Time since Flynn’s death: eleven hours, forty minutes
“What?” Jones shot a glance at Jean-Luc whose quizzical expression told it all. “How?”
Brunö passed him the mobile. “He called the gendarmerie in Brest and demanded to speak with you. The animal says he has mademoiselle Jardine.”
Jones’ world condensed into a black object the size of a packet of cigarettes. Everything else faded to silence as he reached for the mobile. The tremor in his hand returned.
Sergeant Brunö tapped his ear and handed Jean-Luc a white plastic earpiece. “We will be able to listen to you, Chief Inspector, and I’m recording the call. Depress the mute button when you’re ready to speak.”
Jones pressed the cold phone to his ear. “Any chance of tracing the call?”
Brunö opened his hands and shrugged. “The gendarmerie in Brest is giving it a go, but …”
Jones closed his eyes before releasing the mute. “Hello?” he said, with a mouth dry as talc.
“Ah, at last. Have I the privilege of speakin’ tae DCI David Aaron Jones, head of the Serious Crime Unit, Holton Police Headquarters, and the man responsible for the death of the poor defenceless Ellis Flynn?”
Poor defenceless Flynn? Damn your eyes.
“Yes,” Jones answered. This time his voice was stronger, even though he felt as sturdy as wet tissue paper.
Jenkins’ gentle Scottish accent, lowlands, possibly east coast, seeped through the speaker like molten tar. He sounded calm and considered, conversational. He made perfect glottal stops and each consonant stood out clear and precise. Here was a well-educated man, or at least a man with faultless diction, but how had he learned Jones’ middle name? He hated the name Aaron, and never used it. The only places it appeared were his birth certificate, and his Police Personnel file.
Jesus, he has access to my records. Someone working on the inside? Another hacker as skilful as Corky?
Jenkins barked out a cruel laugh. “I know everything there is tae know about you. You’re an orphan aren’t you? Spent time in foster homes. I know all about those places. Poor little Jonesie-boy.”
Jones gritted his teeth and bit off an angry response.
“I understand you’re looking for me?” Jenkins’ smooth taunt drove home Jones’ helplessness.
“Yes.” Jones replied. “Fancy meeting up sometime?” Lame, but he couldn’t think of anything better.
“Oh yes. Most definitely. Looking forward to it. How soon can you make it here?”
Not the response Jones expected. Had he heard the animal correctly? A meeting?
“If you like. Where?”
“Oh no, Detective Chief Inspector,” Jenkins spat the rank with venom and derision. “I’m not making it that easy. You found Hollie once. Now find her again. You have until midday tomorrow. Hear that? High Noon. Like the classic movie.” His laughed sounded the hacking cough of a man dying from lung cancer. “Think of yourself as Gary Cooper, at least for the next few hours. But if you’re one second late, Hollie dies. If you don’t come alone, Hollie dies. If you’re armed, Hollie dies. Get it? And it won’t be quick. I’ll make the bitch suffer. And you know what kind of suffering I’m capable of … the mess I can make. Don’t you.”
Jones checked the time. He had a little less than thirteen hours. Images of the bench in the cottage cellar and the marble slab in the viewing room bled, unbidden, into his head. He ground his teeth.
“So, you have another movie studio?”
“You’ll find out. If you miss the meeting, I’ll send you a preview copy of my next feature.” Jones could hear the smile in the bastard’s voice. “Hollie Jardine’s first, and last, starring role.”
Blood pounded in Jones’ ears. He wanted to throw up again. “I’ll never make it in time. It’s not possible.”
“Okay then, tell me. Should I start cutting at the face, or feet? I normally like to keep them pretty to begin with. The feet it is then, I’ll work up tae the sensitive bits. I’m going tae love that. What do you say? Does that suit your viewing tastes?”
Bastard.
“I have no idea where you are. I don’t stand a chance.” Jones made his voice sound even more helpless and pathetic than he felt. Not an easy task, but he let the nuance bleed into his tone. Maybe playing to the sociopath’s ego would net him something. Jones would take any advantage, no matter how small.
“Aw, so inept. Clueless. Little Ellis was like that when we first met, but he turned out all right in the end. He had promise. I saw it in him early on, but you snuffed out his life, his talent, and the fucking bitch is going to pay for your mistake unless you find her. Tick-tock, tick-tock. Tempus fugit, Jonesie-boy.”
“What happens if I do turn up in time, alone, and unarmed?”
“Why then, I’ll release Hollie and you and I can have a little chat.”
Yeah. Right.
“Why should I trust you?”
“Och, I’m mortified,” Jenkins gushed. “I give you my word that Hollie won’t be harmed before you get here. She’s here right next to me, in a nice little sanctuary. A home-away-from-home. A refuge, if you like. She’s going nowhere for the moment. And you don’t have a choice, do you? Don’t come, Hollie dies. But if you do … and if I’m telling the truth … well, Hollie has a chance. That’s the gamble you’re running. Imagine your life if you don’t at least try. Remember, I know all about you. Your first beat in Wales. I read how you rescued that black bitch and her harelipped future husband. Most laudable.”
Jenkins paused again, giving Jones more time to stew.
“And then of course, think of the mess I’ll make of her afterwards. Don’t like mess, do you, Jones. Must have been horrible for you to go down into that filthy cellar after you’d scrambled on your hands and knees in the dirt to get to ma poor wee Ellis.”
Jones tried to block out the thumping in his head. The paedophile killer seemed to know every intimate detail of his life. And what did Jones know about Jenkins? Nothing. He couldn’t allow the feelings of impotence to engulf him. That was what Jenkins wanted.
“But I don’t have a clue where you are.”
Jenkins sighed. “And here I was thinking you were a dangerous adversary. You pathetic old man. Sneaking up on my Ellis like that. You wouldn’t ha’ stood a chance face-to-face. He’d have torn you apart.” A train’s horn sounded in the background. Was Jenkins near a station, or a railway track? How did that help? There were thousands of miles of track and hundreds of railway stations in the UK.
“Shall I give you a little clue?”
The line went quiet for a moment and Jones thought Jenkins had broken the connection.
“Hello?”
“Had you worried there, didn’t I? Well, let me see. What hint should I give you? Tum-ti-tum. Ah yes. Meet me at the place my boy Flynn was born.”
“What?”
“You heard. I’m not repeating myself.”
Jones didn’t want to push it. The man could cut the call any time he wanted. He had Jones at his mercy for the moment.
“How do I know Hollie’s still alive?”
“Delaying tactics? Trying to trace this call? Don’t waste your time. I’ve routed the signal through a dozen different satellites and carriers. You’ll never find me that way. But I’ll let you speak to Hollie if you ask nicely.” Jenkins paused again. “Go on, ask nicely.” The smile in his voice told Jones how much the man enjoyed the situation. Taunting was fun.
Jones dragged civility from a dark place and spoke calmly, fighting for control. “Mr Jenkins, please may I speak to Hollie?” The words tore from his throat as though wrapped in razor wire.
“Well, as you said please, I’ll put her on. Just a sec’ ….”
The silence down the line stretched for an eternity. Jones, Jean-Luc, and Sergeant Brunö exchanged worried glances until Hollie’s fragile “David?” broke the quiet and tore at his heart. Jones would have done anything to trade places with her. Gouged eyes, smashed through walls, beaten Jenk
ins to a bloody pulp. His fingers mashed into the phone’s hard case. He took a breath.
“Hollie? How are you?”
“I … I’m okay. Mum and Dad, are they …?”
Her voice pulled at him from the distance.
“They’re fine, Hollie. A friend of mine spoke to them a few minutes ago. Worried about you though. Where are you?”
“He won’t let me tell you. He has a knife—”
“Hollie, are you still there?”
Silence.
Jones shouted, “Hollie?” but the next words chilled him to his bones.
“That’s the last time anyone will hear from the little bitch unless you obey my instructions to the letter. Understand?”
Jones tried to think of something to say to make Jenkins put Hollie back on the line. Again, he had nothing.
“I asked you a question, Jones. Answer me!”
“I have the message, Mister Jenkins. But I can’t reach England in time to meet your deadline. The next plane won’t land in Birmingham until ten-thirty tomorrow morning. And I don’t have a clue where you are.”
“Don’t be obtuse. You have all the information you need. Think man! You’re a detective, so fucking detect. As for getting here—work something out.”
The line clicked into silence.
28
Late Friday evening - Old school detection
Time since Flynn’s death: eleven-hours, fifty minutes
Sergeant Brunö retrieved his phone, his expression glum, but eyes sympathetic. The three men returned to the courtyard in silence.
While Jones tried to come to grips with the enormity of Jenkins’ ultimatum, Jean-Luc stared towards the forensics tent and studied the progress of the white-garbed scientists, his expression pensive. Slim fingers worried at his moustache. After a few seconds, he nodded. He seemed to have arrived at a decision. “Forgive me, David,” he said. “I have to attend to something, but before I go, consider this. Why does Jenkins think you can find where he is keeping Hollie?”
Jean-Luc touched Jones on the forearm as if to empathise with his predicament, gave Brunö a curt nod, and marched towards Captain Assante. The captain stood beside the large tent with a clipboard making notes as each new piece of evidence entered the field laboratory.
Jones couldn’t blame Jean-Luc for deserting him. The colonel had more than enough on his plate. With a mass grave, the senseless slaying of Madame Deauville, and the fleeing mayor, he didn’t need the added responsibility of searching for Hollie. That task rested on Jones’ shoulders, but he didn’t have a clue where to begin.
Brunö slumped on his makeshift chair, leaning forward with powerful forearms resting on thighs. Head bowed, he stared at the ground beneath his feet.
A desperate idea formed in Jones’ overstressed brain. “Have you had a chance to see the electronics in the room below the barn?”
The sergeant looked up and shook his head. “I’ve been too busy here.” He pointed to his radio equipment. “The Colonel told me you found recording and broadcasting equipment. There must be a satellite here also.”
Jones nodded. “There’s a dish on top of the barn. Pointing north. You can’t see it from here.”
He studied Brunö for a moment. The sergeant’s right knee bounced and he clenched and unclenched his hands. The man’s every gesture suggested agitation. Even though Brunö hadn’t spoken to Hollie directly, he clearly cared for her situation.
“Can one of your men take over here while you search the facility room?”
“This is my post. I will have to ask the Colonel. Why?”
“If you took a look at the observation room, would you be able to trace a signal from here to its destination?”
Brunö smiled sadly and shook his head. “I think you’ve seen too many television shows, Chief Inspector. Doing what you ask might be possible with a normal open system, but the one under the barn will be part of a sophisticated criminal operation. Jenkins would have many defences in place. Passwords, firewalls, failsafe devices, booby traps. Without the correct start up sequence and codes, it might reformat the main hard drive—destroying any information stored on the system. It will be better to wait for our forensic technologists, I think. Another thing. As le putain Jenkins said in his phone call, he would bounce the transmission off many different satellites. The receiving station for the broadcasts could be anywhere on the planet. China, Malaysia. Even Paris.” Brunö shrugged and showed his open hands.
Jones saw the futility of this line of investigation. He knew nothing about computers and his ignorance became more obvious with each passing year. Perhaps it was time for him to retire and make room for thrusting, techno-savvy coppers like Phil, Alex, and Ryan. But he wasn’t finished yet. He returned to the tried and trusted.
“Okay, sergeant. Scratch that idea as a bad one. Let’s try the old-school method.” He pointed to the large screen on Brunö’s desk. “Can you pull up a map of England on that monitor and centre it on Birmingham?”
Brunö shuffled forward. A few keyboard clicks were all he needed to produce the map Jones asked for.
Jones checked his watch. “I received Jenkins call at twenty-three-forty-two. According to my officer, Giles Danforth, that’s a little less than an hour and ten minutes after Jenkins abducted Hollie. We need to work out how far he could have travelled within that timescale.” He drew across a camping chair and sat next to the sergeant. “Jenkins and his accomplice took Hollie away in a stolen ambulance. Too conspicuous for a getaway car so I’m guessing they would have dumped it as soon as possible. I don’t know; let’s say ten minutes to change vehicles? A bit of a guess, I know but they wouldn’t have wanted to do it in the open and it would have taken some time. How long did it take Jenkins to reach me on the phone?”
Brunö creased his face in thought. “Perhaps fifteen minutes, including the time it took me to bring you the phone? No more. Our telephony people knew of your presence here. They did not take long to realise the importance of the call.”
Jones continued. “Jenkins would have needed a few minutes to find the gendarmerie’s telephone number and place the call. Let’s call it ten minutes total?”
Brunö nodded his agreement. “A reasonable estimation.”
“That gives Jenkins around forty-five minutes to reach his destination. Less the time to take Hollie from the new vehicle and secure her.”
“And that assumes monsieur Jenkins isn’t moving her to a different location at the moment,” Bruno offered.
“Understood. But Jenkins asked how soon I could “make it here?’ Right? I had the distinct impression he was already at the meeting place. That’s the assumption I’m working on. Any other variables are too difficult to account for. Agreed?”
“In the absence of other information, what else can we do but guess?”
“Not so much of a guess. As Colonel Coué suggested, Jenkins wants me to find him. He wouldn’t make it too difficult. Would he?”
“Perhaps not. So, at this time of night in England, how far could one travel in forty-five minutes?”
“Good question. Traffic would be low, but he wouldn’t want to break any speed limits. Seventy miles per hour maximum in forty-five minutes would get you a little over fifty miles.” Brunö gave him a quizzical look and Jones added, “That’s about eighty kilometres.”
“Ah, I see.” The sergeant worked the computer mapping system and superimposed a circle on the chart, centred on the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Edgbaston, Birmingham. “So, if we are correct, Hollie should be somewhere within that circle. It is a lot of surface area to cover, n’est-ce pas?”
“Certainly is, but at least it’s a starting point.”
Starting due north of Birmingham and moving clockwise, Jones read off the major towns within the target area: every large conurbation in the Midlands, plus Derby, Nottingham, Leicester, Coventry, Northampton, Gloucester, Hereford, and Stoke-on-Trent. All major towns with huge populations. Of course, there was nothing to stop Jenkins hi
ding out on a farm in the middle of the country. The Cotswolds, for example was well within the search perimeter. Jones noted that Edward Flynn’s former property near Great Malvern, the cottage the courts confiscated, also lay within the circle. Would Jenkins keep Hollie there as some sort of tribute to Ellis Flynn?
Jones considered calling the West Mercia Police, the force local to the area, and having them check the cottage again, but that would be too dangerous. Jones had to attend the rendezvous alone. He turned to Brunö again. “We need to narrow the search grid.”
The light-footed Jean-Luc appeared at his side. Jones didn’t hear him approach. He used his hands as levers against his knees and stood to greet him. The tall Frenchmen stood with his right hand folded loosely in the crook of his left elbow; the left hand rubbed his gunmetal-blue stubble.
“I think you are forgetting something, David,” said Jean-Luc, pointing at the circle on the map.
“I don’t doubt it, but what in particular?” Jones wanted to collapse back into the chair. The weight of his body suddenly became too much for his legs. The circle on the map seemed to taunt him.
“Jenkins clearly expects you to find the location. He must have told you where he would be, no?”
“Really? Did I miss something?” Jones’ neck ached from the build up of tension and his lack of sleep. His forehead pulsed. Even his damned fingers itched. Things were getting away from him. The initial fleeting hope provided by the search grid had changed to despair. He was in danger of losing control altogether, and from the look on Jean-Luc’s face, the Frenchman could see it too. He signalled for Jones to follow him to a quiet spot by their favourite wall, now illuminated by the wash from the temporary lights in the comms tent.
Once alone, Jean-Luc kept his voice low. “Think, David. Monsieur Jenkins wants you and is using Hollie as bait. Agreed?”
Jones nodded and smiled. Jean-Luc hadn’t given up on Hollie. His spirits lifted with the realisation he wasn’t in this alone, and he chided himself for not crediting Jean-Luc with more loyalty. The Frenchman sequestered a pair of camping chairs and took a small device from his utility belt. “Sergeant Brunö gave me the recording of the telephone conversation. Let us go through what Jenkins said and see whether we can work out his message, yes?”
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