Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  Inspector Giles Danforth, team leader of the Midlands Constabulary’s Armed Response Unit, dressed in civilian clothes, parked his unmarked police car in a space reserved for hospital consultants. In his experience, the chances of a consultant needing the space at this time of night were as close to zero as you could find.

  He jogged along the pavement and sidestepped his way through a scrum of reporters prowling the entrance. Without doubt, the news editors considered the story of Hollie’s rescue worthy of column inches, and minutes of airtime. Big news. Representatives from both the national press and television news combined with the local hacks. Two white vans parked close to the ambulance bays, each adorned with satellite dishes, received the close attention of a gaggle of security guards. Giles smirked as he passed a uniformed jobsworth who demanded the vans be moved or he’d organise a tow-truck.

  The automatic double-doors slid apart and Giles rushed to the main reception desk, ignoring the couple of dozen patients sitting in the waiting area. He flashed his warrant card discreetly at the receptionist and asked for Hollie Jardine’s room number. The large-boned woman in a white lab coat, Pam, according to the name-badge attached to the lapel, took his ID card and studied it closely through half-moon spectacles. The woman owned the tired eyes and waxy complexion of someone who spent too many hours indoors and too few hours on the exercise mat. She compared his face with the photo on the card, and jotted his name and serial number on a pad before handing it back.

  “Come on, Miss,” he said. “This is urgent. Hollie Jardine could be in danger.” He opened his jacket and showed her his holstered handgun.

  The woman’s eyes bulged.

  “D-do you mean the girl from France?” Giles nodded. “I … think they may have taken her to the private ward. Top floor. I’ll look … one second.”

  She turned, tapped at her keyboard with trembling fingers, and strangled a curse when she made a mistake and had to retype.

  While he waited, Giles scanned the people occupying the overcrowded lobby. The photo he had of Jenkins passing through passport control at Brest Airport didn’t help much. The evil bastard would have changed clothes. No telling what he wore now.

  He let his instincts take over.

  The instructors had trained him to study crowds for anything out of place, unnatural—things that didn’t fit. Search for eyes looking one way, when everyone else looked the other. Watch for people who didn’t stare when they were supposed to. For people who smiled when others frowned.

  What about the young guy standing in the corner by the water fountain? Why did he search the faces of the people in the waiting area? Why didn’t he take a drink? Check his clothes. The youngster wore a thin T-shirt, tight trousers, and trainers. Giles doubted Mr T-shirt could be hiding anything bigger than a knife under those threads and dismissed him as a immediate threat.

  Most of the people in the chairs, lost in their private worlds of pain and impatience, paid no attention to anyone else in the room. None were worthy of serious consideration.

  A woman with a black eye and a cut lip cried silent tears. She was either a first-class actor, or an innocent patient awaiting care. The man in the next seat had an arm around her as though to console, but, judging by the woman’s body language, she took no comfort from the touch. Mr Wife-beater gabbled into a mobile phone, ignoring the signs on the wall telling him to switch off the device. Mr Wife-beater didn’t worry about rules. A bastard, thought Giles, but not the bastard he searched for.

  A thin-faced man with five-o’clock shadow, wearing a grey baseball cap caught his attention. Mr Shadow sat in the corner at the back, scanning the room as avidly as Giles.

  Watch him. There’s something off there.

  The SIG Sauer P226 in the holster under his armpit gave him some comfort. Its twenty-shot magazine held 9 millimetre Parabellum rounds. The gun had enough stopping power to halt a charging rhinoceros. At least that was the manufacturer’s claim. He was unlikely to ever test the claim.

  The last time he’d drawn the lightweight firearm for anything other than target practice, he’d killed an armed robber. Two years ago.

  “Excuse me, Inspector.” Pam leaned towards the speech portal cut into the Perspex security barrier and spoke quietly. “Hollie Jardine is on the fifteenth floor. Room 151, in the private recovery ward. You can take the express lift. The pass code is 1984.” She pointed to a bank of lifts behind and to his right.

  “1984, eh?” he grinned. “Very Orwellian.”

  The woman looked confused. “Sorry, sir?”

  Clearly no fan of modern classic literature.

  “Never mind. Thanks for your help.”

  Giles turned away and headed to the service area. A glance at the reflection in a plate-glass window showed Mr Baseball Cap rushing to embrace a young woman with her arm in a sling and a plaster cast on her wrist.

  Nice one Giles. Read him right, didn’t you?

  Giles hit the final number in the sequence and the express lift doors opened with a ‘Mind the Doors Please’. He took one look at the crumpled body on the floor in the far corner and yelled over his shoulder, “Nurse! There’s a man down.”

  The man, green hospital scrubs, plastic clogs, mussed blond hair, pale skin, blue lips, didn’t move.

  Jesus. David was right.

  Giles rushed into the lift and placed an index and forefinger to the man’s cold neck.

  No pulse.

  Crap!

  Two faint bruises showed on either side of the fallen victim’s throat. Giles recognised the marks as the result of a lock-down hold, the so-called ‘extended sleeper’. Because of its inherent danger, only highly trained operatives use such a precision manoeuvre. Whoever used the hold on the poor chap either screwed up big time, or intended to kill. Giles guessed the latter. His defences switched to high alert.

  He knew what he was up against now—a real, seasoned threat.

  An alarm warbled through the halls.

  Pam’s amplified voice cut through the din calling, “Code Blue, Code Blue … elevator one.”

  Seconds later, a team of three nurses with a ‘crash’ cart arrived and shoved Giles aside as he reached for his phone and quick-dialled the ARU’s on-call number. He dashed across the polished corridor and dived into another lift as its doors opened. He hurried the two sluggish passengers out and punched the button to floor fifteen. It took forever for the doors to slide across and the lift to begin its ascent. Giles paced the car and cursed.

  He passed the seventh floor before his phone clicked in response.

  “Hello?”

  “Giles here. That you, Dylan?”

  “Yes, sir,” answered Sergeant Roger Dylan, the ARU’s second-in-command.

  Giles explained the situation and summoned Dylan and the ARU’s on-call team. Even at flank speed, it would take them thirty-five minutes to suit-up, draw firearms, and reach him from across the city. He was alone until then. The hospital’s unarmed, undertrained security people would be more hindrance than help.

  The lift ascended at a speed calculated to excruciate. An audible warning dinged each time it passed a floor. Giles watched each button on the service panel light and extinguish.

  “Come on, come on.”

  Would it be quicker to run up the bloody stairs?

  With a ding and another, “Mind the Doors Please,” the car jolted to a stop at floor eleven.

  “What?” Giles jabbed at the red ‘Close Doors’ button, but the metal panels slid open, revealing a pair of orderlies waiting at either end of an empty bed.

  He flashed his warrant card and pressed the red button again. “Sorry. Police emergency.”

  The porters stared at each other in silence as the lift doors slid closed. Giles hammered on button fifteen as though it would make the bloody lift move faster.

  Floor Fifteen.

  “Mind the Doors Please.”

  Giles’ hand flashed to his holster, unclipped its retaining strap, and drew the weapon in automatic resp
onse. He held the gun in a two-handed grip, muzzle pointing to the ceiling.

  The lift doors slid open. His senses tingled. There should be noises, chatter, machines, nurses—something.

  Silence.

  Down on one knee, he edged to the doorway. Still no sound. Not even from medical equipment. Where were all the bloody ‘bleep-bleep’ machines and rattling medicine trolleys? Giles expected movement, activity. This was a hospital ward. It should be teeming, shouldn’t it? He risked poking his head around the door and his heart stopped.

  Oh Jesus, where’s the guard?

  Jenkins pushed into the private room and stood open-mouthed at the scene.

  Hammer, dressed in a doctor’s white coat, stood beside the white-sheeted, blue-blanketed bed. A stethoscope hung from his neck and the business end, the diaphragm, rested in the coat’s breast pocket. All he needed was a patient’s chart and he could have played the lead in any TV medical drama. Hollie sat in a wheelchair with a blue hospital blanket tucked over her legs. Her head was slumped to one side and she looked even younger in the white hospital gown.

  “What the fuck?” Jenkins seethed. “Where is everyone?”

  Hammer pointed to a door to Jenkins’ left.

  It opened into a small but well-appointed toilet and shower-room, all shiny chrome fittings and blue-grey marble tiles. On the floor, crumpled, and in a bad condition judging by their unnatural positions, lay two police officers.

  Neither breathed.

  The first, a huge man with the arms and shoulders of a bodybuilder, had a misshapen jaw. His face resembled beef passed through a mincing machine, and his right elbow bent the wrong way. The second, a small brunette, suffered less external damage, but heavy bruising to her eyes and a deflection across the bridge of her nose indicated shattered facial bones. Jenkins grinned at the sight of the downed piggies.

  Fuck. He wished he’d been there to see Hammer in action.

  Jenkins closed the door and scowled. “I told you I wanted to be here. I’m not happy.”

  Hammer stared at him, cool malevolence in his grey-green eyes. “Live with it. You pay for my brawn and brains.” He spoke quietly. “I saw an opportunity and took it.”

  Jenkins dialled his anger back a notch. “What did you do to the parents?”

  “Sent them to the canteen while I examined their little girl. They left me to it since she had a police chaperone.”

  Jenkins’ allowed himself a thin smile. “Good. They’ll suffer more when they see what I do to their little bitch. They’ll be at the top of the CD mailing list.”

  “As for the cops, they weren’t part of the original contract. You’ll receive a bill for the added work, but with a fifty percent reduction for unplanned collateral damage. Anything else is open to negotiation. I don’t do pro bono.”

  The bill mounted, but that was fair enough, Jenkins had more money than he could ever spend.

  “What about her?” Jenkins nodded towards the wheelchair.

  Hammer pointed to a syringe on the bedside locker. “I came prepared. She’ll be out for a few hours.”

  “I won’t ask how you found her room number or where you got that coat.” He peered at the nametag pinned to the lapel. “Dr Ericsson.”

  Hammer tapped his wristwatch. “Let’s go.” He opened the room door and every alarm in the building exploded into strident, caterwauling life.

  25

  Late Friday evening - First the bad news …

  Time since Flynn’s death: ten-hours, forty minutes

  It took less than half an hour from when they’d finished unloading the helicopter before Captain Assante announced the Field Annex of the Forensics Laboratory open for business. Jean-Luc glanced at Jones who gave the Frenchman an appreciative and heartfelt thumbs-up. Jones would not have believed they could install such a facility so quickly. Despite his worry over the fate of Alex and Hollie, he managed to find the reserves of spirit to appreciate a job well done.

  While half Jones’ mind fretted about the activities in England, the other half studied the French criminologist’s methods and discovered little difference to those of their UK counterparts. No need for crime scene tape here, the farm was isolated enough, but in most other instances, the protocols matched.

  The twelve-strong forensics team, each in white coveralls, overshoes, paper hats, and facemasks, set to the tasks allotted by Captain Assante with the proficiency of the true professional.

  First priority was the carcass in the cottage.

  After taking hundreds of in situ photos and trace samples, two men carried Flynn’s corpse, zipped into a black plastic body bag on a stretcher. They placed it in a coffin-sized chill box balanced on trestles next to the laboratory tent. Flynn’s remains held no interest for Jones. The SOCOs would find nothing useful on the body. He knew where Flynn had been for the past day and a half, and what he’d done. The animal had nothing on him to help with the case.

  Inside the cottage, another two men grid-quartered the ground floor collecting evidence. Numbered markers, orange rather than the bright yellow ones used in England, indicated areas of specific interest. Purple fingerprint dust darkened huge swathes of the room, especially on door handles and other high-touch surfaces. Flynn’s knives and torch were bagged, and blood and skin samples taken to the tent-laboratory.

  A coolly efficient woman took Jones’ fingerprints and a cheek swab DNA sample, for elimination purposes.

  She examined the scratch on his face and tutted before soaking a piece of gauze with antiseptic and dabbing the wound clean. The antiseptic stung worse that the damned mosquito.

  “You do not require stitches. It will heal well,” she said, and walked away.

  Jones thanked her and she waved without turning.

  Do they all speak English here? Puts us Brits to shame.

  Photoflashes from the direction of the barn told him the observation room-cum-film studio and the camper received the same attention as the cottage. He doubted the criminologists would find much of value underground. Jenkins and Flynn’s copious use of bleach showed an attention to detail not in evidence at the roadside crime scene.

  And that was a point worth noting. Jenkins seemed fine when acting to a pre-determined plan, but struggled to think and act clearly when placed under pressure. Did he panic in a crisis? If so, the information might prove useful. If he kept Jenkins off-centre, unbalanced, reactive, perhaps he might force the bugger into making more mistakes. But how could he do that? They had to find the bugger first.

  Jones had better hopes for the camper and the Citroën. Flynn hadn’t had time to clean the van after his arrival. He and Jenkins must have left evidence in both vehicles.

  So far, Jones couldn’t fault the French procedures or the care they took gathering evidence. Once again, he became a fifth wheel—an unwanted and unaccompanied guest at a wedding. Occasionally, Jean-Luc stopped and asked him a procedural question, but it seemed more for politeness, to include him in the process, rather than out of any real need. For most of the time, he stood and watched the activity unfold with a growing sense of helplessness. He couldn’t stop his mind drifting to thoughts of England

  Where the bloody hell was everyone?

  Jones hadn’t heard from Giles for nearly two hours. Not a good sign. He tried to work out how long it would take Giles to travel from his home to his office, sign for his weapon, and reach the hospital. Factoring in the light evening traffic, forty minutes? Sixty at most. What had he been doing for the remaining hour? And where in God’s name had Alex disappeared to? He tried calling her again, but still couldn’t get through.

  Why, damn it? Why?

  An icy hand reached into Jones’ chest, crushing hard. He couldn’t breathe properly. His heart hammered and his lungs moved like old leather. He had to do something. Anything.

  Jean-Luc’s mobile buzzed as he approached Jones for another chat. He stopped and listened for a moment before closing his eyes in clear annoyance. He shook his head sadly before saying somethi
ng to the caller and ringing off.

  “Not more bad news.” Jones didn’t know how he’d cope if anything else went wrong.

  Jean-Luc answered him with a sigh. “It seems that your suspicions about the maire, Alain Plouay, appear to be correct. He has disappeared. My men could not find him in the village, or at his home. I will launch a nationwide search, and have a magistrate block his bank accounts. We will also explore the land registry for other properties he may own. We will find him David, and discover why he ran. That I promise.”

  Jean-Luc stormed away to join Sergeant Brunö, leaving Jones alone with his thoughts once again.

  The news about Plouay’s sudden departure lifted Jones’ spirits. The first little crack had appeared in Jenkins’ protective shield, his network of monsters. Sometimes it only took a single breach in a wall to bring the whole damned structure collapsing around a criminal’s ears. The fact that his instincts, which he had doubted over the previous few hours, proved to be bang on, gave him hope, made him feel better.

  He turned his mind back to matters in England. He checked the battery scale on his mobile—one bar. Should he call Giles?

  As he stared at the display screen, it buzzed and he nearly dropped the device to the concrete. He checked the caller ID.

  “Ryan?”

  “Boss? Can you hear me?” Ryan’s voice sounded strangled—tight and breathless. Traffic noise in the background should not have been there.

  “Just about. Are you driving? You should have reached the airport ages ago.”

  “I … I was … but I’m on my way to Alex’s house.”

  “Why?”

  Ryan would never leave his post without good reason. Something was wrong. Except for the traffic noise through the phone speaker, all sound faded to silence.

  With a sense of dark foreboding, he raised his voice. “Ryan? Speak to me. What’s wrong?”