Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  He pressed play.

  They spent twenty-five minutes dissecting Jones’ telephone call with Jenkins. They boiled it down to a small list of potential clues.

  “Here’s what we have.”

  Jones scanned through the jottings he made in the police notebook he never went anywhere without. Even took a new one with him on his rare holidays.

  “Point one. Jenkins has access to my personnel records. He might have inside help, a police mole. I don’t know where that gets us, but I’ll need to bear that in mind for future reference. We’ll file that one away.” He flipped a page. “Points two and three. Jenkins is not his real name and he has a Scottish accent. Doubt that’s important, but, again, it might be of use later—if we ever catch the bugger. Voice analysis and comparison.”

  Jean-Luc shook his head. “The call was made via computer. Jenkins would have altered his voice enough to fool the analysis, I think.” The Frenchman paused for a moment’s thought before adding. “However, none of these points helps us find a location for Hollie. The next point, David. Numéro quatre?” Jean-Luc made a rolling-forward gesture with his hands.

  “Point four, right. I need to be able to reach him by midday. But how is that possible? Assuming the plane is on time, I won’t reach Birmingham until ten-thirty tomorrow morning. That only leaves ninety minutes. Barely time to reach the city at that time of the morning. Even if we do work out where Hollie is, I won’t be able to reach her. Not unless she’s right next to the bloody airport.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “Possible, but unlikely. Nothing much around there but fields and housing estates. Urban sprawl.”

  “You are forgetting about the helicopter, David.” He pointed to the transport aircraft.

  “What about it? That thing won’t make it all the way to Birmingham. Will it?”

  “No, but I have talked with the pilot. He is arranging for a colleague to fly you to England. A lighter and faster helicopter will arrive within the hour. I am sorry, my friend, I do not know why I did not think of it sooner.” Jean-Luc tapped his forehead.

  “What? I …” Jones didn’t know what to say other than, “Thank you, Jean-Luc.” It seemed woefully inadequate. Jean-Luc had given him a chance, but it wouldn’t do a blind bit of good if they couldn’t work out where Jenkins wanted to meet. He gave an embarrassed cough. “I’ll make sure your department is compensated for all our expenses. Aviation fuel, the pilot’s pay, and so forth.”

  Jean-Luc smiled. “But of course, we are now running a joint operation, n’est pas? My accounts department will send an invoice to yours. Now shall we continue? There is something you are missing. I am sure.”

  Jones referred to his notes again. “Point Five. Play that part about Jenkins meeting Ellis Flynn again. It’s at counter point number … 436.”

  Jean-Luc dialled the number into the digital recorder and Jenkins’ voice sprang from the speaker:

  “…was like that when we first met, but he turned out alright in the end. He had promise. I saw it early on …”

  “That’s it, hold it there.” Jones held up his hand. “So we know Jenkins met Ellis Flynn when he was much younger.”

  Jones saw it, plain and simple. He jumped to his feet. The camping chair tilted and fell behind him. “It’s obvious. I’m a complete idiot.”

  “What do you have?”

  “It’s in the time line. The bloody time line. I should have seen it straight away. Hell, Phil Cryer pointed it out before we’d even heard of Jenkins. His wonderful bloody memory …”

  Jones paced in front of Jean-Luc who remained seated. He frowned in confusion but clearly knew better than to interrupt a man in full flow.

  Jones shot quick-fire questions and answered them himself. Jean-Luc responded as fast as he could to direct questions, or when Jones stopped to search through his notes.

  “What year did Flynn renovate the room under the barn? Between 2008 and 2009. Mere months after they released him from detention.” Jones paused and rubbed his palms together. “How did he pay for the work? Couldn’t have come up with the money himself, he’d been locked up five years and the courts confiscated most of his father’s money. Ellis Flynn was broke. All he had was the house in Tile Hill and the family campervan. Someone sponsored him and that someone must have been Jenkins. Makes sense, right?” Jones flashed the question at Jean-Luc who nodded but said nothing.

  Jones continued pacing. “Now, that brings us to point six. Jenkins said he’d be at the place where Flynn was born.”

  “Do you know where?”

  “Yes, Phil Cryer told me. I wrote it down.” He flipped back a few pages in the notebook. “It was a woman’s hospital. Damn it, where did I … ah, here we are, ‘Birmingham Hospital for Women, Edgbaston.’ But he can’t be keeping Hollie there.”

  “Why not?”

  “They tore the place down back in the 1990s. It’s a multi-storey car park now in constant use. Hell. There must be something else.”

  “What about the birthplace of the father? Might Jenkins have known Ellis through his father?”

  Jones thought for a moment, but shook his head. “No. That won’t work either. Edward Flynn was born at home in Tile Hill. I’ve had officers posted at the house ever since we searched the place last night. I ordered them to report in to the station every fifteen minutes. I’d have heard if there’d been a break in protocol.” Jones punched his open left palm three times. The slapping noise was lost in the background hubbub. “Play that part again. Counter point number 458.”

  Jean-Luc pressed the buttons on the device and Jenkins’ hateful, taunting voice scratched its way under Jones skin. They were getting closer. Jones felt the electric prickle of excitement pulse from his toes to his hair roots.

  “ …worried there, didn’t I? Well, let me see, what hint should I give you? Tum-ti-tum. Ah yes, I have it. Meet me at the place my boy Flynn was born.”

  “The place where my boy Flynn was born.” Jones stopped at the upturned chair, righted it, and sat. He leaned toward Jean-Luc and smiled. “Notice he said ‘my boy’?” Jean-Luc nodded. “Why would he say that if he isn’t his father? What if Jenkins meant the place where Ellis Flynn was re-born?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Young Offenders Institute. Ellis Flynn entered as a naive thirteen-year-old boy, and left five years later, the fully formed partner of a sadistic killer. Don’t you see? Jenkins must have met Flynn while he was in prison. An inmate, a guard, a social worker? Ellis was already partial to underage girls. Maybe Jenkins has been tutoring him since 2002 … where was it?” Jones turned the pages once more. “Ah, here we are, the Derbyshire Youth Detention Centre. Jones paused again. “Hang on a minute. Didn’t Jenkins say something about a home?” He flipped back a few pages in the notebook. “Number 398.”

  “…won’t be harmed until you get here. She’s in a nice sanctuary, a home-away-from-home, a sort of refuge, if you like, and she’s going nowhere, for the moment …”

  Jones raised a fist to Jean-Luc. “Don’t you see? He’s talking about the Detention Centre. We used to call them Boy’s Homes, back in the day. And we already know the place was closed shortly after Flynn’s release. It’s abandoned. It’s where Jenkins is holding Hollie. I’m sure of it. And look”—he pointed at Brunö’s screen—“Derby is within the search grid.”

  “How close to Birmingham is the Centre?”

  Jones rose and, followed by Jean-Luc, crossed to the comms tent. He handed his notebook to the sergeant. “Can you find the address for this place?”

  The sergeant took all of two minutes to discover the Detention Centre’s address: Sunnyhill, south-west of Derby.

  They located Sunnyhill on the target map. “Look,” said Jones tapping the screen. “It’s less than forty-five minutes from Birmingham, up the A38, if they avoid the motorway network. The timings are right. Jenkins could easily have driven Hollie to Sunnyhill in the time between taking her from the hospital and making the call. I’m
betting the location suits Jenkins’ warped sense of justice.”

  They’d made a whole load of assumptions and wild-arsed guesses to get there, but Jones somehow knew he was right. With Jean-Luc’s help and calm encouragement, and Sergeant Brunö’s support, he’d discovered the meeting place—perhaps. Furthermore, the imminent arrival of the helicopter gave him the opportunity to get to Derby well before the deadline.

  For the first time since he received the hideous phone call from Giles, DCI David Jones felt the tiniest flicker of hope.

  29

  Friday night, Saturday morning - Flight

  Time since Flynn’s death: thirteen hours

  Jones had never been in a helicopter, and it had never featured on his bucket list. He didn’t want to visit any more amusement parks either after his first and only Big Dipper ride as a ten-year-old. Never again. He detested the lack of control and the way his stomach flipped and lurched at each unexpected jag and twist. That one time, he’d thrown up over his new school shoes and spent the rest of the day splodging around with wet feet. Vile. Why anyone paid good money for the privilege of being scared witless, was beyond him.

  Being strapped into the helicopter’s passenger seat, whipping over the Brittany countryside at a frighteningly low altitude, and at ridiculous speeds, was not the way he’d choose to spend the night. At one stage they flew so low, he could have reached out and grabbed an apple from a bloody orchard.

  Every time the pilot toggled the cyclic steering control, or rotated the collective lever, the aircraft lurched violently. Jones wasn’t able to predict the movement, up or down, left or right, and spent the early part of the flight breathing through his mouth, trying to keep down his baguettes and coffee.

  Corkscrewing was the worst. Up, down, and around in one slewing, nauseating manoeuvre. His over-sensitive stomach heaved and he fought the gag reflex. The pilot insisted on giving him the full tourist spiel as they flew over dimly-lit points of the utmost disinterest.

  Thankfully, things improved when they reached the Channel. The helicopter flew straight and true and reached its cruising speed, two-hundred-and-sixty kph. As his stomach settled, Jones closed his eyes and ran through the conversation he had with Jean-Luc while they had waited for the helicopter’s arrival.

  “You cannot go alone, David.” Jean-Luc said, gripping his shoulders and staring into his eyes. “It is a trap. Jenkins will surely kill you.”

  “If I don’t go, he’ll definitely kill Hollie. You heard what he said. She’ll suffer and I can’t have that on my conscience. At least now, I’m going to arrive early. I’ll have time to think of something. What would you do in this situation?”

  “Exactly the same, mon ami, but going unarmed, is suicide.”

  “What else can I do?”

  “You must take precautions, David. I would love to go with you, but am needed here. Can you arrange protection?”

  “Not much. Remember, there might be a police mole operating somewhere. I can’t involve anyone I don’t trust implicitly. Jenkins might find out and cut his losses. I’ve got to go in light.”

  Jean-Luc released his grip on Jones’ shoulders and looked towards the sound of the approaching helicopter. “Who will you turn to?”

  “Apart from Sergeant Cryer, who’s out of commission, and Alex, who has other things on her mind, there are only two people on the UK police force I can really trust.”

  Jones passed the rest of the two-and-a-half hour flight organising his thoughts and trying to rest. He couldn’t plan anything until he saw the layout of the centre, but at least the helicopter won him a little preparation time.

  Going in underprepared and alone was a huge and suicidal gamble but what alternative did he have? Jenkins had planned it that way.

  Something touched Jones’ arm. He woke with what felt like a mouth full of dry leaves. The pilot smiled and pointed through the glass dome of the cockpit. “Birmingham,” his voice crackled through the helmet speakers. “We land in a few minutes.

  I slept through all this noise?

  Jones stretched as much as he could in the restrictive harness, and the young pilot touched the helicopter to the tarmac as gently as a feather landing on a pillow. He cut the engine and the chopper settled its weight on the skids. Jones closed his eyes and gave silent thanks to whatever had delivered him from the evils of whirligig flight, and waited for his stomach to land.

  “Can I get out of this thing now, monsieur?”

  The pilot nodded and grinned. Jones punched the central release mechanism, and the five-point harness fell away. It felt damned good to move freely again. Even the creaking complaints made by his stiffened back and cramped neck muscles were a relief, of sorts. Jones gave the pilot his grateful thanks, and before the rotors stopped spinning, ducked low, slid from the cockpit, and scuttled towards the waiting Giles Danforth and Ryan Washington.

  “How’s Alex?” he asked Ryan, as they headed to the customs building dedicated to private-flights.

  “She wanted to come with us today, but I had a support officer take her in hand. The counsellor’s under instructions not to let Alex out of her sight.”

  “Identification of the body possible?”

  “Not a chance. The fire … Jesus, what a mess. According to the ME, Julie wouldn’t have felt a thing. Smoke inhalation would have killed her before the flames reached her.”

  “Do they know how it started?”

  “Fire-fighters are still damping down, so the investigators won’t get access for a while. But the guys I talked to reckon it was deliberate. Gas.”

  “Arson,” Jones said through gritted teeth. “Anyone else hurt?”

  “Yeah.” Ryan lowered his head. “A pedestrian walking his dog was hit by flying debris. Street’s a real mess. Explosion destroyed the house next-door and caused loads of collateral damage. Looks like parts of Helmand Province in Afghanistan. Smashed windows, ruined cars. Could have been a hell of a lot worse though.”

  “How’s the dog-walker? Has he been interviewed? He might have seen something.”

  “Not yet. He’s unconscious. I have a uniform with him set to call us the moment he wakes and the doctors give us the all clear. Major Crime Scene Unit is doing house-to-house interviews. Not sure we’ll get all that much. Quiet street. Nearest CCTV camera’s a mile away.”

  Jones tried to relax his jaw muscles but his whole body tensed. He turned to Giles. “So it’s the three of us now?”

  “Not quite. I’ve pulled in my best officer.” Giles raised a hand to halt Jones’ impending interruption. “I trust Dylan with my life every time I go on a call, and I’ve known him since training. He’s damned good. Honest too. He’s not your mole. Guaranteed.”

  Jones had to trust that Giles knew what he was doing, but he didn’t like the idea of another variable he couldn’t account for.

  A lightning-fast transit through Border Control, followed by a shower in the visitor’s suite helped calm Jones’ taut nerves. He changed into his own clothes, courtesy of Ryan, who’d grabbed the overnight bag from Jones’ office, and felt a million times better. The crisp white shirt against his freshly scrubbed skin was a pure delight.

  Within twenty-five minutes of the helicopter’s touchdown, the four of them, Jones, Ryan, Giles, and Sergeant Roger ‘Bob’ Dylan, screamed along the A42 towards Derby in an unmarked police Range Rover. Dylan, a short, broad-shouldered man with close-cropped brown hair and a Geordie accent, drove. Ryan sat beside him. Jones and Giles took the back seat.

  Giles removed a folder from the parcel shelf. “I had Phil Cryer run an online search of the Detention Centre and its surroundings and printed this off at the office from his email. We have an aerial view of the site. Phil found an architect’s plans of the building and a few photos of the place from when it was still open.”

  Jones took the papers and studied each carefully. The building stood alone in its large grounds. A railway track passed within one hundred metres of its rear fence. Further confirmation of his gue
ss.

  Hollie’s there, she must be. Please let her be alive.

  Jones and his hastily organised mini-team left the A38, joined Warwick Avenue, and arrived at Sunnyhill, a sprawling suburb some five miles south of Derby. Eventually they found Park Drive, a three-mile long road that curved in a gentle anti-clockwise arc and continued towards the city centre.

  To their left, undulating open farmland, with fields, hedges, and woods stretched into the distance. On the right lay the commuter-belt. Side roads gave access to featureless estates of semi-detached and detached houses—boxes for aspiring lives. Sunnyhill was little more than a dormitory village for people working in Derby and the much larger Birmingham.

  According to Phil Cryer’s internet research and downloaded aerial survey maps, the Derbyshire Youth Detention Centre occupied a three-acre site and backed onto the countryside on the western side of Park Drive.

  Jones instructed Bob Dylan to enter an industrial estate of two, three, and four story factory buildings some three hundred yards from their destination. Dylan found a quiet cul-de-sac and parked. The place was deserted, the factory outlets closed for the weekend.

  Jones and Ryan left the ARU men at the car checking their equipment and scouted the environs. They strolled back to the t-junction with Park Drive, two friends out for a Saturday morning stroll in the sun, ostensibly talking football.

  Two hundred yards to the north, on the other side of Park Drive, an overgrown conifer hedge grew tall and spindly. Behind the hedge, Jones could make out a six-foot tall, red-bricked wall, which he knew was topped with rusty razor wire—the wall defended the grounds to the Detention Centre.

  On the way back to the Range Rover, Jones nodded to a nearby warehouse, a Swedish furniture designer. “Don’t rush, somebody might be watching, but why don’t you pop over there and see whether you can convince a security guard to let you and Dylan onto the roof? Looks like you’ll have a pretty good view of the Detention Centre from up there.”