“Please?”
Alex shook her head. “I found love.”
“Would you take me to Lysekil?”
“Maybe one day.”
“Can you teach me some Swedish?”
“Yes of course. Um … I know. Can you say - Alla Danska folket är dumma?”
Hollie frowned in concentration. “Er … Allah Dansker falsket yeah doomaha?”
Alex waggled her head. “Close.”
“What does it mean?”
“It is not good, really. It says, ‘All Danish people are stupid’.” Hollie returned Alex’s grin. “But I do not mean it.”
“The Swedish and the Danish are enemies?”
“Not at all. The friendly rivalry of neighbours. It is the same between England and Scotland, yes?”
“Oh, I see.”
“Now, we need to get ready to land and you must prepare yourself.”
Hollie lowered her head and twisted her fingers in her lap. Her hands shook.
“What is wrong?”
“I’ve been so stupid. I was planning to run away. Broke into my father’s office and stole money and my passport. Don’t know what I’ll say to him.”
“Hollie, listen to me.” Alex spoke quietly. “We all make mistakes. Your mamma och papa wait for you at the airport. I promise they will forgive you. Parents always do. It is their job.”
Alex handed her a tissue. Hollie dabbed her eyes, taking care not to smudge the makeup covering the bruise. They could do nothing but clean the cut on her lower lip, but she looked a million times better than when she and the boss first found her.
The plane made a steep descent and a hard landing, bouncing twice and jagging left. Hollie squealed, grabbed Alex’s hand, and held on tight until they taxied to a complete halt. As soon as the seatbelt sign deactivated, Hollie unsnapped her lap-strap, jumped out of her seat, and brushed past Alex.
“I need to get out.”
She pulled Alex along the aisle and barged to the head of the disembarkation queue to the vocal annoyance of the other passengers. Alex flashed her police warrant card. The complaints subsided, but the angry glares continued.
Scowl if you wish, she thought, but Hollie takes priority.
Alex met the fierce glare of an overweight middle-aged man wrestling his flight bag from the overhead locker. She stared him down and he lowered his gaze.
Alex sneered. The man thought he had been insulted. The little man knew nothing. In her mind, Alex urged him to go home to his food and his wine and thank his God for his easy life.
She threw a protective arm around Hollie’s shoulders and faced the exit door.
A young steward peered out of the window. He held them back while the runway crew secured the mobile staircase before swinging open the door.
The Midlands air, fresh by comparison to the heat of the plane, re-energized Alex and they waited for permission to exit with growing impatience.
The ‘Fasten Seatbelts’ sign glowed bright and took Jenkins by surprise; he had lost himself in thoughts of punishing Jones. The plane descended through sporadic, marshmallow clouds.
Hottie sat up straight and turned to face Blondie. Her eyes scanned the cabin and alighted on Jenkins for a microsecond before moving away. He caught his breath, hooded his eyes, and pretended to wrestle with his seatbelt.
Had she recognised him?
Granny in the next seat lowered her handbag to the floor and showed him a denture-perfect smile. “Would you like me to help you with that seatbelt, dear?”
“Er, no thanks,” he answered. “I … I can manage.”
He must have sounded nervous because the old bitch squeezed her bespectacled eyelids together in what he assumed to be her version of a comforting smile. It made her look like a bulldog with a stomach ulcer.
She continued. “There’s no need to be scared, dear. I fly to see my grandchildren all the time. Aeroplanes are as safe as cars these days.”
Considering what Jenkins had done to the old bat in the Benz, that didn’t say much. He risked a glance up, but Hottie faced forward again, seemingly unaware of his presence.
“Do you have grandchildren?” Granny asked.
“Huh? Er, no. My good lady wife and I weren’t blessed with offspring.”
The woman patted his forearm and nodded sympathetically.
Jenkins’ heart rate returned to normal or as near an approximation of normal as it was going to get under the circumstances.
A couple of the passengers screamed when the undercarriage hit the runway with a heavy thump and the plane skittered sideways before straightening and taxiing to the terminal buildings. The pilot’s urbane tones returned with an apology and an excuse about being surprised by a heavier-than-expected crosswind. Jenkins shot a glance out of his window at the orange windsock hanging limp and motionless from the control tower.
"Fucking liar,” he mumbled.
“Excuse me, dear?” asked Granny.
“Nothing.”
As soon as the seatbelt sign extinguished, Hottie stood and pushed past Blondie. With one small bag each, the two barged along the aisle to the front of the queue at the exit near the cockpit. Jenkins allowed a dozen passengers to filter between him and his prey before turning towards the back of the plane. He waited for the queue to move and ducked to avoid hitting his head on the fuselage rim when he finally stepped through the rear doorway.
To his right, Blondie and the girl skipped down the front staircase. Camera flashes accompanied their descent. Clearly, some asshole had notified the media.
Shit.
Noise from a jostling crowd of reporters near the door of the arrivals building rose in volume as Hollie and Blondie disembarked the plane. More flashes exploded when the two females met a reception committee that included the girl’s parents and four police officers.
That was Plan A out the window.
Of course, DCI-fucking-Jones would have someone waiting for the girl. Jenkins had seen it coming, but it was still a pain in the arse.
He’d move on to Plan B — follow Hollie Jardine, and await a better opportunity.
The early evening sun bounced off the concrete apron. Jenkins shielded his eyes from the glare. A light breeze chilled the sweat on his brow and the stark change in temperature from Brittany and the aircraft made him shiver. He lowered the peak of his cap and pulled his jacket zip up to his neck.
While trying to minimise his limp and hide the stick, Jenkins turned his head as he passed within three metres of the celebrating family group, and merged with the crowd hustling towards the arrivals lounge. He hurried through the forecourt and waited at the empty carousel for his bag to arrive. Jenkins boiled in frustration as the minutes ticked by and his annoyance grew. He gripped the handle of the walking stick and twisted, practising what he was going to do to the neck of the fucker, Jones.
19
Early Friday evening — VIP Suite
Time since Flynn’s death: six hours, thirty minutes
As they descended the steps from the plane, Alex tried to shield Hollie from the camera lenses and the eyes of the reporters camped by the entrance.
“Hollie, keep your head lowered, and stay behind me.”
The group with Mr and Mrs Jardine included Ryan Washington, Charlie Pelham, and two uniformed officers. Alex recognised the first constable but did not know his name. He stood tall and strong, and his broad shoulders and bulging arms stretched his shirt tight. The other constable was the Family Liaison Officer she last saw at the Jardine home. At least Hollie would have another female for company when she and Alex separated.
Dark lines had formed under Frank Jardine’s eyes in the hours since Alex last saw him, and the stubble told a tale. When he saw Hollie, and her damaged face, his mouth formed an ‘oh’, and his eyes glistened. He rushed towards the foot of the staircase. Tears glazed Mrs Jardine’s eyes, but she ignored the handkerchief clutched in her fist in the excitement of her daughter’s return. Each jostled to be the first to reach their chil
d. Ryan, Charlie, and the uniformed officers kept a respectful distance, and their eyes scanned the surroundings.
Hollie stumbled in her haste to scramble down the steps, and threw herself into her father’s open arms.
“Daddy, I’m so sorry.”
Frank Jardine’s response was lost in the background noise from the hubbub of disembarking passengers. The Jardine family’s arms meshed as they hugged in a tight triangle. They simultaneously laughed and cried and embraced, and laughed some more. Mrs Jardine held on tight and repeated, ‘My baby,’ over and over again.
Alex stepped aside to allow them a moment’s privacy. They needed as much alone time as they could find. Time to heal.
Ryan tapped her arm. “Nice one, girl,” he said. Alex gave him a quick hug.
She glanced at Charlie Pelham who lifted his chin in scant acknowledgement of her presence and then turned away.
Charlie’s intervention, calculated to cause the boss embarrassment, turned out to be helpful in the end. Alex could not wait to see how the boss reacted on his return from Brittany.
“Where’s the boss?” Charlie demanded. He leaned to the side to see around Alex as though fearing David Jones was hiding behind her, ready to pounce.
“He stayed in France.”
“Not in any trouble for going over there without permission, I hope?” The sharp glint behind the eyes of Charlie Pelham showed his concern as a lie.
“Not at all, Sergeant Pelham,” Alex said, trying not to sneer. “In fact they begged him to stay and help with their investigation. The evidence suggests there are at least three British girls buried out there. The case is very large and very important. If not for the boss, Hollie would have been added to the list of the dead. The Ellis Flynn case will cause ripples around the world, and the name, David Jones, will be forever associated with it. He is a hero.”
Charlie Pelham snorted and turned to follow the Jardines and their escort towards the VIP entrance.
Ryan Washington fell into step beside Alex. “Damn it, girl, you kept everything so quiet. Why didn’t you call me? I’d have jumped at the chance to help the old man. Don’t know why he called you and not me. I have seniority, after all.”
“Yes, Ryan. By three whole days. But he did not call me. In fact, he did his best to stop me going. He did not want any of us involved in case he got into trouble. He was trying to protect us.”
“I understand that, but why did he take you?”
Alex stood tall. “I convinced him he needed a translator and someone to help with Hollie. A woman was essential, no? And, he could not stop me even if he wanted. I am bigger than he.”
Ryan gave her a one-sided smile, which made his hooked nose stand out even further from his gaunt face. “Fair enough,” he said. “So, changing the subject, this Colonel Coué, what’s he like?”
“I would say Jean-Luc Coué is a very good police officer. And a good man.”
“Must be a decent sort. Could have kicked up a real stink.” Ryan smiled. “I’d love to have seen the old man take down Flynn. It must have been a hell of a sight. I mean, the boss doesn’t look like he packs much of a punch.”
“I did not see the fight. I saw the result only. When I arrived Flynn was already down on the ground.”
Alex prepared for the dreaded next logical question. How did Hollie get the opportunity to kill Flynn? But before Ryan could ask, the clamour of voices and clatter of approaching footsteps interrupted their conversation. The media people, armed with cameras, microphones, and recording devices, burst through the barrier tapes in the arrivals paddock and dashed across the concrete towards them.
“Knulla! Who warned them of our arrival?” Alex yelled, and rushed to protect Hollie. With Ryan at her side acting as a defence shield, they hurried the family towards the sanctuary of the VIP lounge.
On reaching the double-doors, Pelham stepped across and raised both hands, taking the opportunity to have his moment in the spotlight.
“Ladies and gentlemen, as you can see, Hollie Jardine is safe and sound, thanks to the efficient professionalism of my team. We’ll be taking her to Queen Elizabeth’s for a check up. Please respect the family’s privacy during this sensitive time. We will be issuing a statement later this evening and will arrange a press conference for tomorrow morning.” He ducked through the opening and slammed the doors behind him. “Damned vultures,” he said, smirking.
“Bloody hell, Charlie. What did you mean, ‘your team’?” A red-faced Ryan seethed. “You did fuck all and wanted to hand the whole thing over to the French. And why the fuck did you tell them she was going to the hospital? The poor girl won’t be given a moment’s peace.”
“Don’t talk to me like that, DC Washington,” Charlie Pelham snapped. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Yeah? Like you knew what you were up to when you tried to drop the old man in the shit?” Ryan’s chin jutted forward in challenge, his eyes aflame.
“Don’t know what you mean.” Charlie Pelham glanced across to Alex. She held his gaze and Pelham looked away.
Ryan lowered his voice. “He told you not to talk to the French until he checked out Flynn’s place. You could have screwed the whole operation.”
“Operation?” Charlie Pelham made a throwaway gesture with his hand. “That wasn’t an ‘operation’. That was the old man playing the vigilante. I weren’t going to stand by and have my reputation sullied if he screwed up.”
Charlie Pelham checked to make sure the Jardines were out of earshot and jabbed the index finger of his right hand repeatedly into the palm of his left. “I went by the book and that’s exactly what the old man’s always banging on about.” He sniffed. “Nah. I don’t have nothing to be ashamed of. Did the right thing. And more to the point, Superintendent Peyton agrees with me.”
Ryan shook his head and glared at his overweight superior officer. “I dare say old Duggie Peyton agrees with everything you told him, and he might even remember it in the morning, when he sobers up.”
“That’s enough of that, Constable.”
Charlie Pelham straightened his tie and turned from Ryan to be confronted by Alex who barred his way. “Who told the press we were going to be here?” she asked, barely able to contain a growl.
Charlie Pelham looked in the direction of the Jardines. “I have absolutely no idea. Now stand aside DC Olganski. Right now!”
Alex wanted to gouge the smug sergeant’s eyes out with her thumbs, but not even the boss could save her if she lost that much control, although the satisfaction gained might make the sacrifice worthwhile. She hesitated a moment and flexed her fingers, but stepped back. Pelham strutted by her, chest out, as though he had won a great victory.
Inside the haven of the first-class lounge, all pastel yellows, and pale browns, the family stopped and searched the place in confusion. Frank Jardine released his daughter’s hand for the first time since the runway, and turned to Alex. He looked lost. “Where’s passport control. We need to get Hollie out of here.”
Ryan shot Charlie Pelham a look of such contempt it needed no subtitles, and stepped between him and the Jardines. He pointed to the uniformed constables. “These officers will take you through the priority gates and escort you to Queen Elizabeth’s Hospital. They’ll stay with you until the doctors have examined Hollie. Alex and I will be along tomorrow to take statements, but for the moment we want Hollie to have as much peace and quiet as she needs.”
Hollie broke free of her mother’s embrace and closed on Alex. “Aren’t you coming with us?”
Alex hesitated, but could not ignore the desperation in her voice, or the look of fear on her face. “Yes, okay. I will stay with you until the hospital, but need to go home once you are booked in. Okay?”
Frank Jardine beckoned Hollie and she returned to the family fold.
Another commotion, this time at a security door, caused them to turn.
Ryan cursed. “What the hell? How did that mollusc bypass security?”
The local reporter
, ‘Old’ Lucas Wilson, together with a man holding a camera, forced their way towards the Jardines. Wilson’s habit of wearing a dishevelled tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows earned him the nickname ‘Old’, but the creep had yet to reach his late twenties.
Never the most subtle of journalists, Wilson fired off the inevitable series of inane questions, each straight from chapter one of the ‘Manual for Inept Reporters’. He waved a pencil and notebook and yelled.
“How does it feel to be home, safe and sound?”
“What happened to Ellis Flynn?”
“What do you think of DCI Jones?”
“Can you give us a quote?”
“Can we have an exclusive interview for the Chronicle?”
As the questions flew, the cameraman took shot after blinding shot of the startled family who huddled together—deer trapped in a hunter’s telescopic night-sight. Hollie yelped and pressed her face into her father’s chest. Her mother threw a protective arm around Hollie’s shoulders and screamed at the press to go away.
“Jävla skitstövel! That is enough!”
Alex advanced three paces, grabbed Wilson by his left wrist, and twisted it outwards, away from his body. The reporter squealed, dropped the notepad, and snatched his arm away, elbowing the photographer. The 35mm camera spilled from his hand and landed with an expensive-sounding crack on the border of ceramic flooring tiles surrounding the bar. Its telephoto lens snapped away from the camera’s body, which broke with a loud crack. The lens rolled under a sofa.
The paparazzo’s jaw dropped. He strangled a cry and dived to collect the broken pieces. Alex beat him to it and retrieved the camera. She snapped open the small retaining cover, removed the memory card, and dropped it into a discarded glass half full of red wine.
“Oops,” said Alex, and frowned to Ryan. “Is that what is called in England being a ‘butter-fingers’?”
Ryan smiled and wagged a finger at her. “That’s exactly what we say. You’d better apologise to the nice man. As I understand those things are rather pricey.” He took a step closer to Wilson. “Now then sir, do you have any more ridiculous questions, or should I charge you with obstructing a police inquiry?”
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