Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  He was relaxed. In no rush. The investigation had reached the endgame and things were under control. Section 14’s latest report showed Jenkins at home, unaware of the surveillance team, doing nothing more exciting than watching breakfast news with his wife of thirty-six years. The couple had no kids, no pets, and apparently, few outside interests.

  Jones’ meeting with Jean-Luc was subdued. The Frenchman knew about Jones’ damaged ribcage, and when they met at the customs barrier, he curtailed the expected backslap and cheek-kissing frenzy and made do with a restrained handshake.

  “David, it is good to see you again. And you look refreshed.” The pencil moustache stretched wide as his face broke into a teeth-baring smile. “You have been busy since we last met, I understand.”

  “Certainly have. I’ll explain everything in the car on the way to the station.”

  “I have brought something with me to help with the, er … party.” He raised an aluminium attaché case attached to his wrist by a chain. “Evidence I think you will find somewhat useful. But first let me tell you about the maire and the crime scene.”

  Jones grabbed him by the arm. The man’s corded bicep was rock under his hand. “You found him?”

  “Oui. He owns a second property in the Pyrenees.”

  “Did he explain why he ran?”

  “Alas no. We found him hanging from the roof beams.”

  “Suicide?”

  “Initial indications suggest so, but the investigation has only just begun.”

  “Did he leave a note?”

  “Again, no. But we found a bank account with funds far in excess of the amount one would expect for the maire of a small village in Brittany.”

  “You’re following the money?”

  “But of course,” the tall Frenchman said, grinning hard. “We always follow the money.”

  “And the bodies you found at Flynn’s farm. Any closer to identification?”

  “Not as yet, but the days they are early, n’est-ce pas?”

  Senior Scenes of Crime Officer, Patrick Elliott, welcomed them into the forensics lab with a grin as wide as Jean-Luc’s had been at the airport.

  “Ah now there you are, Chief Inspector. You must be psychic. I was about to give you a bell. I’ve matched the prisoner’s blood and tissue samples to the arson scene, and to the fingerprints on the button. There’s little doubt. DNA analysis will follow, but not for a few weeks. You’re good to go ahead with the interrogation whenever you like.”

  “Thanks, Patrick. You worked through the night on this?”

  He shrugged. “Sure and it’s the least I could do. Julie Harris was a wonderful girl. You go get the bastard who killed her, eh?” He took a second look at the Frenchman and scratched his dark beard.

  Jones took the point and made the introductions, and after a detailed explanation regarding its contents, Jean-Luc handed over the evidence sachet taken from his briefcase.

  Patrick signed the official receipt from the French Ministère de la Justice, and broke the seal. “I see things are moving on this case, both sides of the Channel,” Patrick said. “Leave this with me sir, and I’ll see what I can come up with. It won’t take long to search the DNA and AFIS databases.”

  “Excusez-moi,” said Jean-Luc. “Ayfees?”

  “Automated Fingerprint Identification System,” Jones answered, ignoring Patrick’s bemused grin. “How long, Patrick?”

  “Give me a ‘til mid-afternoon. I need to verify the print analyses first.” He glanced at Jean-Luc. “If you’ll forgive me.”

  Jean-Luc gave him a quick nod. “I would expect nothing less, monsieur.”

  On the way back through the station, most of Jones’ colleagues avoided eye contact, probably for fear of upsetting a respected senior officer. After all, to them Hollie Jardine had died and her killer still roamed free—not a great result for the Midlands Constabulary’s most respected and successful detective. The news of Hollie’s death had made the local paper, and the national breakfast news. No one knew how the media unearthed the information so quickly.

  Jones told no one he leaked the Derby story to ‘Old’ Lucas Wilson—anonymously. He hoped the fairy-tale wouldn’t hamper the miserable hack’s journalistic career. Honestly he did.

  To the world, Hollie was dead, and Jones hoped the man calling himself Jonathan C Jenkins thought so too.

  He showed Jean-Luc to the changing rooms so the Frenchman could make a quick change of clothes, and said he’d be back after completing a little ‘housekeeping’. Two minutes later, he burst through the SCU office door, slammed his fist on the desk, and pointed at his cowering future-former-acting-second-in-command. “A word in your ear please, DS Pelham. My office, right now.”

  At ten o’clock, Jones, Jean-Luc, and Ryan Washington stood in the corridor outside the interview suite. Ryan bounced with excitement at the prospect of leading his first major interview.

  “Easy Ryan,” Jones said. “Take it the way we discussed. And, Jean-Luc, play it by ear.”

  “Désolé, David. Playing an ear?”

  “Sorry, I mean, don’t worry about what we say … play along. I’m not going to introduce you. Please stand in the background and look menacing. If you want to say anything, take your cue from Ryan or me, okay?”

  “Ah, I see,” Jean-Luc winked. “You are going to … pull a fast one?” Jones gave him a thin smile and nodded. “Is that why you asked me to wear my uniform?” Jean-Luc added.

  Jones studied his friend and had to admit, the man looked damned impressive in his quasi-military rig. Dark blue top with multi-coloured medal ribbon band across the left breast, light blue trousers, and black shoes buffed to a high-gloss military shine. He carried his képi clamped under his right arm and stood tall, imposing. The only thing missing was the pistol inside his holster. Despite his diplomatic status and his initial objections, Jean-Luc did not have permission to carry a weapon in the UK.

  “Interview Room 3,” said Ryan.

  “Ready?” Jones asked.

  “Can’t wait, boss.”

  Roy Harper sat on a hard metal chair, behind a metal table—both bolted into the concrete floor. As per Jones’ instructions, the custody officers had manacled his hands and the linking chain passed through a ring attached to the table. They had looped the chain twice through the ring to restrict the arsonist’s movement. The weasel looked decidedly uncomfortable. Under normal circumstances, Jones would have removed the handcuffs to put the suspect at his ease, but in this case, he changed tactics and let the killer suffer. He didn’t need coddling. This one needed to feel the weight of police hatred, and no one had to put on an act.

  “Where’s my lawyer?”

  Ryan met Harper’s first words with a harsh glare.

  “All in good time. We haven’t charged you yet. All we’re going to do is have a little chat.” Ryan waved a hand around the small room. “Look, no recording equipment, no briefs, no one to get in the way. We wanted to take a close look at the bastard who firebombed our friend’s house, and killed her partner the other night … before you go away. Now, are you going to tell us who put you up to it?”

  “I want my Miranda rights.”

  Ryan snorted and leaned forward, forearms resting on the table. "That might work if you commit a crime in America, but this is England. You can stay silent if you want. It’s all the same to us.”

  “I didn’t do fuckin’ nuttin’. I keep tellin’ ya,” Harper answered with an irritating nasal whine. “I ain’t never been to this mothafuckin’ shithole afore. I’s from London, ya know? The smoke? Bright lights, big city? What would I be doin’ in this fuckin’ Midlands toilet?” He smiled when he said it. “Why d’you have ta’ drag my ass outa bed at midnight and fetch me ‘ere?”

  “And why do you sound like an East Coast rapper when you were born in Essex?” asked Ryan, adding a mocking sneer. He turned to Jones. “American rapper? More like a sweet wrapper, eh boss?”

  Jones smiled and let Ryan continue. He handled the
opening part of the interrogation well, setting the scene and laying out some of the evidence against the fire-starter. After half an hour, Jones took over. Time to draw the big guns.

  “We take a dim view of arson, and a dimmer view of murder,” he began.

  Sitting across from a man who’d killed a friend of a friend, and who’d attempted to murder Alex wasn’t easy. Jones forced himself to remain calm. Anger wouldn’t get the job done. He knew how to work an interview. He’d been doing them long enough.

  Harper kept looking up at Jean-Luc and frowning. Jones didn’t make the introduction.

  “So,” Jones continued. “Let’s recap a moment, shall we? You’ve never been to Birmingham before, and you didn’t set fire to a police officer’s house two nights ago in Eldon Road, Smethwick. Am I correct?”

  “Ain’t sayin’ nuttin’. Not without ma lawyer.”

  Jones opened the concertina case-file he’d placed on the desk at the start of the interview and removed a photo from one of the segments. It showed the burned-out remains of Alex and Julie’s modest home. The embers still smouldered.

  Roy Harper stared longingly at the images. He shuddered, and his eyes glazed. The little shit was getting off on the picture. Jones had read the man’s psych profile before the interview—a pyromaniac who drew sexual gratification from setting fires.

  In other words, one sick puppy.

  Jones turned the photo face down. Harper’s eyes followed the movement closely. He frowned and licked his bottom lip, but said nothing.

  Jones interlaced his fingers and cracked his knuckles. He leaned back and folded his arms across his chest taking care to show no pain even though the damaged ribs hurt like the devil.

  “I’m going to tell you a little story, and you’re going to listen. When I’m finished, I’ll ask you one question. Only one. You don’t have to answer, but if you don’t I’m going to hand you over to my friend here.” He jagged a thumb over his shoulder at Jean-Luc. “And after that we’ll never meet again. Ever. Understand?”

  Harper gave Jones the finger, which was amusing given his contorted position. “Dream on, CSI!” the moron added.

  “What?” Jones sighed. “Will you drop the Americanisms? You’re the twenty-three year-old son of a Baptist preacher and a midwife mother. Lived most of your life in the leafy suburbs of Basildon, and moved to London to study chemical engineering.”

  According to the man’s medical report, everything else in Harper’s life stemmed from an overactive imagination and a psychotic dissociative disorder.

  Harper frowned. “My father died in a fire nineteen year’ ago.”

  “No, Roy. You’re making things up again. Both your parents are still alive and wondering what they’re going to do with you.”

  The prisoner blinked and frowned. “Huh?” Harper shook his head in confusion and took in his surroundings as if for the first time. He fixed his gaze on Jones, his expression returned to one of defiance.

  “I ain’t telling you nuttin’ without my attorney.” He made a ridiculous sucking sound with his teeth. Searching for ‘gangsta’ but finding Bugs Bunny.

  Jesus. This man should be in a psych ward.

  “Okay, have it your way, Mr Harper. My story starts last Thursday evening when your boss and Ellis Flynn kidnapped Hollie Jardine from outside her school. That was their first mistake.”

  “Don’t know nuttin’ ‘bout that,” Harper said.

  This time Jones believed him.

  “The pair’s second error came when they took Hollie to Brittany. That’s in France.”

  Harper’s nervous eyes flashed up to Jean-Luc, and then locked on Jones. A light began to dawn. “I know where Brittany is. And I told you, I’ve never heard of the girl. Hollie Jardine wasn’t it?”

  “Ah. You’ve changed the accent to Estuary English. Interesting.”

  Harper tried to sit up straight.

  Jones returned the arson photo, still face down, to the case-file and took out another. This one had an aerial shot of Ellis Flynn’s cottage. He rotated it so Harper could take a good look. Harper studied the picture and frowned; he clearly didn’t have a clue where it was.

  “I don’t care whether you’ve seen the place or not. Under French law you became an accomplice to the crimes these two committed the moment you took on a contract to kill my officer. It’s all part of the same case.”

  Harper tried to settle back into the chair, but the restraints didn’t allow him enough movement.

  “Well now, Mr Harper, I see I have your attention at last.”

  “The Nail.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Not Harper, Call me the Nail. Roy-the-Nail.”

  “Roy-the-Nail?” Jones snorted. He looked over his shoulder, first at Ryan, and then at Jean-Luc. The Frenchman gave the Nail the benefit of a malevolent glare. Actors called it staying in character, and Jean-Luc was a natural.

  “Yeah, Hammer and Nail, get it?” Harper’s eyes wavered and fell to the floor. Roy-the-Nail knew he’d made a big mistake.

  Oh you silly boy. That’s the first ‘nail’ in your coffin, old son.

  Jones smiled and mentally ticked a name on his suspect list. The PNC, in all its recently updated, hacker-defended, super-fast glory, had thrown out a list of all the known hit men operating in the UK with the skills to make the shot described by Giles Danforth. It wasn’t a long list—four names. One of them, Hammer, had never been caught or identified.

  Hammer and Nail. Someone’s idea of a sick joke?

  It wouldn’t take much more to push this fool over the edge. Jones slid the new photo across the table.

  “This cottage is where Jenkins and Flynn took Hollie. We’ve found the remains of eight girls in and around that farm. That’s enough to rate it as a mass grave. And that’s really serious.”

  Roy-the-Nail swallowed, and some of the colour drained from his face.

  “We now come to the interesting part of the story. Ellis Flynn is dead, but Jenkins got away. During his escape, he killed a woman, and that makes nine deaths. You still counting? No? Well we are.” The prisoner lowered his eyes. “If you include the murder-by-arson of Julie Harris, and that’s down to you alone, Roy-the-Nail, it takes the grand total to ten.”

  Jones swivelled in his chair, his action stiff due to the burning ribs, and looked up at Jean-Luc. “I’m right aren’t I, Colonel Coué. The total is ten, the magic number?”

  “Oui, dix,” Jean-Luc didn’t take his eyes from Harper. The moustache barely moved as he spoke. “Le nombre magique.”

  Jones had to hand it to Jean-Luc; he played the brooding menace with panache. If Jones had been in Harper’s position, he might have wet himself by now.

  Ryan, like Jean-Luc, played his part to perfection. He scratched his chin and blew out a silent whistle. He shook his head with exaggerated sadness and made another note, coming across as a used car salesman sizing up a second-hand wreck for part-exchange.

  “What the fuck you talking about? What magic number?” Roy-the-Nail Harper squeaked and tried to ease his wrists as the handcuffs bit into the flesh.

  “Ten murders, that’s double figures. Takes us into terrorism territory. You heard about Guantanamo Bay?”

  “What?”

  Fear, deep and primal, shadowed the pyromaniac’s light brown eyes. His lower lip trembled and dimples formed in his weak chin.

  “Gitmo’s a holiday camp compared with what the French have in place on Devil’s Island. Terrorism is punishable by death in France. They still use the Guillotine, you know? And they ship all their murderers to Devil’s Island for a couple of year’s hard labour first. Isn’t that right, Colonel Coué?”

  Harper lowered his head to his hands and let out a quiet whimper.

  One more push should do it.

  Jones removed two more photos from the file and placed them next to the one of the cottage. He turned them face up and rotated them for Harper to see clearly. Jones pointed to one. It showed an old man with short, grey hair s
itting up in a hospital bed. He had a three-inch gouge on his chin, a badly bruised cheek, and his head was swathed in a bloodied bandage. The bandage covered one eye, but the other stared directly into the camera lens. “This man’s name is Norbert Winterton. His friends call him Nobby.”

  Harper studied the picture carefully. Jones couldn’t tell whether the eyes registered any recognition, but the kid trembled in his chair. Sweat sprouted from his hairline and ran in little rivulets down the side of his pockmarked face.

  “Never seen him before,” Harper whispered, but raised his eyes to the right, a classic give-away for a liar.

  “Really?” Jones moved his finger across to the other photo. It showed a grey jacket. Scuffed and grazed at the elbows, covered in brick dust and spattered with blood. The lab techs had superimposed an arrow onto the image. It pointed to a button, third down from the top. “See that? We found a fingerprint on the button. You’ll never guess who it belongs to.”

  Jones scratched his earlobe and leaned back in his chair. Harper’s heavy breathing and the rattling of the chain on the handcuffs as he tried to ease the pain broke the silence in the interview room. His hands had darkened with the restriction to his circulation.

  If Jones didn’t get what he wanted soon, he’d have to loosen the restraints—but not yet.

  “Yep,” Jones continued at last. “Surprise, surprise, the dab is yours.” To reinforce the information, Jones took a document from the folder, a pro-forma AFIS printout. It contained two adjacent fingerprints, one from the button, and the other from the database. The same lab tech, Patrick Elliott, had stamped the word, ‘MATCH’ diagonally across the page, in blood red.

  Jones paused to let the information sink in before continuing. He approached the important part and needed Harper’s full attention.

  “You bumped into our friend, Nobby, on Saturday night after setting the fire. You left your fingerprint. Remember?”

  Harper didn’t acknowledge the question.

  “So that catches you in a lie. You have been to Birmingham before, haven’t you? And our witness places you within two-hundred yards of the arson. And there’s one more little piece of evidence you might be interested in.”