’t want to insult your men by telling them not to disturb anything they find.”

  Jean-Luc tilted his head and graced Jones with a lop-sided grin. “Your sensitivities do you credit, David, but I can assure you my officers are well trained. They know how to conduct a search with the fingertips?”

  Jones opened his hands in apology. “In the meantime I suggest we secure the house and make sure none of the evidence is touched.”

  Jean-Luc nodded and issued quick-fire instructions to his sergeant who marched towards the remaining SUV and joined the rest of the men. Two gendarmes dived into the back of the vehicle and removed four heavy-looking canvas packs. A third fired up the engine, weaved in and out of the shattered remains of the gate, and headed up the lane, presumably off in search of food. The sergeant unloaded the bags while the remaining three gendarmes split up to search the grounds.

  “I have summoned other support teams, but with darkness approaching, I am afraid we will not commence the full exploration until morning. The forensics equipment, when it arrives, will include ground penetrating radar, and we will be able to explore the forest, but in the meantime we will do what we can with the few resources at our disposal.”