As Jessop, the paramedic diagnosed, Hollie suffered from a compressed cranial fracture. Albright and his team drained a build up of fluid on the brain, and rebuilt her skull. He gave no promises. “Brain injuries are notoriously difficult to diagnose,” but Albright was, “optimistic for a full recovery.” He’d seen a “slight swelling …” and “they wouldn’t know Hollie’s condition until she woke …” Albright predicted “severe concussion,” and said they would “keep Hollie under close observation for a couple of days to guard against further inflammation of the brain tissue.”
In the end, Albright gave the Jardines a leaflet explaining the signs and symptoms of brain compression injuries, and concluded by saying Hollie’s physical outlook was “promising.” He used the word “miraculous” at one stage, but by then Jones was too exhausted to take in anything new.
After Albright’s detailed explanation, Frank Jardine insisted he examine Jones. The surgeon diagnosed three heavily bruised ribs and a possible cracked sternum.
Great, I could have told him that without the finger-prodding torture.
“What’s the treatment, doctor?” he asked while tugging on his jacket.
“We don’t strap ribcage injuries anymore,” he said. “There’s no point. So all I can offer is a prescription for heavy-duty painkillers and bed-rest. Visit your GP in a week if the pain doesn’t ease.”
Bed-rest, yeah, right. With a murdering paedophile and his gang on the loose. Thanks.
Jones rejected the offer of a confirmatory x-ray, but thanked Albright for his time and the prescription, which he folded and slipped into his pocket. He’d run it through the shredder later. Apart from the occasional glass of beer or wine, Jones didn’t take drugs—ever. Too many side effects.
“I hate to ask, but when do you think Hollie will be fit to make a statement?”
The doctor’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared. “Are you serious? After what that girl’s been through over the past few days, you want to interrogate her?”
Jones clamped his jaws together and counted to five before responding. “Hollie might be able to lead us to the monsters who did this to her. I’ll be very gentle.”
“Be that as it may, Chief Inspector. My prime concern is for Hollie’s wellbeing.”
“Mine too.”
Albright tried to stare him down, but Jones refused to be intimidated. He’d been confronted by more frightening gerbils.
“She is heavily sedated at the moment and I doubt she’ll be conscious until morning at the earliest. You will not be allowed to talk to her until I’m satisfied she’s out of danger.”
“Fair enough,” Jones conceded. “Sorry, doctor, but this case is bigger and uglier than you can imagine.”
Albright softened his stance a little. “I understand, Chief Inspector, but I’m not going to rush her.”
They shook hands and the surgeon retreated through the operating suite doors, returning to his personal fiefdom.
After receiving more of the Jardines’ undying gratitude, and avoiding their hugs, Jones secured an armed guard for Hollie consisting of Giles, the strong but silent, Dylan, and a couple of locals assigned by DCI Fuller. The protective detail would suffice until they could move Hollie to a safe house in Birmingham, or until they found Jenkins.
Jones didn’t feel safe to drive, and with a generosity that took him by surprise, DCI Fuller provided a patrol car to take him home. An hour and twenty minutes later, at five past two in the morning, he closed the front door behind him.
Home. Thank God.
The place may be a half-finished old ruin in the middle of nowhere, but it was his half-finished old ruin.
The instant he slid into the scalding hot bath and soaked away the grime of Brittany, the Detention Centre, and the hospital, his mood lightened. He towelled off, refreshed.
A frozen pizza with his favourite topping, Bolognese, had cooked in the oven while he soaked. The smell from the kitchen was amazing and made his mouth water. Drizzled in piquant olive oil, and sprinkled with grated parmesan for added bite, the pizza hit the spot. Accompanied by a small glass of Burgundy, it set him up for a wonderful night’s rest. Jones relaxed into the paradise of clean, crisp sheets, and his head hit the pillow.
33
Sunday morning - The value of literature
Time since Hollie Jardine’s shooting: twenty-one hours
Five-and-a-half hours of recuperative sleep, the longest unbroken rest he’d had in months, found Jones awake and refreshed. He rolled onto his back and took his time to assess his physical state. Apart from the damaged ribs stabbing him with red-hot pokers each time he breathed or moved, everything was hunky-bloody-dory—if he excluded all the other mess.
Before moving from his bed, he reached for the phone and dialled the hospital in Derby. It took him a while for the operator to put him through to Frank Jardine.
“Chief Inspector,” he said, with the joy of a man with wonderful news to impart. “I would have called you, but Hollie said you looked tired and needed your sleep.”
“What? Hollie’s awake?”
“Yes, Chief Inspector. Didn’t I say?” Frank laughed. “Sorry, but we’re overwhelmed as you can imagine. She woke about an hour ago and asked how you were. She remembered you coming to save her.”
Not for the first time that week, Jones was lost for words. He promised to call again and speak to Hollie after Albright finished his assessment, and then dressed with a stupid smile on his face. Although he didn’t look in the mirror, Jones knew the smile was stupid—he rarely had cause to use it.
He finished a breakfast of cereal and tea before making perhaps the most difficult phone call of his life. Commiseration calls were never easy, but one to a close colleague was impossible. The mobile had been on charge overnight and Jones stared at the screen for a full five minutes before dredging up the strength to hit speed-dial ***4. Alex answered the call within two rings.
“Hi, boss.” Her voice was subdued. He expected nothing else.
“Alex. How are you?”
Stupid question, how do you think she is?
“Fine, boss. You know. Still getting used to … things.”
What could he say to make things easier?
Nothing.
“Wanted to call last night, but I didn’t get in until … Oh, hell. I’m so sorry, Alex. I …”
“Not your fault, boss.” She made her voice stronger, more defiant. “Jenkins is responsible, not you.”
Perhaps, but I dragged you into this mess.
“What happened?” he asked. “How did you escape the fire?”
“Julie parked the car in the garage after dropping me at the airport yesterday. I must have driven out the back way moments before the arsonist broke in. It would appear that the house exploded ten minutes after I left.” She paused and gulped in a huge sigh. “Oh, boss. Julie …” She broke down.
Jones held on in silence. He hated the sound of her distress, but he was useless with emotion. He’d let himself go once, lost control when his family died. Spent weeks wallowing in a moraine of despair. He couldn’t go through that again, not with so much work still to do. He owed Alex answers, and a disjointed, depressed boss would do no one any good. He let her cry.
“I heard about Hollie,” she said through the sobs. “I’m so sorry we could not save her.”
“You mean nobody’s told you?”
Bloody idiot Jones, of course no one’s told her.
“Alex, Hollie’s alive. The doctors say she’s going to be fine.”
Okay, he was perhaps a little premature with the prognosis, but good news is good news.
Alex burst into tears again, but these were different.
“Thank you so much for telling me, boss. It will help when I … make arrangements. The parents of Julie arrive this morning …” Her voice cracked again.
“Are you staying at the Grand?”
The inappropriately named and past-its-sell-by-date Grand Hotel, in the old city centre,
offered a discount to police officers and their guests.
“Yes. It is … comfortable enough.”
“I’ll call on you tonight and offer my … well, you know.”
Jones didn’t look forward to the meeting with any relish. Not while the men responsible for all this destruction and death roamed the country, free as skylarks.
“Boss? Promise me one thing?”
Christ, here it comes.
He hesitated. “If I can.”
Don’t ask. Please don’t ask.
“Let me be there when you arrest Jenkins?”
Bloody knew it.
“Oh, Alex. You know that’s not possib—”
“Please, boss. I need to see his face when you put on the handcuffs. I promise I will not touch or speak to him. You have my word.” She sobbed again.
What can you say to that, Jones?
“I have no idea who or where the bastard is yet.”
“But you will find him, this I know. Please? I need to be there.”
At least she didn’t say you owed her.
“We’ll talk about it tonight.”
“Tack så mycket, boss. Thank you so much.”
Jones ended the call and stared into the dregs of his morning cuppa. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn’t refuse her request. Now all he had to do was find Jenkins when he didn’t have a clue …
Jenkins. John C Jenkins. Jonathan Jenkins.
Where had he heard the bloody name before?
The packing crates stored in the far corner of his kitchen-diner caught his eye. He put them there when he cleared the lounge to add a new radiator. They were a bloody eyesore, but he wouldn’t be able to move the heavy wooden boxes until his ribs healed.
The fifteen boxes housed the few precious mementos of a long life spent mainly alone. They contained his memories: wedding photos of unknown parents; pictures of his dead sister; school certificates; graduation photos of him as a fresh-faced constable; Siân and the baby who would never grow up; toys he’d bought as presents but never had the chance to give. Eight contained books.
He planned to start on the library overwinter, but work always took priority. Bookshelves, another project put on hold. The books would remain packed for another summer. He hoped damp hadn’t reached them.
The books!
The answer hit Jones with the stunning force of a brick to the back of the head. A decent night’s sleep had freed his mind, unblocked the logjam.
Could it be that simple? He had associated the name Jenkins with work, a criminal from an unremembered case, or maybe a victim. No, Jenkins wasn’t an enemy, but a long-forgotten friend. A character he’d spent hours with as a lonely, sensitive boy.
Jenkins. Of course! You bloody idiot, Jones.
He’d been too tired to make the connection in France, and too busy since. With a bark of laughter, Jones pulled the hand-written inventory from a filing cabinet in his makeshift office, a corner of the spare room. Drawn up a decade ago, the catalogue listed each item in alphabetical order.
Crate 6: Books, childhood, A-to-M.
He didn’t even have to search the boxes. The comprehensive list had it all. Crate 6 contained half the books he’d pored over as a child. One series in particular grabbed his interest, thirty-two novels in all. Stories that kept him company from the orphanage through each foster home. The books had wrapped up his early life. The author, Arthur P. Buckthorn, was his all-time boyhood hero.
Jones read each title on the list in turn. The nineteenth stood out large as a beacon and confirmed his theory—Jenkins and the Derbishire Dogfight. He yelped in delight and punched the air. The damaged ribs screamed in complaint, but he didn’t care. Rare times like these made police work worthwhile.
Got you, you bastard.
His next phone call woke Phil Cryer, yet again.
“Jesus, boss. How many more times are you going to wake me up in the middle of the night?”
“It’s nearly eight o’clock, man, but I promise, you’re gonna thank me. Listen …”
After setting Phil the confirmatory research task, he made three more calls. With the first, he dispatched Ryan to help the team investigate the arson at Alex’s home. With the second, he tasked Section 14, the Midlands Police’s covert observation unit, to liaise with Phil and put a twenty-four hour watch on the man claiming to be John C Jenkins. Now Jones had an actual ID, he wasn’t going to let the murderous bugger out of his sight until ready to make his move. Police mole or not, Jenkins wasn’t going to escape this time. The third and final call was to Giles, for an unbiased situation report on Hollie.
“She’s really weak, but wants to see you.”
“What does Albright say?”
“He says she shouldn’t be questioned, but Hollie’s insistent. Won’t take no for an answer.”
“That’s great. What about her parents?”
“They think you’re a superstar and wouldn’t dream of saying no to her.”
“Tell Hollie I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Will do mate. Any sign of Jenkins overnight?”
“You could say.” Jones grinned down the phone and nodded as though he was making a video call.
“David, you sound pumped. You found him didn’t you?”
He told Giles what he knew.
“That’s fantastic, can I tell Hollie?”
“No, not yet. I’d rather like to do that myself. I need to see how strong she is before breaking the news. Don’t want to do anything to set her back. She needs to recover.”
“David, she’s remarkable. Sharp as a tack. Brave too. Demanded to see a sketch artist the moment after Albright left her room. Says she can identify the bastard. We actually have an eyewitness.”
Things were finally popping into place.
“Give her anything she needs but don’t push. I’ll have Phil email you an electronic identity parade, subject to Mr Albright’s approval. Wouldn’t want to upset the good doctor now, would we.”
As per Jones’ instructions, Phil would run the full background check on the killer, but although he now knew Jenkins’ real identity, or thought he did, Jones had to play things carefully. He needed more than half-baked theories, childhood memories, and coincidences. Any decent defence barrister would cast doubts on the memory of a traumatised teenager with a head injury, and Jones had only caught a fleeting glimpse at the detention centre. He needed hard evidence and was willing to bet the crime scenes would provide it.
When they arrested the animal, Jones wanted the case airtight and with no wriggle room. He still had too many unanswered questions. The correct pressure might force Jenkins to give up his accomplices. Jones wanted the lot: the money trail; the customers; the identities of the other victims; everything. Most of all, apart from Jenkins, he wanted the sniper, and the bent copper.
He drained the third mug of tea and gazed through the kitchen window before heading to the bathroom. The sun shone bright through the trees bordering his back garden, bringing with it the promise of a beautiful day.
Jones smiled.
34
Monday morning - Roy-the-Idiot
Time since Hollie Jardine’s shooting: forty-six hours
Jones waited in the Birmingham International Airport’s arrivals lounge for Jean-Luc’s plane, which was late. He spent the time reviewing the investigation since Hollie’s miraculous recovery and his own revelation.
Sunday had been one of those rare days where everything slotted into place like the pieces of a child’s wooden jigsaw puzzle. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, you had to go with the flow. He’d spent the day flitting between the arson site, Holton police station, and Saint Mary’s Hospital, Derby.
The visit to Eldon Road was hard to take. The extensive damage wasn’t limited to Alex’s house. The fire gutted the adjacent building and the immediate vicinity reminded him of the bad old days and the IRA bombing campaigns of the 70s and 80s. A time he never wanted to revisit.
As for the arson inves
tigation, credit went to Ryan. He made the breakthrough Sunday afternoon when the doctors finally allowed him to interview the passer-by who had lost his dog and had suffered serious but not life-threatening injuries.
Ryan put everything together with minimal help from Jones who allowed him to run with the evidence. The Detective Constable raised an arrest warrant for a known pyromaniac, one Roy Harper. He also arranged for the Metropolitan Police to arrest and detain the arsonist in a cell at his local nick, ready for Ryan’s arrival.
Jones smiled at Ryan’s excitement.
“Didn’t even need the computer, boss,” he said, pulling on his jacket in preparation for the trip to London to collect the prisoner. “Did it the old-school way. Only took a couple of phone calls. Can’t thank you enough for letting me run with this.”
“Who are you taking to London with you?”
“One of DI Danforth’s men. Don’t worry, boss, Harper won’t be giving me the slip.”
“Good man. When you get back, book him in the cells overnight and go home. You can handle the early stage interview tomorrow.”
“Really? Fantastic. Thanks.”
“You deserve it.” Jones pointed to Pelham’s empty desk. “Where is he?”
Ryan’s smile fell away. “Took the weekend off sick. Made himself scarce, I reckon.”
“So he should.” Jones massaged his aching ribs. “Ever heard the term persona non grata?”
“Yep.”
“Keep this between us, but I’ll be having a quiet word with him tomorrow, if he recovers from his ‘illness’.” Jones said. “There are going to be some changes around here.”
“Great. You’ll never guess, but Superintendent Peyton’s gone missing as well. Funny that, eh?”
“Hilarious.”
After visiting Alex and meeting Julie’s parents in the late afternoon, Jones returned home early, in preparation for the big day to come and phoned Jean-Luc to invite him to witness Jenkins’ arrest.
And there Jones stood, Monday morning, Birmingham International Airport, awaiting the arrival of the plane from Brest.
Dead and Gone Page 284
