Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  He dropped his small bag onto a trolley and pushed it through to the concourse slowly to minimise his limp. He searched the forecourt. Where was Hammer and, more to the point, what the fuck did he look like?

  Individuals, couples, family groups, uniformed officials, cleaners, baggage-handlers driving carts towing trains of wire-encased luggage, all jostled for his attention and hampered his search. Old people pushed carts loaded with bags, and new arrivals greeted loved-ones. The bastards all got in his way.

  He climbed a staircase to a balcony for a better view and answered with relief the moment his phone vibrated. “Yes?”

  “Where are you and what are you wearing?” asked the deep-voiced Hammer.

  Jenkins told him.

  “Scratch your ear. Okay, got you. Leave by Exit B. Head for the main car park. Walk slowly.”

  Hammer’s voice hadn’t lost any of its menace since the last call. In fact, knowing the man was so close made it more threatening—if that were possible.

  Jenkins descended the stairs and crossed the hall as fast as his crumbling back would allow. He continued through the automatic exit doors, checked the signage, and turned left. He stopped every few metres to rest his back and give Hammer time to check for a tail.

  A man materialised at his side, ghostlike, and said, “You’re clear.”

  Jenkins jumped.

  Hammer? Jesus Christ where’d he come from?

  At least Jenkins assumed it was Hammer. He hadn’t heard the hired killer approach. One second he was alone, the next he had company. Simple as that.

  The man didn’t look particularly threatening. Average height and weight, bland face, no distinguishing features. He wore black trousers, dark trainers, and a dark blue polo shirt under a sober golf sweater, grey with a dark blue panther logo. He might have passed for a tourist in any airport in the world. The epitome of nondescript. Jenkins grinned. Nobody would look at the guy twice. The perfect undercover man.

  “This way,” Hammer sad, and led him to an inconspicuous blue Nissan Micra. Hammer keyed the lock and Jenkins dumped his bag in the back.

  Once inside the car, Hammer removed a headphone bud from his ear. He pressed a button on the steering wheel and tuned the radio to the BBC news. “You’ll want to hear this.”

  Hammer’s voice rumbled low in the car’s confined cabin.

  Jenkins opened his mouth to ask a question, but Hammer raised a finger to his lips and pointed to the radio. “Wait.”

  Who’s the fucking boss here?

  Jenkins fumed, but he was not about to argue. Wouldn’t want to antagonise a man with twenty-eight confirmed kills to his name, and that total was going to increase before the end of the week. Jenkins bided his time, but he wouldn’t be able to wait long before exploding.

  While the late-evening news droned on, Hammer fired up the Micra and drove out of the car park at a sedate twenty-five mph. At least they were on their way. The movement calmed Jenkins’ jangling nerves.

  As instructed, Jenkins listened to the radio and wondered what the fuck had happened to Hottie.

  A speech by the Chancellor of the Exchequer meant to calm the markets had led to a run on the pound; a hurricane in Guatemala sucked the roof off a church and killed the congregation of one-hundred and twenty-odd pious souls.

  “Here it comes. They broke the story before you landed,” Hammer said, as their road merged with the A45, headed towards the M6, and Birmingham City Centre.

  “And finally, in a remarkable good-news story, we can tell you that the missing fourteen year-old, Hollie Jardine, has been found alive and well. She was rescued by Detective Chief Inspector David Jones of the Midlands Constabulary.

  “The twice-decorated holder of the Police Bravery Award, and thirty-year veteran, DCI Jones and a colleague organised a joint operation with the Brittany police to rescue the kidnapped girl. It appears that the abductor, whose name has not been released, died whilst trying to avoid capture. But the details are …”

  Jenkins slammed his hand on the dashboard panel. “The lying bastards. That’s not what happened.”

  Hammer’s mouth twitched. It was the first expression Jenkins had seen on the man’s face.

  “Hollie is now at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital, Edgbaston. When asked for details as to her condition, the hospital spokesperson refused …”

  Jenkins killed the radio and turned to face his hired assassin. “You saw her get off the plane?”

  He nodded. “Got here just in time. The cops bypassed the standard arrivals gate and took her through the VIP lounge.”

  “What about the blonde copper, is she still with the girl?”

  Hammer nodded his shaven head. “Far as I know. Roy, my oppo, followed them in a taxi.” He brought the Micra up to the maximum motorway speed—seventy mph. “Where to?” Hammer kept his voice low, but it carried more than enough force to drown out the noise of the high-revving engine. Jenkins wondered whether the man could shatter gravel with a voice that low.

  “Call Roy-the-Nail. I want the bitch copper done right away.”

  Hammer’s cheek twitched again. “Roy-the-Nail? Hammer and Nail. Hmm, hardly original.”

  Jenkins shot a surreptitious glance at his driver whose dead, coal black eyes stared, unblinking, at the road ahead.

  Despite the late hour, Friday night traffic on the M6 ground to an inevitable halt behind the usual gauntlet of road works and the sheer number of vehicles. Hammer fished a mobile from his trouser pocket, pressed a button, and said, “Roy-the-Nail, speak to your new boss.” He handed the phone to Jenkins.

  “‘Ello, Hammer. How’s it hanging? What d’you call me? The Nail? Ha. Love it.”

  “This is Jenkins. You’ve been following the copper, Blondie?”

  “Oh, hello, sir. Er … yeah. That’s right.” The Nail’s young voice, although normal, sounded almost feminine by comparison with his partner-in-killing. “Went straight home after dropping the girl at the hospital. Got here ‘bout five minutes ago. Met a skinny brunette at the door and they kissed. Hey, what about that? The copper’s a fuckin’ dyke.”

  “Irrelevant. I want her and her partner dead by morning and I don’t care how you do it. If there’s a dog, a cat, or a fucking budgie kill them too. But watch out … Blondie looks like she can handle herself.”

  The Nail let out a high-pitched chuckle. The sound sent a tremor down the fine hairs on the back of Jenkins’ neck. “I’d like to handle her, Guv, if you know what I mean. Tasty looking tarts, the both of them. Don’t you worry ‘bout nothing. You want me to wait ‘til you get here?”

  Jenkins pressed ‘mute’, and turned to Hammer. “Sounds a bit … high strung. Does he know what he’s doing?”

  “Huh?”

  “The Nail, is he any good?”

  Hammer glowered. “Wouldn’t have brought him along if he wasn’t.”

  Jenkins stared at Hammer. A cheek twitch and a glower, he wondered whether that was the killer’s whole repertoire of emotions.

  “What’s his speciality?”

  “Arson.”

  “Perfect.” Jenkins released the ‘mute’. “Torch the place. Make sure neither of them gets out alive.”

  Jenkins cut the line on a second chuckle.

  “Where to?” Hammer asked.

  “I’m feeling a little unwell. Take me to the hospital.”

  Jenkins’ killer-for-hire reversed the Micra into the nearest free space to the main hospital entrance. It wasn’t that close.

  “We’re five bloody minutes’ walk away from the admissions building. Useless for a fast getaway with a reluctant passenger. And I don’t like the idea of going in there under prepared.” Jenkins waved a hand in front of his face. “There’ll be security cameras all over the place.”

  “No sweat.” The man-of-few-words grunted as he retrieved a well-filled sports bag from the back seat. He peeled back the zip and handed Jenkins a pair of tinted spectacles, and a flat-cap.

  Jenkins perched the glasses on his nose to f
ind the blue lenses were non-prescription glass. He stuck the cap on his head and checked his ‘disguise’ in the courtesy mirror. The change wasn’t exceptional, but it would have to do. He wished he’d kept hold of the cheek implants.

  “Have you got any cotton? Something to bulk out my cheeks?”

  Hammer stared him down. “Keep your head down. Avoid the cameras.”

  Jenkins sniffed. “It’ll have to do, I suppose. I want this done tonight.”

  Hammer dropped the sports bag into the foot-well and tugged the golf sweater and polo shirt over his head to reveal tanned skin, a rock-hard abdominal wall, and ‘Arnie’ pecs. The man didn’t carry a gram of spare fat. In the torso department, he looked like Ellis.

  A curved tattoo above Hammer’s left nipple read ‘Who Dares Wins’—the motto of the British Army’s Special Air Services. Jenkins’ admiration and awe for Hammer grew. His police mole, PDC, told him Hammer was ex-military, but the SAS?

  Nice.

  Jenkins’ mouth dried, as he considered Hammer as a possible replacement for poor Ellis—in more ways than one.

  The hired gun tugged on a loose-fitting grey T-shirt and dropped a green baseball cap on his head, the peak facing backwards. What he did next astounded Jenkins, and his respect for the assassin shot through the Micra’s sunroof.

  Hammer took a breath and closed his eyes. He rolled his head to loosen his neck, stretched his mouth into a thin grin, narrowed his eyelids into Oriental slits, and raised his eyebrows a couple of millimetres. At the same time, he hunched his shoulders and lost a couple of inches in height, and then relaxed his stomach muscles and appeared to gain five kilos in weight.

  The transformation was subtle, but astonishing. Jenkins wouldn’t have believed it possible if he hadn’t seen it happen for himself. The new-look Hammer appeared years younger and a continent away in terms of ethnic origin.

  “Bloody hell. How’d you do that?”

  “Practise,” Hammer said, but kept in the new character. Even his voice had softened to a gentle whisper.

  Jesus, the man’s a freak.

  “Did you bring the electronics?”

  Hammer’s hand dipped into the bag again and came out with a small, black case. He passed it to Jenkins who worked the zip. A metal bug the size of five ten-pence coins stacked in a tower, rested snug in the centre recess. Two microphones with built-in transmitters, shaped like digital wristwatches, and two white plastic pickups, the ‘earwigs’, occupied another segment. He handed one to Hammer, and placed the other in his left ear.

  “What’s the range?”

  “‘Bout a mile, depending on the terrain.” Hammer adopted an Asian accent. Hong Kong Chinese perhaps. Thai?

  “Will they operate in a hospital?”

  Hammer nodded. “Should do.”

  The one-way conversation had started to get on Jenkins’ nerves. Talking with this guy was like having root canal work done without anaesthetic, but there was no way he’d say so aloud. Hammer was nothing more than a hired gun. A skilled one, no doubt, but he’d turn on Jenkins in a flash if someone else offered more money, or maybe if he felt like it.

  “What’s your plan?” Hammer asked, staring out of the windscreen and focusing his attention on the hospital grounds. His eyes scanned left and right, up and down.

  “I don’t have the time to hack into the patient’s database and there’s no way they’ll give me the girl’s room number. I’ll plant the bug near the reception desk and wait for someone official to ask for her.”

  “A bit hit-and-miss.”

  “Can’t think of a better way.”

  Hammer sniffed again. “I can.”

  “Really? What?”

  “You want the girl alive?”

  “Yes, I have plans for her.”

  “Complicates matters. I could go in and do a ‘smash and grab’. Take a medic and force him to escort us to the girl.”

  “What about the police. Didn’t she have a police escort?”

  Hammer’s upper lip curled. “Couple of unarmed Woodentops? No worries there.”

  Jenkins decided to up Hammer’s fee and put him on retainer. Exclusivity of tenure might pay dividends in the long term. Jenkins needed reliable muscle to compliment his superior mind, and he could use a man with Hammer’s particular skill set.

  “I don’t have a problem with you topping a couple of cops. Leave the parents alive if you can. Think of how they’ll suffer when I take their cow of a daughter again. Exquisite punishment, I call that, but don’t let things get too messy. While I eavesdrop at reception, you can take a scout around.”

  Hammer jerked his head up once in a curt nod. “You’re the boss.”

  He took a watch from the little case and strapped it to his wrist. He tapped the surface. The sound transmitted through to the receiver in Jenkins’ ear.

  “Hear that?” Hammer asked and opened the car door.

  “Loud and clear.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  Hammer slung the strap of the small sports bag across his shoulder and sauntered towards the rear of the admissions block.

  Jenkins eased himself out of the passenger door and looked up at the hospital building. He shivered in anticipation. Hottie might be behind one of the lighted windows facing him. He couldn’t wait to meet her again and almost rubbed his hands together in glee. It was so nice to be visiting an old friend in hospital.

  22

  Friday evening — Forensics

  Time since Flynn’s death: ten hours

  After ending the call to Duggie Peyton, the world closed in on David Jones. He growled and kicked at a stone out of pure pent-up frustration. The stone bounced off a larger rock and ricocheted to cut a gouge into the side panel of the remaining SUV. Jones gasped and covered his mouth with his hand. The gendarmes had been nothing but helpful, and he had dented one of their vehicles.

  Bloody idiot.

  Two of Jean-Luc’s passing men shouted ‘Goal’, and gave him a round of applause. Jones shot them a relieved smile.

  He tried to force his anger at Duggie Peyton’s bloody-mindedness and stupidity to the back of his mind. The disciplinary situation would wait, but he needed to protect Hollie. If he couldn’t go through Peyton, he’d go around. Hollie was his responsibility and he couldn’t let her face danger without proper protection. Alex would be in the firing line too.

  Jones scrolled through his mobile phone’s address book. The fourth name on his pitifully short contacts list, Giles Danforth, answered as soon as the number finished dialling.

  “Hey, David, how are you? Still in Brittany?”

  “You’ve heard about my little jaunt?”

  “Are you kidding? You and Alex are the toast of the Division. Saving the girl was brilliant.”

  “Yeah, try telling that to Superintendent Peyton.”

  “That drunken old accountant giving you a hard time? Don’t worry about him, mate. Nobody takes that wanker seriously. I’ve heard rumours the Chief’s trying to ease him out. Early retirement.”

  Jones understood why Peyton was being such a pain.

  “Interesting. Sorry to be abrupt, Giles, but I need a favour.”

  “Name it.”

  “Are you sure? I’m overstepping my authority again. We’re going to have to do this off-book.”

  “David, I said ‘name it’ and I meant it. What do you need?”

  “Flynn had an accomplice. Might have been on the same plane as Hollie and Alex. Can you arrange a protection detail for the girl? They’re on the way to Queen Elizabeth’s.”

  “I know. It’s all over the news.”

  “What? The press has the story already?”

  “Yes. A whole posse was waiting at the airport.”

  “Who the hell tipped them off?”

  “No idea, but DS Pelham made a statement telling them where Hollie was headed. There’s going to be a pack of journalists camped outside the hospital’s front doors.”

  Jones pressed the mobile hard against h
is ear. “You need to get there quickly, Giles. I tried warning them, but Alex isn’t answering her mobile.”

  “Don’t worry about it, mate. I’m on my way. Nothing better to do tonight but watch telly anyway.”

  “Giles, I’ll owe you.”

  “Rubbish. I’ll never forget what you did for me and Beth.”

  “I’ve told you already, don’t mention it. What else was I going to do? You were in Afghanistan and Beth needed help.”

  “Nevertheless, that bastard stalker needed catching, and I owe you big time. I’m on my way to the station to pick up my weapon first, but it’s not far out of my way. When will you be back in England?”

  “Next flight’s not ‘til tomorrow morning so I’m stuck here overnight. Can you stay with Hollie ‘til I get there?”

  “Of course. I’ll call a couple of my men. We’ll mount a twenty-four hour guard until you say otherwise. You can make it official later. There’s no problem in the short term, but we can’t keep the Jardines under house arrest for the rest of their lives. We’ll need to find this sicko.”

  “I’m working on it. One more thing, can you make sure Alex goes home? If I know her, she’ll want to stay and help. But she’ll be exhausted.”

  “Will do. And get some shut-eye yourself. You sound knackered. Don’t go overdoing it again. Remember what happened last time? You aren’t a kid anymore.”

  “No need to remind me. Learnt my lesson. But I’m not doing much here, offering advice only. Call me when you get to the hospital? My phone battery’s dying so take this down just in case.” Jones dictated the number given him by Sergeant Brunö.

  “Right. No probs.”

  “Thanks again,” Jones said and ended the call.

  Despite his relative youth, Giles Danforth was one of the most cool-headed, reliable police officers Jones had ever met. He felt a lot better knowing Giles was on board, but there were still plenty of things to worry about and questions to answer. Like where was Green-eyes? And what the hell had happened to Alex?