Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  “Wanton destruction is what I call that … and assault. You wait ‘til I have a word with my editor. You can’t treat the press like this.”

  Before Charlie Pelham could intervene, Ryan took another step towards Wilson who backed into the bar and nudged a beer glass. It wobbled but did not fall.

  “I think you’d better leave before you cause any more damage, sir. Those tumblers are as costly as this idiot’s lens,” Ryan said, and waved a dismissive hand.

  The reporter and his chastened colleague backed towards the exit accompanied by a round of applause from the smattering of first-class patrons.

  “What the hell do you two think you’re doing?” Charlie Pelham shouted. His ruddy, puffed-out face threatened to explode. “You can’t go around attacking the press; we need to keep them on our side.”

  “Is that why you were sucking up to the bastards out there?” Ryan said, his finger pointing to the runway.

  Alex turned her back on them and nodded to the constables who formed a barrier in front of the Jardines. From the corner of her eye, she saw Charlie Pelham talking in a huddle with ‘Old’ Lucas Wilson. They looked friendly—too friendly. Was the correct term, ‘thick as thieves’? She would look up the phrase when she reached home.

  The group pushed their way through the concourse and shepherded the Jardines to a waiting border guard who checked Hollie’s passport.

  Alex followed in close attendance. Once outside the building, she called Julie, said she loved her, and asked her to put dinner on hold.

  20

  Friday evening - Calls to Home

  Time since Flynn’s death: eight hours

  The big transport helicopter banked and hovered above the farm, searching for a landing spot. One of Jean-Luc’s men stood in the field on the other side of the wall waving a torch. A pair of powerful beams erupted from the chopper’s underbelly, one from its nosecone and the other on its tail, shattering the dusk. The collar of Jones’ boiler suit flapped at his neck. Choking dust coated his nostrils. He sneezed.

  Before the helicopter touched down, Sergeant Brunö called and waved from his comms tent. His actions screamed ‘urgent’. Jones tried hard to follow the rapid, two-way radio conversation between Jean-Luc and someone, probably a colleague. His excitement rose when Jean-Luc mentioned Flynn’s missing Citroën, but dipped again when the Colonel’s shoulders sagged and his voice took on a bitter edge.

  Jean-Luc ended the radio conversation with what sounded like an expletive and slammed the microphone on the camping table. He stormed from the tent and slumped against the cottage wall, ripping off the latex gloves and tucking them into his pocket. Jones couldn’t help thinking how much support the old wall had offered them both that day.

  The colonel stared at the ground between his feet and massaged his temples with his index and middle fingers.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Jean-Luc stared up at Jones through heavy lids. “My search teams found the empty Citroën of monsieur Flynn. Sixty-five kilometres west of here.”

  “Great,” he said, “at last we’ve something to go on. The accomplice might have left some physical evidence behind.”

  The gendarme frowned and shook his head slowly. “He left far more than that, mon ami.” Jean-Luc glanced at Jones for a moment, unable to hide the pain and anger in his normally controlled expression. “The man abandoned the Citroën on a deserted road in the countryside. He tried to burn the vehicle, but there was no essence, er … petrol in the tank and the car did not ignite.”

  “Excellent, it means he didn’t destroy all the evidence and he can’t have gone far.”

  Jean-Luc glanced at his open hands, they trembled, “Le salopard stole another vehicle and murdered its driver in the process.”

  “Oh God.”

  “Yes. An old lady, madame Deauville, she had seventy-three years of age.” Jean-Luc chewed on his lower lip and stared at the helicopter as it settled and cut its engines. “The murderer sliced her throat and dumped her body in a fossé … a ditch at the side of the road. C'est catastrophique.”

  The shock and anger on Jean-Luc’s face told Jones plenty. Here was a man with genuine compassion. If Jean-Luc’s benign and thoughtful treatment of Hollie hadn’t told Jones enough about the man’s character, his reaction to the news of yet another murder in his jurisdiction certainly did. Jones felt for the man, but an obvious question occurred and demanded an answer.

  Jones reached across to drop a hand on Jean-Luc’s forearm but decided against it. Never one for the touchy-feely stuff, he allowed his arm to fall. “I am so sorry, Jean-Luc, but how do you know the victim’s name and age?”

  “Excuse me? Oh, I see. The local gendarme recognised the woman from his village. He gave us a description of the missing car. A Mercedes Benz. My people are looking for it now. But it is strange, no?”

  “What?”

  “Why did monsieur Green-eyes leave the victim’s body at the side of the road where it would be found? Why not put her in the trunk of the stolen car?”

  “Yes, I wondered that too. He’s starting to make mistakes. How big was the victim?” Jones asked.

  “One metre-fifty-five. Slim. No more than sixty-five kilos.”

  “Interesting. Even as dead weight, most men would be able to lift a body of that size into the car boot.” Jones tried to think. “Is his physical condition, his limp, more debilitating than we thought? I wonder what’s wrong with him.”

  A dull light switched on in Jones’ head. Something scratched away at his mind, trying to dig to the surface. He’d missed something.

  Come on man, think.

  Jean-Luc jerked away from the wall and straightened his tunic, the professional demeanour restored.

  Jones tried to clear his mind. The answer would come if he didn’t try to force it. He looked down at their footprints in the dust.

  Footprints.

  “Bloody hell!”

  “What is it, mon ami?”

  “The prints by the camper. I’m a bloody fool.”

  Jones spun on his heels and sprinted across the concrete courtyard. Jean-Luc followed and his size twelve boots clomped in pursuit. As they darted around the corner of the house and approached the barn, Jones skidded to a halt and peered down. His shoulders slumped in much the same way Jean-Luc’s had done a few moments earlier.

  As he’d feared, the downwash from the helicopter had obliterated the scuffmarks in the dust. He turned to the slim Frenchman whose breathing rate had barely increased while Jones sucked in air like an asthmatic in a sandstorm. Sweat prickled his hairline and damp patches darkened the armpits of his fresh coverall. “Jean-Luc, please tell me you had photos taken of the tracks.”

  “But of course. Sergeant Brunö has the images loaded onto the server. What do you have?”

  “Not certain. I need to see the pictures.”

  The return march to the front of the house gave Jones time to clear his head and recover his breath. Jean-Luc spoke into his personal radio, and by the time they reached the courtyard, the quietly efficient Brunö had loaded a photo library.

  Jones leaned over the man’s shoulder and peered at the main VDU screen. “Permettez-moi?” he said.

  Wow, the schoolboy French is coming back.

  Brunö raised his eyebrows, rose from his packing-crate seat, and indicated Jones should take his place. Jones sat still, trying to remember what to do to make the images scroll across the screen. He’d seen Phil, Alex, and Ryan do this hundreds of times, there was a button somewhere but he’d never taken the time to learn how do to it himself.

  Bloody idiot.

  Jean-Luc came to his aide. “Our photo gallery program must be different from yours, David. Click the enlarge button. It is the green icon with the big box. No, that is minimize. Up to the left. There. Now double click it with the left button. Now press that right arrow and you will advance the pictures one at a time. Hold it down to move quickly through the gallery.”

  Jones did as instructed a
nd the image on the screen changed. In five taps, the picture he needed appeared, close-up and in brilliant colour. “There. Do you see?” He pointed at the circular holes next to the scuffed shoe-prints. “What do they look like to you?”

  “I do not know—a pole or a stick? A walking stick?”

  “Yes. Don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”

  The next thought hit Jones like a blow to the stomach and the temperature in the comms tent seemed to drop about ten degrees.

  “Where exactly did Green-eyes abandon the Citroën?”

  “Huh?” Jean-Luc frowned. He was doing a lot of that lately. “What did you say?”

  “Where did you find the Citroën?”

  “It is due west of here, in the general direction of Brest.” He pointed to a place on the map Sergeant Brunö had uploaded onto his monitor.

  Brest? Oh hell no.

  “When was the old lady killed?”

  “The local doctor puts time of death at between fifteen-hundred and sixteen-thirty hours. Why?”

  “Don’t you see? Green-eyes went to the airport. He’s following the girl!” Jones checked the time on his watch: 20:38. The plane would have landed in Birmingham over an hour ago. “Hell, I need to call Alex. Right away.”

  With a growing sense of helplessness and desperation, Jones reached for his mobile and hit speed-dial ***4, now he had a signal following Brunö’s efforts with the comms equipment. While Jones paced the courtyard waiting for the call to connect, Jean-Luc took his place at the console and hit a series of keys before reaching for the microphone again. Jones pointed to the mike and raised his chin in question. A sparkle of excitement appeared in the Frenchman’s eyes and he answered Jones’ unasked question with a grim smile. “I have an idea.” Jean-Luc raised an index finger and turned his back to make the call.

  Alex’s mobile went straight to voicemail. Jones tried to convince himself she’d forgotten to turn her mobile back on after disembarking the plane. He left a message and dialled her landline.

  “Hello? Alex?”

  “Hi, you’ve reached the haven of peace that is the home of Julie and Alex. As you can gather, we’re not here at the moment. Wait for the tone and, well … you know what to do.”

  “Alex?” Frustration combined with worry boiled Jones’ blood. “If you’re there, please pick up. This is DCI Jones … Alex? I tried your mobile but there’s no answer. Listen carefully.” He gave her the latest news and finished with, “Stay with Hollie at the hospital until I can organise a protection detail. The gendarmes have set up a satellite system so I can receive calls here now. Get back to me on my mobile as soon as you receive this message.”

  Jean-Luc wore a headset and sat in front of the TV monitor. He tapped at the keyboard and spoke in quick, authoritative bursts.

  What’s he up to?

  Jones hit the ***1 speed-dial and paced for an infuriating minute and a half before the desk-jockey answered.

  “Holton Police Station Command and Control Unit. How may I direct your call?” The young woman’s voice was hesitant. She sounded unsure of her lines.

  “This is DCI David Jones, Serious Crime Unit. I don’t recognise your voice. Who is this?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not at liberty to tell you my name. How may I direct your call?”

  “Put me through to the senior duty officer on call, immediately.”

  “I have instructions not to put any calls through to the Superintendent until I have verified the caller’s identification. May I have your warrant card number, please?”

  Jones cursed under his breath and repeated his badge number by rote. “Now, please put me through to Superintendent Peyton. This is urgent.”

  “I am sorry, sir, but I am required to call you back to confirm you are who you say you are. Please hang up and I will call the mobile number we have on file.”

  “Wait! I’m in France. You’ll need to use the international dialling —” The line went dead. “Hello?”

  Silence.

  “Hello, are you still there? Damn it! What in the hell’s going on?”

  Jones snapped the phone closed and stared at its display clock. The seconds ticked by while he waited with growing anger for the idiot at the call desk to ring him back. After two minutes, he nearly threw the phone at the wall in frustration. He hit the redial button and, eventually, the same voice answered.

  “Holton Police Station, Command and Control Unit, how may I—”

  “This is DCI Jones again. You rang off before I could tell you I am in France. Damn it woman, who are you?”

  “I am the out-of-hours service receptionist, sir,” she answered stiffly, “and there is no need for that tone.”

  “When did we outsource the reception desk?”

  “My company took over this morning.”

  On a Friday? Why wasn’t I told?

  Jones paused a moment before saying, “I’m sorry, but this really is a matter of life and death. Please put me through to Superintendent Peyton. I promise you won’t get into any trouble.”

  After another endless pause, the line clicked and a loop of insufferable electronic music dripped water torture into his ear.

  “That you, Chief Inspector?”

  “Superintendent Peyton. Sorry to be abrupt, sir, but you need to listen carefully. Hollie Jardine is still in danger.”

  “Hollie Jardine? You mean the runaway? DS Pelham briefed me this afternoon. I don’t know what you thought you were doing running off to France on a whim. You’ll have a disciplinary board to face when you return, you bloody fool. DC Olganski’s in trouble too, but I guess we can protect her as she acted under orders.”

  “You heard what we found here?”

  “Some sort of farm, right? Possible crime scene?”

  “Yes, sir. And it’s not just a farm, it’s a house of horrors. Underground torture chambers, one-way mirrors, rusted knives, secret access points.”

  “Um … oh dear. Serious eh? I suppose you ought to be congratulated for uncovering a major incident and apparently saving the girl, but get back here, pronto. Leave the rest of the investigation to the French. The farm’s on their turf and they can pick up the bill for the forensics. And by the way, who’s paying for your little jaunt?”

  Who’s paying? What the bloody hell?

  “If you’re worried about the budget, sir, I’ll cough for the damned tickets myself.”

  “Mind your tone with me, Chief Inspector. I’m your superior officer and don’t you forget that.”

  Jones bit back the obvious knee-jerk response and spoke with as much calm as he could manage. “Superintendent Peyton, I have reason to believe Hollie Jardine, the girl who was abducted yesterday afternoon, is still in great danger.”

  “Go on … how?”

  Jones told him about Green-eyes, Madame Deauville’s murder and the man’s suspected destination.

  “So what do you expect me to do at this time of night?”

  “Call in an Armed Response Unit. I want a protection detail on the Jardines. Right now.”

  “Don’t be so melodramatic, Chief Inspector. Miss Jardine and DC Olganski were met at the airport by her parents and four police officers, including DS Pelham and DC Washington.”

  “That’s not enough. She needs an armed guard. We’re talking about a multiple murderer here.”

  “Nonsense. The two constables will escort her to hospital and take turns on guard duty. I’m certainly not going to send in an ARU on the off chance this crippled man might be after her. Do you have any idea how much that would cost?”

  “Damn the cost, sir. Hollie’s life is in danger. Why the hell won’t you listen?”

  “Chief Inspector, don’t you dare use that tone with me. I understand you’re overwrought and wrapped up in this girl’s story, but this is for your own good. We might be able to save your career now you’ve apparently rescued the girl from something horrible, but if I send in an ARU on false alarm you’ll be laughed off the force.”

&
nbsp; “What the hell’s the matter with you … sir?” Jones couldn’t prevent his voice rising to a shout. Jean-Luc and the stocky Sergeant Brunö turned to stare. He lowered his voice. “Let me ask you this. What happens if Hollie is killed on your watch, while I’m stuck here in France?”

  Silence.

  “Sir?”

  “Listen. Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll run this past the Deputy Chief Constable and see if he’ll okay the budget. I can’t be fairer than that. In the meantime, you do what you can to smooth Anglo-French police relationships, and get back here on the next available plane. Let’s see if we can’t make this right. Okay?”

  Damn your bloody eyes, sir.

  Jones knew what the man was up to. Passing the buck upstairs, covering his useless arse. Superintendent Douglas Peyton was one of the worst kinds of police officers: useless, careless, and obstructive.

  “Sir, you’re breaking up. Hello? Did you say something? Can’t hear you … battery’s dying …”

  Jones broke the connection and gripped the phone so hard his knuckles cracked. He wondered how much force it would take to break the casing. He also wondered what Jean-Luc was up to at the communications desk. But another question stood uppermost in his mind. This one wouldn’t allow him to rest. Why didn’t Alex answer her phone?

  21

  Friday evening - Birmingham International Airport

  Time since Flynn’s death: eight hours, twenty minutes

  Jenkins spent a monstrously frustrating twenty-five minutes stewing in the baggage area waiting for his case to appear on the slow-moving beltway. He checked the bag into the hold at Brest to avoid it being searched, but the added delay now caused him palpitations. A further quarter-hour spent in another apparently infinite queue at passport control had him spitting flames.

  Despite the stomach-churning, fear-inducing attentions of a suspicious officer from the UK Border Agency, Jenkins’ second stolen passport—this one modified to reflect his lack of hair and natural eye colour, did its job, for the final time. He had plenty of other IDs ready to go. After today, John C Jenkins would be no more. A name consigned to the dustbin of history. A past that never was.