Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  “Excuse me? What is ‘dipping in the till’?”

  “I mean, monsieur Plouay might be happy to accept a bribe for his silence and maybe to guard the farm in Flynn’s absence.”

  “Ah, je comprends. Do you think I should arrest Plouay in case he decides to run?”

  “I would. If he knows anything about what’s been going on here, he’ll be pretty panicky about now.”

  Jean-Luc sent the same officer, and a backup, to arrest Plouay, and the Renault disappeared once more.

  “This is bad, Jean-Luc. As soon as word of this place leaks out, it’ll be the centre of world attention. The media loves a multiple murder case, and when it involves young girls …”

  “But we are not certain anyone has been killed. We have found no bodies.”

  “We will, Jean-Luc, we will. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.” He stared at the farm and the darkening woods and knew he was right.

  “D’accord, David, d’accord. But this place is simple to isolate. We will have no trouble keeping the farm free of media locusts, and I can impose a no-fly restriction if they put up helicopters.”

  “Blimey. Wish I had the same authority in England.”

  Jones tried to digest the new information. Flynn had made numerous visits to the farm since his release from detention. Had the bastard brought a new victim each time? Jones shuddered.

  The quiet little cottage in the middle of nowhere might well have turned into a bloody charnel house. The empty chest freezer in the cellar wouldn’t have held more than one body at a time. But why use the freezer in the first place? It’s not like there wasn’t plenty of land around to bury the bodies. He couldn’t see Flynn dragging corpses too far away.

  “Jean-Luc? Does the local hunt go through these woods?”

  “Oui. I imagine it would. We have deer and wild boar in this region. Why?”

  “You hunt with dogs here, right? Wouldn’t the dogs have smelt decaying bodies?”

  “I do not know. But the forensics unit will have equipment for analysing odours.”

  “Electronic noses.”

  “Ah oui, electronic nose.” Jean-Luc checked his watch. “And do not forget the ground-penetrating radar. If there are bodies in the woods or fields, we will find them.”

  Oh, there will be bodies, Jean-Luc.

  At any moment, Jones expected the caw of a big black crow to startle him. If this were a movie, an old crone would burst out of the woods and scream a dread warning. He searched the groaning tree-line, but no one appeared, crone or otherwise.

  He felt a great sense of loss. No one brought here would have survived.

  No one before Hollie.

  How many bodies would they eventually locate? Five? Ten?

  Jones’ fist wrapped around his bottle of cool water. Too full to take another drink, he touched the bottle to his forehead.

  “Jean-Luc, might I ask you a favour?” Jones asked, as he tugged at his shirt and grimaced. “I don’t suppose you carry spare coveralls in your vehicle?”

  Jean-Luc removed his képi and waved it in front of his face. “You wish to change from your clothes, yes? But of course, mon ami, I am so sorry I did not think to offer. We always carry spare clothing. We never know how long we will be away from base. And we sometimes need to take away the vêtements … the clothing of suspects for examination.”

  Once again, Jones found himself impressed by his newfound friend’s empathy. They tracked to the remaining Renault and Jean-Luc handed him one of half a dozen packages stored in a plastic crate. It contained a dark-blue one-piece, one-size-fits-all uniform wrapped in cellophane, an individually wrapped bar of hospitality soap, and a small towel. A care package from the angels.

  “David,” Jean-Luc said with a sympathetic smile. “In the tool shed there is a sink with running water. You will not need to use the stream again, unless you prefer to.”

  Jones couldn’t believe his luck. He scuttled with his treasure-trove to the barn where he found the ceramic sink with a tap that issued clear cold water. Jones stripped off his outer garments and bundled them into the empty carrier. He luxuriated in the crisp fragrance of the soap and had worn the tiny cake down to the nub by the time he was ready to use the wonderful, scratchy towel. The crisply starched cotton one-piece fitted well enough, after he turned up the cuffs on the sleeves and legs. He returned to the courtyard a smiling new man. He only needed a shave to complete the transformation, but a razor would be too much to expect, or to ask for.

  “You look much better, David.”

  “Thanks. Getting out of those filthy clothes is fantastic.” He raised the package. “You’ll need these for evidence.”

  Jean-Luc nodded to Sergeant Brunö who took the package and headed back to his equipment. Clean and revived, Jones took the time to look around. The gendarmes stood in a group, eating. Brunö busied himself with the communications equipment, and Jean-Luc jotted notes on a pad.

  After a few minutes, Jean-Luc paused in his note-taking and barked orders at his men. They immediately broke away from the impromptu cafe and resumed their searches. Moments later, torch beams sliced through the woods and sporadic radio traffic broke the silence.

  The sun dipped behind the western hills and dusk settled in the valley. Jones cast his eyes to the sky. “If your forensics team doesn’t get here soon it’ll be too dark to land.”

  “They will arrive in five minutes. But before then perhaps we can discuss the case?”

  “Please do.”

  “One thing puzzles me,” Jean-Luc continued.

  “Only one?”

  Jean-Luc tilted his head, and smiled. “Ah, I see you have a sense of humour, my friend. The question I have is this. Why would the pédophiles use the cellar in the house when they have the facility in the barn?”

  “Been wondering that myself. It may have been a way of softening up the new victims.”

  “Excusez-moi? Softening up?”

  “Perhaps they used the cellar as a shock tactic to make the new arrivals more compliant. Why else would they have stored body-parts in the freezer? It was asking for discovery. Maybe they killed those victims before the observation room became operational. Maybe Green-eyes used it as an alternate backdrop for their hideous movies. A change of film set, if you will. I don’t know, but I’ll be sure to ask the bastards when we catch them.”

  “Them?”

  “Yes. This is has to be the work of a group. Flynn and Green-eyes couldn’t do all this alone. This sort of operation is hugely expensive and will have an international perspective. There’ll be a distribution network and a list of customers somewhere. Without customers, there’s no profit, and no profit, no business. There’ll be a money trail.”

  “Ah yes, follow the money.”

  “Exactly. And it won’t all have been done via telecommunications. Some of it would have been face-to-face. And I want all of them, every sick one, locked away for a very long time.”

  A dark shadow blotted out what remained of the light and the whooping, drumming sound of a twin-engine transport helicopter split the silence. The wash from its rotor blades pushed dust, leaves, and loose rubbish into the air, forming helical dust devils at Jones’ feet. He turned his head and clamped his eyes shut while the chopper banked and made its final approach to land in the field outside the wall.

  “That’ll be the forensics team then,” he said.

  Nice one, Jones. Sharp as a bloody knife, mate.

  18

  Early Friday evening - Flight BM365

  Time since Flynn’s death: five hours

  Hollie spent the flight staring through the window as first sea and then land passed below the wing. Alex spent much of the time wondering how to help her young charge cope with the after-effects of the abduction and the killing of Flynn. Cuts and bruises heal quickly, but emotional stress was a different matter.

  Alex cared nothing for the loss of Flynn, the animal deserved no better, but she should have stopped Hollie getting the
knife.

  Fan också—shit!

  Alex would never forgive herself if her lack of concentration led to bad things for Hollie and the boss.

  “Do you need some water, Hollie? Something to eat?”

  Alex brushed the girl’s forearm and she jumped, but her gaze remained fixed on the world outside the fuselage.

  “It will be wonderful to reach home, yes?”

  Hollie tucked her chin into her chest but did not take her eyes from the window. What did she see out there? The cellar? The blood pumping from the wound in Flynn’s back?

  And what of David Jones tackling the powerfully-built Ellis Flynn with nothing more than pepper spray and a truncheon? She smiled at the memory of the quiet, unassuming policeman who looked frail enough that a light wind might knock him off his feet.

  After taking down Flynn, the ‘old man’, as Ryan called the boss behind his back, looked so dishevelled. So what? Normal? Yes, that was it. His usual impeccable tidiness shattered. Phil Cryer once used the phrase, ‘prim and proper’ to describe the boss. Alex had looked it up in her English phrasebook at the time and laughed. The description suited David Jones to perfection. But today, after tackling Flynn he looked, well, magnificent. Messy hair, scratched face, dirty hands, and stubbly chin—a Hollywood action hero.

  Bruce Willis with a full head of hair and an air of quiet heroism.

  She and the boss had done a good thing that day. Ellis Flynn was now dead and could harm no others. Hollie was safe, headed for the love and support of her family, and counselling. Hopefully, she would heal.

  Others had not been so lucky.

  Alex closed her eyes and considered the list in her pocket—the list of names. Three girls, three daughters, probably dead. Attached to the list were three inconsolable families. To lose a loved one is a terrible thing. What would she do without her beloved Julie?

  Alex could not wait to reach home and hold her wife tight. The return to normality would help her cope with the memory of a deeply trying day.

  Jenkins hadn’t believed his eyes when he first spotted the little bitch, Hottie, and the buxom copper, Blondie, at the airport. Perhaps his luck had changed for the better—and not before time.

  He now had a damned near perfect view of them both. They sat on the opposite side of the centre aisle from him, three rows ahead. The girl spent the whole flight with her forehead pressed against the window. Blondie spoke to her occasionally, but the little cow never responded.

  He’d make the bitch suffer for what she did to Ellis. But how? What was he going to do when they landed?

  The old bastard, Jones, would have arranged a reception committee at Birmingham. What half-decent copper wouldn’t? If not, and if Hammer arrived in time, they’d take care of Blondie at the airport. Jenkins wouldn’t attempt it alone, not without a gun. The knife was okay for the decrepit Good Samaritan in France, but Blondie could probably handle herself in a fair fight. For her, Jenkins needed a surgical strike, clean and simple. What phrase did Hammer use? ‘Neat and tidy’.

  Yeah, ‘neat and tidy’. Love it.

  So what about Hammer? Jenkins had never met the killer or any of his business associates, but the guy came highly recommended from an unimpeachable source. Dirty coppers had many uses. Hammer’s rep was good enough, faultless even, but whom would he bring? The Nail perhaps?

  Jenkins smiled to himself.

  ‘Hammer and Nail’. Yes. Great title for an action flick.

  He thought about it for a moment. Wouldn’t it be fantastic to make a mainstream movie for a change? Go legit. On the other hand, the profit margins in his current enterprise were so much better, and you didn’t have to worry about paying the actors. Their acting skill didn’t matter either. In any event, he’d have to take care of this little piece of business first.

  Blondie would definitely have to go, but not Hottie, not yet. He had other plans for the murderous little bitch. She killed his Ellis. Stabbed him with his own bloody knife according to what he heard through the bug. He’d make sure she suffered all the torments of perdition. Ellis deserved retribution.

  His divine retribution.

  After getting rid of Blondie, taking the girl would be simple. Then he’d carry on where they’d left off in France. He’d have to relocate, which presented continuity challenges for the product, but he’d deal with that in the editing suite with a bit of judicious cutting and artful lighting. Or maybe he should start again with fresh meat? Make things easier.

  Decisions, decisions.

  He’d have to think about that one. Perhaps things weren’t a complete disaster after all. He’d still have his bit of profitable filmmaking fun. The new release would more than offset his losses from the cottage. But the girl was now damaged goods. Should he cut his losses and start again?

  Replacing poor Ellis for future projects might be difficult. Jenkins knew plenty of good-looking boys who could take Ellis’ place and reel in the pretty fish, but they’d all need training. They’d never replace Ellis in his heart though.

  In all the years they’d known each other, Ellis had never let him down. He always remained faithful, loving, and true. Obedient too.

  For Jenkins, obedience was an essential part of any relationship.

  He’d learnt obedience through the gentle chastisement of his father.

  Jenkins balled his fists and tried not to cry when thinking of the poor man, planted in a pauper’s grave, lamented only by a son and a pious mother. At aged eleven, he vowed over his father’s grave that he’d never die poor. From that point forward, he lied, cheated, stole, and killed to climb out of the gutter and buy a new respectability. He thrived through ruthlessness, cunning, and brains. After all, God gave him brains and self-determination, and by default, sanctioned his activity. God even made sure he was nowhere near the cottage when Jones struck. How fortuitous was that?

  Ergo, God supported his actions.

  Some people might call this a twisted kind of logic, but fuck them. Those people would always be nonentities—the world’s cannon fodder. He was better than they were. He was successful. He was a pillar of the establishment. Nobody could touch him.

  Nobody would take away his good name or his money. Nobody. Not Jones, not Hollie ‘Hottie’ Jardine, and not Her Majesty’s Inspector of fucking Taxes.

  Jenkins relaxed into his seat but kept his eyes on the prey. He bought a bottle of water from the flight attendant but refused her offer of food. One glance at the plastic-wrapped sandwich triangles perched on top of the service trolley in the sweltering heat of the over-full cabin was enough to turn his delicate stomach.

  He sipped the drink and turned his mind to the thorny issue of Jones. What to do with the old bastard? What to do?

  Jesus. Of course!

  The idea hit him with such blinding clarity he couldn’t contain a laugh. Ellis would have approved. He’d have loved the irony. Jones, the bloody Boy Scout, risked everything to rescue the Hottie and had a vested interest in the child’s safety.

  Brilliant!

  Decision made. That only left the logistics.

  While he pondered the details, a smooth-toned pilot announced they were about to make their landing approach. He hoped they’d all had a pleasant flight and would fly with his airline again.

  Jenkins normally travelled business class or better, but as his sainted mother used to say, ‘needs must when the devil drives’. Whatever the fuck that meant.

  The ‘Fasten Seatbelts’ sign lit up with an electronic ‘bing-bong’ and Hollie snapped into life as though the noise activated something in her head. She reached for the lap-strap with trembling hands and said something Alex did not catch.

  “Excuse me, Hollie?”

  “I need to get off this plane. Stifling in here. Can’t breathe.”

  Alex had her answer. Hollie staring out the window must have been her way of battling claustrophobia. A legacy from the cellar? “It will not be long now,” Alex said.

  She helped Hollie fasten the lap-s
trap and the girl rubbed her thighs, as though drying wet palms.

  After a few moments quiet, Hollie spoke again. “Thank you for saving me. I … I’ll never forget you and David as long as I live.” Her chin trembled and she breathed the words quietly.

  Alex grinned.

  “Why are you smiling?”

  “You used his given name. I wondered what his reaction would be if we called him ‘David’ at the office?” She shuddered and Hollie’s shoulders relaxed a little. “We would never put that particular sacrilege to the test. Our sergeant, Phil Cryer, still calls him ’boss’ in public, and David, as you call him, is akin to godfather to his children.”

  Alex rested her hand on top of the girl’s clenched fist. This time she did not flinch.

  “You have an accent.” Hollie lifted her head and their eyes met for the first time since boarding the plane. “Scandinavian?”

  “Yes, I am from a small place in Sweden, Lysekil. It is on our west coast, five-hundred kilometres west from Stockholm.”

  Hollie gave an apologetic smile and shook her head. “I’m sorry. Don’t know anything about Sweden, but I’d love to learn. I’m studying languages at school. What’s Lysekil like?”

  “Beautiful. You would love it. No IKEA for miles,” she smiled, “but we do have meatballs.”

  Hollie’s smile brightened her face.

  Alex continued. “There is caviar and fishing and tourists. We are too far south for the midnight sun but in the summer it is … magnificent. Long, long days. Often sunny and warm. In the winter it is quiet.”

  Hollie’s eyes shone. “Sounds beautiful. Why did you leave?”

  “That is a story for another day.” Alex cast her mind back ten years to when she first met Julie Harris, her one true love. After a fortnight’s blissful exploration, a romance that took her soul, Alex would have followed Julie to the ends of the world, but landed in Birmingham. The tenth anniversary of their meeting was less than a week away and Alex planned a big surprise, which included a visit to Lysekil.