Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  “Search him too, and the cane. Wouldn’t be surprised if it turns into a sword.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Buckthorn hugged the cane tight to his chest and the constable had to wrestle it from him.

  “What’s the matter?” said Jones, quick to seize the opportunity. “You need the cane so much?”

  “It’s easier with the stick, but I can manage perfectly well without, thank you.”

  That’s number one. This is going to be easier than I thought.

  Jones turned to Alex who pressed a finger against her earpiece and nodded.

  The uniformed constable raised his hand. “The walking stick is solid, sir. No hidden blade. Should I take it with me?”

  “It is just as well. You English could never fight with swords.” As Jean-Luc spoke, a flicker of recognition crossed Buckthorn’s face.

  “Hey, mind who you’re calling English. I’m a Scot and don’t you forget it!”

  That’s number two. Should be more than enough to bury him.

  “Colonel Coué is quite correct. Why fight close up when a longbow will do?”

  Buckthorn flinched at the name. He stole a look at Jean-Luc and closed his eyes.

  “Oui, mon ami. C'est vrai, it is true,” Jean-Luc replied, without tearing his stony gaze from the killer.

  The constables left the room without the stick, but with orders to stand guard outside. Alex backed away and leaned against the closed door. She nodded to Jones and opened her hand twice before fixing Buckthorn with the death scowl. Jones smiled—Patrick Elliott had told Alex through her comms unit, he needed ten minutes to do his magic with the voice analysis.

  Jones leaned on the back of a visitor’s chair. He glared at the multiple-murderer and spoke quietly. “So, we meet at last, Mr Jenkins.”

  Buckthorn leaned back and crossed his arms in front of his chest. Jones couldn’t be sure, but he might have seen Buckthorn grimace when moving his right arm.

  “What the devil are you talking about? I demand to know who you are.”

  “Oh stop it, man. You’re finished. Let’s get it over with, shall we?” Jones stood tall and coughed. He brandished his ID card and recited the words printed on the back. He’d read them out many times before, but never with so much relish. He drew out the sounds, savouring the way they felt on his tongue.

  “Arthur Michael Buckthorn, also-known-as John Christopher Jenkins, I am arresting you for the murders of …”

  Lying prone on a flat rooftop overlooking Saint Mary’s hospital was déjà vu for Hammer as he raised the rifle and took aim.

  He’d been pissed to learn his first shot hadn’t finished off Hollie Jardine, but less pissed than Jenkins, whose scathing text demanded a refund or an instant contract completion. The text included the correct passwords and the girl’s room number—sixth floor, front of the building, in full view of the tower block where he lay. It couldn’t be better, a shot of less than one-hundred-and-fifty yards. The double-glazed unit separating him from his target wouldn’t matter, not with armour-piercing bullets, which he should have used the first time.

  He’d never make that mistake again.

  Hammer adjusted focus on the ‘scope. The girl lay on the bed with a tube in her nose, her head swathed in thick bandages.

  “Bye-bye, darling,” he said, and took a deep breath. He waited for the next cloud to cover the sun and give him the perfect view.

  “Armed police officers! Lower your weapon and place your arms out, palms down.”

  Giles Danforth, on afternoon secondment to the ARU of the Derbyshire Constabulary had the perfect shot, and the perfect backup. He and four highly trained marksmen stood in a semi-circle, each less than ten metres from their target. Red dots from five laser-scopes lit the spot between the hitman’s shoulder blades. The lights barely moved.

  He repeated his instructions. “Armed police officers! Lower your weapon and place your arms out, palms down.”

  Hammer twitched.

  “Don’t do it, there are five automatics pointed at your back.” Giles added. “You don’t stand a chance. Drop the weapon.”

  The muzzle of the sniper’s rifle remained steady. “I recognise that voice. Giles, right?” The assassin sounded calm. His hands remained steady. “Don’t do a thing. I have the girl in my sights. I won’t miss this time.”

  “Haven’t you got it yet?” Giles’s asked his voice steady.

  “Got what?”

  “You’re targeting a CPR mannequin.”

  The sniper rifle’s muzzle dipped a quarter of an inch. “So the girl’s dead? I knew I couldn’t have missed that shot on Saturday.” His shoulders relaxed.

  “But you did. Hollie Jardine’s alive with nothing more than a horrible scar and a nasty headache.”

  “What? How?” The muzzle moved again.

  Giles felt, more than heard the men around him stiffen. The red dots wobbled.

  “The window you shot through held thick leaded Victorian glass. Deflected your bullet a couple of degrees north. You should have opened it first. Now lower your weapon and spread your arms. This won’t end well.”

  “Fuck. Harper sent the text, right?”

  “Got it in one. He’s singing like Robbie Williams.”

  “Should of known not to trust the lunatic fuckin’ pyro.” His words were spoken quietly, with resignation.”

  “Lower the weapon,” Giles repeated. “I won’t ask again!”

  For a moment, Giles thought he might comply, but the killer howled, twisted, and swung his weapon in an impossibly slow arc. He fired a single shot into the asphalt roof.

  With an explosion of sound, light, and acrid gun smoke, Hammer’s left side, between hip and armpit, exploded under the force of two volleys. A ragged tear the size of a man’s fist appeared in his ribcage. The rest of his chest exploded out in a flume of blood, bone, and tissue. Gore oozed onto the roof’s gritty surface and puddled under his torso.

  Ten shots. Centre mass. Justified.

  A rich metallic tang of blood fused with gunpowder assaulted Giles Danforth’s nostrils as he stepped forward and stood over the wilting body. He ripped the rifle out of the assassin’s warm, dead hands.

  Giles understood why Hammer attempted the impossible. He faced life without the possibility of parole. Suicide by cop—not a difficult decision.

  He wasted no tears for the loss of this particular life form—a multiple murderer, assistant to a butcher, and a cop killer. He handed the assassin’s weapon to one of the marksmen, and pressed a button on his mobile. It didn’t take long for Jones to answer his call.

  “Hello, David …? It’s me, Giles. It’s just gone down. As you expected, he didn’t come peacefully.”

  36

  Monday afternoon - Arrest

  Time since Hollie Jardine’s shooting: fifty-two hours

  Jones paused to answer his phone. He’d been in the middle of charging Buckthorn with multiple murders, the attempted murder of a police officer, incitement to arson, abduction, solicitation, jaywalking, littering, and anything else he could think of. He listened for a moment, stone faced.

  “Thanks, Giles. Yes, I’m with Buckthorn now … No, he’s going nowhere but the cells.”

  Buckthorn feigned disinterest, but furtive glances, eyes flitting from face to face, showed a nervous energy at odds with his relaxed exterior.

  Jones ended the call and rubbed his smooth chin.

  “Sorry about that. Interesting news. Now, where was I? Oh yes, the charges. I am arresting you—”

  “Have you gone stark raving mad? I have no idea—”

  Jones slammed the flat of his hand on the desk. The crack silenced Buckthorn, who jerked backwards and raised his hands in reflexive defence. Jones took note of another grimace. The animal was in pain, he had no doubt, but Buckthorn wasn’t the only one. The act of slapping the desk aggravated Jones’ damaged ribs, but he’d be damned if he showed weakness to a serial murderer.

  Sweat popped on Buckthorn’s forehead, but the
air-conditioned office maintained a constant twenty-two degrees Celsius, according to the thermostat on the wall. They glared at each other. Jones waited for Buckthorn to blink first. It didn’t take long.

  Buckthorn settled back into his leather chair. “I’ve done nothing wrong. What do you think you have on me?”

  Jones finished reading Buckthorn his rights and continued with, “I’d normally do the rest at the station, but this is as good a place as any, and I’m in a good mood all of a sudden.”

  He pulled up the visitor’s chair, placed his briefcase on the floor and sat in front of the lauded public figure whose good name was about to be ground into the dust. For the second time that day, Jones told a story to a killer. This time, he had no need for lies or subterfuge.

  “It took me a while to work it out,” he began. “In my defence, I’ve been under a great deal of stress lately. An abducted girl to find, twice, a mass killer to arrest, and two hired assassins to catch. Lack of rest is damaging to the little grey cells.” Jones tapped his temple.

  Damn it, Jones. You’re not Hercule Poirot. Stop hamming it up.

  “The first thing to give you away was your pseudonym, John C Jenkins.”

  Buckthorn lowered his eyes and stared at his fingernails. His lips formed a tight circle and he blew a silent whistle. He aimed for nonchalance and did a reasonable job.

  Jones continued. “I couldn’t remember where I heard the name. Racked my brains. Damn near drove me nuts. Even searched online, but came up empty. I filed the information away. Allowed it to percolate. I’m good at that. An important part of my work, piecing little clues together and making them fit the bigger picture. I used to love doing jigsaw puzzles as a child. And reading. Read so many books as a kid. Great way to pass the time on long winter nights.”

  Jean-Luc circled around from behind Jones and took a pace closer to the desk. He stood at ease, feet apart, arms crossed over his chest, shoulders square, head facing forwards, eyes locked on Buckthorn. Imposing his will on the man without saying a word. Buckthorn kept aiming sideways glances at Jean-Luc and Alex, a spectator at a tennis match. He was in danger of giving himself a migraine.

  “Your second mistake was setting up shop in France. After that, you made error after error. Letting Flynn’s Citroën run out of petrol was a doozie. There was a fifty-litre drum of petrol in Flynn’s barn. Did you know that? No, I guess you didn’t bother checking the tank as you only went for groceries. You tried to torch the car, but it didn’t catch. That was perhaps your greatest blunder, but I’ll come back to that in a moment.

  “Killing the old woman was stupid, wanton, and it brought about an even closer cooperation between the French and English Police.” Jones hiked a thumb in the direction of Jean-Luc. “It shouldn’t surprise you to know that the French don’t take kindly to visitors killing little old ladies and teenage girls. Nor do they like people setting up torture chambers and shooting snuff movies in their Republic. And who can blame them?”

  Buckthorn found dirt under his fingernails and picked at it with a thumbnail. “What are you talking about? Is this something to do with that poor girl killed in Derby?” He shook his head and tutted. “Such a crying shame. I really feel for her poor parents.”

  Jones ground his teeth, but let the barb pass for the moment. He spread his fingers wide and placed the flat of his hands on the desk. The leather top was cool to the touch, its surface creases tactile, and the rich leather smell evocative of times spent in libraries.

  Buckthorn had a slight squint in his left eye. His smile showed a crooked front tooth.

  Won’t be smiling in a minute.

  “Now we come to the interesting part. Are you ready?”

  Buckthorn ignored him and seemed to find his fingernails more interesting.

  “The link between you and Jenkins didn’t come to me even when I saw the misspelt sign above the entrance to your jail, ‘Derbishire’.”

  Buckthorn flinched. So subtle, Jones nearly missed it.

  “At first, I thought the sign maker screwed up, but you had the sign made specially didn’t you?” He pointed to the diptych, partially obscured behind Buckthorn’s head. The film director and butcher didn’t turn to look.

  “Why did you do that? Doesn’t make sense. Were you thumbing your nose at authority? Was it your little joke? I didn’t put it together until I had a good night’s sleep.” Jones shot him a smile that contained no mirth. “As I said, it’s amazing, the recuperative powers of rest.”

  After first knocking on the door, Ryan Washington strode in brandishing a white envelop; size A4. He handed it to Jones with a flourish.

  “They match, boss. Both samples.”

  Two more pieces of the puzzle. Well done Patrick Elliott. Now hurry along with that voiceprint analysis.

  “Excellent.” Jones rubbed his hands together. He stared at Buckthorn, who met his gaze full on.

  Jones placed the envelope on the desk, unopened. Buckthorn pretended to ignore it. Jones braced himself against the pain from his ribs and hefted the briefcase to his lap. He removed a sheaf of photos and dealt them face down on the table, six in all, two rows of three. He lined each up with the edge of the desk.

  Jones scooted to the edge of his chair, rested his elbows on the desktop and steepled his hands. “Now where was I? Oh yes, Jenkins and the Derbishire Dogfight!”

  Buckthorn’s jaw muscles bunched and his left eyelid twitched. Not much movement, a mere flicker, but to Jones it stood out as obvious as the ‘tell’ of a bad poker player.

  “Yes, Jenkins and the Derbishire Dogfight, a book in a series of children’s novels written by your namesake, Arthur Buckthorn.”

  The killer sighed and turned his chair to face the window. Jones followed the man’s gaze—the view from the eighth floor was magnificent. Birmingham City Centre shimmered in the bright afternoon sun.

  “I didn’t recognise the link at first, because the documentation we had on Ellis Flynn spelt the Detention Centre as ‘Derbyshire’, with an ‘e’ and a ‘y’. And when I went to our little rendezvous on Friday you’d had it spelled with an ‘I’ as in ‘Derbishire’. So ‘Derbyshire’ became ‘Derbishire’. Why? A sort of homage? Was your namesake a relative? An uncle, perhaps?”

  “No relation. Like you, I was a fan of the man’s books, nothing more.” Buckthorn swung the chair around to return Jones’ stare. He affected a look of boredom. Jones wouldn’t have been surprised to see the sick bastard yawn.

  Jones continued. “Like the predictions of Nostradamus—it’s easy to find the answer to a puzzle after the event. When I finally put it together, I had a colleague dig into the Detention Centre’s background and we came up with your name. The association between you and Ellis Flynn became clear. You turned a damaged boy into a murdering psychopath. How many others did you train in the same way?”

  Buckthorn pulled on the armrests and sat upright. “That’s a bit melodramatic, but I still have no idea what you’re talking about, Constable Jones.”

  Jones ignored the intentional jibe.

  “All you have,” Buckthorn continued, “is a fanciful association between me and this dead man. What did you say his name was, Elwood Flint?”

  “You were Ellis Flynn’s mentor, his boss, and, according to Hollie Jardine, his lover. And you are going down for the crimes you committed together.”

  “Rubbish. Is that all you have?” Buckthorn grabbed his walking stick and used it to help lever himself from the chair. He limped across to the window and faced out. Sunlight bathed his face, accentuating the crinkling around his eyes and his pallid complexion. “A ridiculous, coincidental link between me, a children’s novelist, and a misspelled name? A little tenuous do you not think. Why on God’s good earth would I choose to draw attention to massel’ like that? Complete and utter nonsense.”

  “I’ll let the psychiatrists answer that one. I agree, the connection is purely circumstantial, but it led me to you and it’s not all we have.” Jones flipped over the first five p
hotos one at a time, leaving the final one face down. Buckthorn craned his neck and stepped closer to the desk. The limp made his approach more laboured than it should have been.

  Jones pointed to each of the five photos in turn. “We took these shots in Brittany. They show footprints and scuffmarks on the ground inside the barn. One of the men who made these marks favoured his left leg. See the scrape marks? That shows a limp, and do you see those holes? They look like the marks made by a walking stick to me. What do you think?”

  Jones studied Buckthorn’s reaction. He didn’t show much, but his left eyelid twitched again. He started to raise his right hand to the eye, but changed his mind and lowered it again. It confirmed Jones’ suspicions. There was definitely a restriction in Buckthorn’s arm movements. He had shown no such limitation on Friday when he levelled the gun and fired. Jones let it pass for now. He would bet big money on the police doctor finding a bullet wound during the physical examination at the station.

  Jones pointed to Buckthorn’s stick. “I wonder if there’s any trace evidence on the tip of that cane to place you at the scene.”

  Buckthorn sneered. “It’s brand new. Bought it yesterday. I wish I still had the old one to prove you wrong. As I keep saying, you have nothing.”

  “Really?” Jones flipped over the final photo—the best still they could capture from the passport control queue in Brest airport.

  Buckthorn huffed. “Is that supposed tae be me? Lord above. The man’s own mother wouldn’t recognise him from that photo. And all your so-called evidence is conjecture. None of it will hold up in a court of law. And what’s more, I have alibis for each murder.”

  “How do you know that? We haven’t produced a time of death for any but the old lady in Brittany.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I am a well-respected man, always in the public spotlight. I didn’t kill anyone, so I couldn’t have been at any of the deaths. I’ll be able to find an alibi for any day over the past ten years. For heaven’s sake, I’m the chairman of a Government think-tank on prison reform. I can’t go gallivanting off to France whenever I choose. This is all completely ludicrous.” Buckthorn backed towards the window again. “And by the way, I’ve never been to Brittany in my life. Your case is pure speculation and will never reach court.”