During Jones’ phone calls, the forensics team disembarked the helicopter and started unloading their equipment. Within minutes, a petrol generator chugged in the background. Seconds after that, four halogen lamps on tripod stands illuminated a pathway from the chopper to the cottage. The French Scenes of Crime Officers, SOCOs, worked as a well-disciplined team and could have passed for a Formula One pit crew.
“David,” Jean-Luc called, and pointed to the comms screen, his voice high-pitched, excited. “I have uploaded the closed-circuit film from the airport. Would you like to find out what our green-eyed murderer looks like?” His eyes shone and the left side of his moustache rose as he broke into a lop-sided grin.
“How did you manage that?”
“I told you, David. We are a tight-knit law enforcement community here. All of our agencies work in close co-operation. My colleagues at the gardes-frontières sent us this video.” He pointed to the screen with one hand and raised his microphone in the other. “As soon as we see the man with the limp I will have my friend on the other end of this telephone search the passenger records. We will have his name.”
“Or at least the name he travels under. I doubt he’ll have used his real passport.”
The black-and-white images reached them in crystal clarity. Jones might have been sitting in front of his television at home. The time-stamp 17:33—twenty-seven minutes before departure—clicked at normal speed as the passengers paused at a barrier to show their passports.
Alex and Hollie appeared at the top left of the screen and advanced slowly. At 17:39, they reached the fair-haired border guard, exchanged a few words, and were waved through the gate.
The next few passengers aroused little interest. A family of three, a man, a woman, and a pre-teen child took an age to find their papers, but eventually exited stage right. An elderly couple, both sprightly and neither with an uneven gait, followed without incident. A woman in light summer clothing, shoulders exposed, passed through next, but the next three in the queue, all men, tweaked Jones’ interest.
The first, squat and overweight, rolled forward, and presented his ID without fuss. He looked straight ahead and gave the camera a full-face shot. This was not a man in hiding, unless he was brazen in the extreme.
Man number two, slim, six-feet tall judging from his height in relation to the others in the queue, wore a baseball cap and sunglasses. The cap hid most of his clean-shaven, narrow-jawed face but he didn’t seem to favour one leg over the other. When he reached the counter, the border guard spoke and the man removed the sunglasses, but his face remained obscured by the peaked cap. The two spoke again and the security officer returned the passport. She waved him through with a nod of the head and a smile. The man moved out of sight, keeping his head turned from the camera. Jones couldn’t see much of the man’s stride pattern, but something about his actions didn’t look right.
“Can you roll the film back?”
Jean-Luc operated the keyboard and the movie stopped, rewound to the fat man’s exit, and moved forward again, when the target reached the desk. The man removed his dark-glasses and …
“There, see that?” said Jones. He couldn’t stop his voice rising in pitch.
Jean-Luc frowned and shook his head. “No. What did he do?”
“He removed the sunglasses with his right hand and lowered them to his left. He then took the passport from his pocket with the same hand.”
“So?”
“Well, it’s not efficient. His left hand should have come up to meet the right half way. Think about it for a second. It’s the natural thing to do. His left hand stayed down at his hip the whole time … because it was holding a cane! Look. See how he keeps his left side facing away from the camera? I know I’m right. That’s our man.” He tapped the screen with a forefinger.
“But he does not limp.”
“I bet that’s because he’s in a slow-moving queue. He’s our target. I know it. The time-stamp reads 17:48. Can you use that?”
“Of course, moment s'il vous plaît.” He raised the phone and spoke to someone he called Annabelle. Jones studied the still image on the screen. The man’s baseball cap had a Lakers logo. It looked grey in the black-and-white picture. His ensemble included the glasses, a dark top, possibly a sweater or a hoodie, and dark trousers, not jeans. The shot cut off the man’s lower legs so Jones couldn’t see his footwear. He tried to estimate the man’s age from the way he carried himself and the little he could see of his face—mouth and jaw line. Jones’ best guess put him at between forty-five and sixty. Not much to go on, but they were further ahead than they had been five minutes earlier.
Jean-Luc pointed to the screen. “David, that man used the name, Jonathan C Jenkins.”
Jones repeated the name in his head and frowned.
Jonathan C Jenkins.
“Can you do an internet search from here?”
“But of course. We have access to the Interpol and Europol databases. Also Google and the usual moteurs de recherche.”
Brunö retook his seat and ran the searches. Fifteen minutes of eyestrain netted them a grand total of three men in the Midlands region with the same name, but none looked even remotely promising. One, a convicted fraudster, resided at Her Majesty’s Pleasure in Blakenhurst Prison, Redditch. A second played semi-professional football had three unpaid parking tickets, and the third was a retired Civil Servant renowned for his prize-winning vegetables.
Jones phoned Holton Police Headquarters again. This time the chastened receptionist put him straight through to the communications room. He issued search parameters: name, approximate height, age, IC1—White European—English-speaking according to Annabelle Dupré. He told them to get back with the results and asked Brunö to send a still from the video. Jones knew the search would prove futile—there was no way their quarry would use his real name, but he had to try everything.
While waiting, Jones tried his go-to guy, but Phil Cryer failed him for once.
“Sorry, boss,” Phil said after a couple of minutes racking his considerable memory database. “I’ve got nothing. Why do you ask?”
“We’ve a lead on Flynn’s partner, but don’t worry about it. You know me, never let anything lie.”
Jones decided against telling Phil about the new threat to Hollie. Knowing his sergeant as well as he did, Jones wouldn’t be surprised if Phil shuffled off to the hospital in Hollie’s defence, and he daren’t put temptation in his way. The thought of one limping man chasing another down endless hospital corridors might be of comic interest to a Hollywood film director, but Jones didn’t see the funny side.
Jones thanked Phil and ended the call but his internal warning mechanism screamed and jumped up and down and wouldn’t let him rest.
Jonathan C Jenkins. John Jenkins. Why’s that bloody name so familiar?
While the French SOCOs continued their unloading dance, Jones used the dying embers of his mobile battery to call England again.
“Ryan? Where are you?”
“Hi, boss. Still at the airport, but I’m heading back to the station. What’s up?”
Jones gave him a brief situation report. “I’ve given your number to the techie guy here, Sergeant Brunö. He’s sending you a still of the man we’re looking for. When my mobile battery dies contact me through him. And forward the photo to DI Danforth.”
“You want me to search the airport CCTV?”
“Please. Make sure you look for anyone Jenkins met.”
“Might be a struggle getting permission to scroll through the CCTV logs. You know what Airport Security’s like these days.”
“I know. Do your best. Raise a search warrant if you have to.”
Jean-Luc didn’t have any problems this end, damn it.
“What about Charlie Pelham?” Ryan asked. “Do you want me to call him in to help?”
“No,” snapped Jones. “Keep the bugger well away from this. I’ve had more than enough of his … help.”
Jones ended the call and turned
his attention to the activity in and around the helicopter. The setup operation continued and gave Jones more time to question a distracted Jean-Luc.
“What are you going to do about the other crime scene, the Citroën?”
Jean-Luc thought for a moment before speaking. “My officers have closed the road and a team of crash investigators is on its way from headquarters in Brest. Sadly, we have great experience of investigating road traffic incidents.” He raised a fist to his nose and twisted. Jones recognised it the French sign for alcohol overindulgence. “You understand?”
Jones nodded. “And the victim?”
“The body of Madame Deauville will be taken to the morgue in Brest. I have asked our Medical Examiner to conduct a preliminary post mortem examination overnight. Perhaps the old lady put up a fight. Scratched the man, Jenkins? Evidence under her fingernails? One lives in hope, yes?”
A gendarme appeared armed with two mugs of steaming coffee and two baguettes on a tray. Jones wondered how these guys managed to find fresh bread in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. He suspected the forensics team might have brought a baker along to add a touch of home comfort to a place that had taken on the appearance of a holiday campsite—albeit a sombre one.
Jones blew across the top of his coffee and took a careful sip. This time the expected sugar-and-caffeine-rush came as less of a shock. If he spent enough time in France he might be able to get used to the burnt, bitter flavour of coffee, but longed for a nice big mug of comforting, unsweetened tea. He bit into the sandwich and his salivary juices flowed again. He couldn’t identify the filling, but the salty meat and sliced pickles tasted as good as anything he could remember.
“What about the Citroën?” he asked between chews.
Jean-Luc had accepted the coffee but rejected the baguette. He took a sip and kept his eyes on the progress of his men. “We will take crime scene photographs and then the voiture will be sealed under a tarpaulin and transported to our garage in Brest. Once there, my men will examine it under the microscope. It is the only way to inspect the vehicle correctly. Is that the procedure you would adopt in England?”
“Pretty much. It should be fine so long as none of the evidence is lost in transit.”
“Oh no, David. We will place the vehicle inside a covered truck. I can assure you, the evidence will be secure. I am also going to have the crime scene examined for one kilometre either side of the vehicle, in accordance with our normal protocol.” He looked up at the sky. “Unfortunately, my men cannot begin the search now, there is not enough light. They will commence at dawn.”
“I don’t suppose there are any CCTV cameras along the route near the incident.”
“Alas no. And what about you, David. Everything is well in England? You were having trouble?”
“My superintendent isn’t happy about my unsanctioned visit to Brittany, but I’m more worried about Jenkins and his plans. I’ve taken steps to protect Hollie, but it’s a temporary measure.”
“You would prefer to be in England than here?”
Jones nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“I understand. I therefore release you from your promise to help with my case. Those alive deserve our priority. More so than the dead, I think. You are free to return to England on the first flight tomorrow.”
“Jean-Luc, you are a gentleman. I’ll help as much as I can until then, but to be honest, nothing I’ve seen here suggests you need me to hold your hand. I’d say you know exactly what you’re doing. My time would be better spent finding the animal responsible for this setup.” He nodded toward the barn. “And I think I can do that much better in England. Don’t forget, I’ll only be a phone call away.”
“D’accord. But in the meantime, you may find this interesting.” He pointed to a tall man who organised his forensics team like a conductor; the only thing missing was a white baton. “That is capitaine Gérard Assante, a capable man. I will introduce you as soon as I have briefed him. You can see we have enough people to analyse the camping-car, the cellar, and the room under the barn simultaneously, yes?”
Jean-Luc touched the peak of his képi and marched towards Assante.
Jones watched in fascination as four of Jean-Luc’s gendarmes manhandled a large canvas sack from the helicopter. They placed it on a flattish area of the pasture Jones had crawled through that morning, and untied the straps holding the bag together. Six side-flaps opened like the petals of a flower reaching for the light of the sun. Jones recognised the contents as a furled tent, which he guessed would become the camp’s centre of operations.
Wow, these boys are good.
23
Late Friday evening - Outside Alex and Julie’s home
Time since Flynn’s death: ten hours, fifteen minutes
In a darkened alleyway, hidden between two privet hedges, Roy-the-Nail Harper watched for the lights to go out in the end-of-terrace house across the street; Blondie’s house. Two fucking long hours he’d waited in the dark for the bloody cows to turn in and his patience wore precious thin. When the front room light went off to be replaced by one upstairs at the front, his long vigil approached its end. He smiled and licked his lips.
When Hammer gave him his new moniker, he couldn’t have been more pleased. Ecstatic even. The Nail. Absolutely fan-fucking-tastic. It still made him grin, but the long wait had dampened the buzz.
Three years it took him to earn a cool street-name. He’d have preferred ‘Torch’ or ‘Pyro’, but ‘The Nail’ would do well enough.
Hammer and Nail.
He repeated it in his head while he waited for the lights in the house across the street to go out.
Hammer and Nail.
It had a good vibe to it, powerful, and it locked him in with the right people. Gave him the handle he wanted. Hard as Nails. Roy-the-Nail.
Fuckin’ Ace.
Now he had to earn it. His first kill as Roy-the-Nail had to be a ‘spectacular’. Like the 7/7 London bombings, but on a smaller scale. Intimate.
Yeah, lovely word, ‘intimate’.
Like the flames themselves, warm and engulfing, sensuous.
Flames made him feel special. He learned how to control them from an early age. Hammer called him a ‘natural’. A genius when it came to setting fires, but not when it came to controlling his needs, his desires. He’d worked on the self-control over the years, under Hammer’s tutelage, and now they’d accepted him into the fold.
The neighbourhood quietened as the wait continued until most of the lights in the road had gone out. Every second streetlight was busted, including the one outside Blondie’s house, which left the place in near darkness. Couldn’t have been better.
By ten-thirty, the traffic along the dead-end street had all but stopped. Nobody had passed his hiding spot for half an hour. Unlike this shitty hick town, London never slept. He couldn’t wait to get back home.
“Come on, come on,” he muttered. “Turn the fuckin’ lights off.”
What was the point of being dykes if they didn’t hop into bed at the drop of a dildo and screw each other’s brains out? Blondie had been away. They should have loads to get off their chests.
The light he’d been watching snapped off. The Nail pumped his fist and bared his teeth.
“Yes. ‘Bout fucking time.”
He waited another half hour and was ready to cross the road when a light broke the gloom somewhere behind the house. Its glow lightened the sky for a moment, and then vanished. He settled back in the shadows again.
What the fuck was that? What’s out back? Got to be a garden hasn’t it? A neighbour pissing on his flowers? Someone kicking the cat out for the night?
A white van pulled up and parked in the only available spot, blocking his view.
Bastard.
The van driver slammed the door closed behind him and the Nail dragged his eyes to the lit match as the man paused to spark up a fag before moving away.
The Nail had to change position to reclaim his view of the house. Al
l dark again. But there had been a light. No matter, he’d have to wait a little longer. He spat into the hedge and stayed put another fifteen minutes.
Nothing had stirred in Blondie’s house for the best part of half an hour, so the little darlings were probably sleeping off the passion. The Nail wished he’d seen them going at it, naked and sweaty, but the fire would make them hot enough, as it would him. He grinned in advance of the delights to come.
Roy-the-Nail closed his eyes and saw the dream once more.
Dad lying on the big messy bed. Passed out dead drunk after thumping Roy and Mum—again. A lit fag falling from clumsy fingers and igniting the old bastard’s spilled whiskey. The sheets catching and going up with a whoosh. Scorched flesh melting. The pork-like smell of roasting human meat and singed hair filling his young nostrils. The agonised screams of his dying Dad made him cry as a four-year-old boy, but meant nothing to him as an adult.
The Nail’s excitement grew. If he didn’t set the fire soon, he’d explode. He couldn’t wait to get going. This was going to be a good one. A couple of gays, and one of them a cop. Things didn’t get much better than that.
After checking once more for pedestrians, he darted across the road, vaulted the low brick wall into the front garden, and made it to the gable end of the house. His breath came in short gasps as he melted into the comforting shadow cast by the fence.
He used to toss off when setting fires, but Hammer told him not to leave any trace.
“DNA doesn’t survive flames,” he told the killer, but the guy looked right through him and said, “You want to work with me, you learn my rules. Never take an unnecessary risk. Right?”
And that was that. He learned the rules of Hammer’s game and now he’d hit the big league. His first paid contract, although he’d gladly do the work for the pure pleasure, plus expenses.
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