Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  Buckthorn raised the cane and pointed the tip directly at the centre of Jones’ chest. Today he held the walking stick in his left hand. On Friday, he held the pistol in his right. The images were identical in Jones’ mind, but reversed. The memory of the gun in Jenkins’ hand and the flash of the muzzle before the bullet struck made Jones tense. His damaged ribs sent out another sharp stab of pain. He still owed Buckthorn for the shock of that bullet, and for everything else.

  “Now, I am tired of your ridiculous accusations. Leave my office or I’ll call my great friend, the Chief Constable, and then call my other great friend, the Home Secretary.”

  Jones had enough of the man’s bluster. He was within a heartbeat of slapping the supercilious bastard across his smug face, but he couldn’t hit a man with a disability. Or could he? He hadn’t completely dismissed the idea when another memory flashed to his head. Hollie, bound to the radiator, the top of her head a bloody mess and the wall behind her coloured red.

  “Shut up,” Jones hissed, and took three paces forward. He stopped an inch from the cane’s tip. “The French forensics teams are examining the crime scene and the campervan as we speak. Hollie told us you were in the passenger seat for hours. You will have left evidence somewhere; flecks of skin, sweat, saliva, fingerprints. And there’s the Warden’s Office in the Detention Centre, you’ll have left trace evidence there too.”

  Buckthorn’s lips thinned into a slit. “I used to run the damned Centre. My prints and DNA will be all over it.” He smiled. “As I keep saying, you have nothing.”

  Jones took another pace, pushed the stick aside and grabbed Buckthorn by the upper arm, and made sure to squeeze the sensitive skin on the inside of the bicep. Buckthorn squealed and tried to pull the arm away, but Jones pushed him to his desk and dumped him in the chair.

  Jones placed a hand on each armrest of the chair and leaned close to the now sweating murderer. He stopped when their faces were no more than a foot apart. Buckthorn’s blue-grey eyes flicked left and right as he tried to find focus. His breath reeked of acid decay.

  Jones said nothing. Buckthorn pulled his head away until it pressed against the back of the leather chair. After a five second count, Jones straightened and ripped his hands from the armrests. Buckthorn flinched in anticipation of a blow that never came.

  Time for the endgame.

  Jones returned to the other side of the desk and took his seat. Buckthorn produced a white cotton handkerchief and wiped his forehead. Heavy breaths hissed through the misshapen teeth. A bloodstain appeared on the shoulder of his white shirt. Jones studied the tiny spot as it grew.

  The bugger’s popped a couple of stitches in a shoulder wound.

  “And now we come to the contact lenses,” Jones said.

  Buckthorn lowered the cloth and shifted his gaze to Jean-Luc before fixing Jones with a deadeye stare. “What contact lenses?”

  “The green ones you used as part of your disguise. You flicked them out the Citroën’s window on your way to Brest airport, didn’t you?”

  Jones’ abrupt change in tack rattled the man. His left eyelid twitched once again, and the squint became more pronounced. He would not be winning many games of prison poker—not that many inmates would deal a hand to a paedophile.

  “My friend, Colonel Coué here, delivered the conclusive evidence this morning. You see, he wanted to meet the man responsible for the carnage in his beautiful Finistère.” Jones looked up at Jean-Luc and nodded. “Within hours of your abandoning the Citroën, Brittany’s forensics team towed it to a police compound. They’ve taken it apart. And what do you think they found embedded inside the groove of the passenger’s doorframe?”

  Jones grasped the envelope Ryan had delivered. With obvious difficulty, Buckthorn managed to pull himself to the edge of his chair. He grimaced and looked at the blood on his shoulder. He should have said something, but Jones knew he wouldn’t draw attention to the injury.

  Jones tore open the seal and read the title of the first sheet: Holton Forensics Laboratory - Fingerprint Analysis. Positive match: Arthur Michael Buckthorn. He turned the page around and showed it to the killer.

  The second sheet held the copy of a photograph. It showed a close-up of a wrinkled, dried ball of plastic-like material, tinted green. The third sheet showed the same item, but after a soak in a solution of distilled water, according to the printed note below the image.

  “Did you know contact lenses are a wonderful surface for retaining fingerprints?”

  Buckthorn’s protruding Adam’s apple bobbed.

  ‘We have two partials. Thumb and forefinger, both a positive six-point match to the ones we have on file for you. Remember your fingerprints were taken as part of your government clearance?”

  Jones paused to let the information sink in. Buckthorn must have known he was done. He slumped into his chair and took on the look of a defeated man. His head dropped and his left hand crossed to cradle his right arm. The bloodstain stopped growing.

  Only popped one stitch then.

  Jones broke the silence. “Still claim never to have been in Brittany?”

  No reply.

  “Now we come to the DNA evidence. You know how we police love our DNA evidence. Juries love it too, thanks to all those slick crime scene shows on television. The French lab analysed the lacrimal fluid, they found on the lens. That’s teardrops to you and me. We tested the DNA against your Home Office records. And what do you know—they’re identical.”

  Jones dropped the final page in the sheaf on top of the others.

  “Alex?”

  “Yes, boss?”

  “Results in yet?”

  “Yes. Another perfect match.”

  Buckthorn frowned in question. “What’s this, more tricks?”

  Jones tapped the photo of Jenkins wearing the baseball cap. “Recognise where that shot was taken?”

  No response.

  “It’s a still from passport control at Brest Airport. Not many people know this, but they record all conversations with passengers as part of the new anti-terrorist security checks. We now have an unmodified digital recording of you speaking as Jenkins. There is no computer interface messing with your voice here, unlike when you phoned me in France. Our lab confirmed the match with something you said a few minutes ago about being Scottish. Your nationalism is going to be another nail in your coffin. We’ve got the hammer and plenty of nails.”

  Buckthorn’s jaw slackened.

  Jones continued. “Yes, you heard right. We know all about your contract killers. We know everything—Hammer, Nail, the mayor of Carhoët Grand, Alain Plouay. You’re going down for life, Buckthorn, and I’m going to make the case for you to be housed with the general population. You know what inmates think of sex offenders, don’t you?”

  Buckthorn shook his head. “Rubbish. All that technical gibberish is nothing but smoke and mirrors. None of it will hold up in court without an eyewitness.”

  Jones had to give the monster points for bravado, but he held the best part back until last.

  “Alex, would you come here a moment please?”

  She closed to the side of the desk, and stopped within arm’s reach of Buckthorn who shifted sideways in his chair. A film of sweat sprouted like a pale moustache on his upper lip. Alex reached into her pocket and pulled out a mobile phone. She used it to tap a button on her lapel and spoke to the cowering murderer.

  “This is a pinhole camera. We have recorded this whole interview and transmitted the image and sound to our server hub in Holton police station. From there it was sent to a computer screen in Saint Mary’s hospital, Derby.” Alex pressed the speaker button on the mobile and raised it to her lips. “Please repeat what you told me a moment ago.”

  Hollie Jardine’s steady voice sprang from the phone. “It’s him, the man who kidnapped me. I know him as Jenkins.”

  “Thank you, Hollie. You did a good thing. I will come to visit you this evening.”

  Buckthorn, white faced and shaking, coll
apsed in on himself. “The fucking bitch is still alive.”

  Alex jerked her hand back in preparation to strike.

  “Alex! No.”

  Jones half-stood, but Alex lowered her hand and backed away. Her eyes filled with tears, and her lower lip trembled. Ryan darted forward and draped his arm around her shoulders. Alex straightened, but it looked as though the effort took all the strength she had.

  “Up you get, Buckthorn,” Jones said. “We’re going to the station. Ryan, cuff him.”

  With a burst of speed surprising in a man who walked with a stick, Buckthorn leaped from his chair, screaming. He ran to the window, arms pumping, and dived, head-and-shoulder-first into the glass panel.

  He hit the window, bounced, and ended up sprawled on the floor at Alex’s feet. Jones admired her restraint. In her position, Jones might have swung a foot at the bastard’s head.

  The murderer lay in a crumpled pile, groaning.

  Jones chuckled. If the murdering bastard wanted to save the country the cost of a trial by throwing himself out of an eighth floor window, he would be out of luck. Triple-glazed panels don’t break that easily.

  Ryan burst into a loud, braying laugh. “Jesus. I’d pay good money to see that in a movie.”

  “Enough, Ryan,” said Jones, keeping a straight face. “That must have hurt. Check he’s alright.”

  “Right you are, boss.”

  At that moment, the two officers on guard duty outside burst into the room. They stopped, looked at the crumpled mess on the floor, and stood mouths agape, awaiting instructions.

  Jones turned to the men. “Help DC Washington take this man to the station. Put him on suicide watch until we can get a medic to give him the once over. And Ryan, see he doesn’t trip over his walking stick on the way to the station.”

  Ryan nodded, and helped the dazed Buckthorn to his feet. The other two officers stood back to let him pass. As Buckthorn pulled alongside, Jones spoke into his ear.

  “You don’t get away that easily. I’m going to watch you go away forever. Life without parole. How does that sound?”

  Buckthorn blinked and stared at Jones in confusion. He said nothing as they took him, in handcuffs, from the room.

  When they left, Jones collected his papers and Jean-Luc leaned in to help.

  “Well, David, that was interesting.”

  Jones dropped the papers to the floor and slumped into the visitor’s chair. The pain flared in his ribs and he studied his shaking hands.

  “Hell, Jean-Luc, I’ve never been so close to killing a man with my bare hands.”

  Jean-Luc shook his head. “Never worry, David, I have done much worse.”

  “Really?”

  Jean-Luc nodded sadly. The moustache twisted as he grimaced. “Oui, c’est vrai. Before joining the Finistère Gendarmerie, I was a member of the Compagnies Républicaines de Sécurité.”

  “The CRS? You?”

  “Bien sûr, but of course. I am still a member of the CRS reservists. Did I not tell you?”

  “No, Jean-Luc. You didn’t.” Jones didn’t know what else to say other than, “Let’s go for a drink. I’d love for you to sample our world famous warm beer and round off the evening with a fish-and-chip supper.”

  “And monsieur Buckthorn?”

  “He’ll wait. It’ll be hours before a doctor passes him fit to be charged and interviewed. And I’m thirsty.”

  Jones escorted Alex to her hotel and helped her break the news of Roy Harper’s arrest to Julie Harris’ parents. He left the three to grieve and joined Ryan and Jean-Luc at the Bold Dragoon.

  That early on a Monday evening, the pub was quiet. Most of the after work punters had yet to arrive. They had the Snug Bar to themselves.

  As the closest pub to Holton Station, the Dragoon earned its place as the favourite after-work watering hole for the Midlands Police Service.

  Ryan took a long pull on his beer and smacked his lips. “That hit the spot,” he said. “So, boss. What next?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Jones looked away and sipped at his pint of Bombardier. The real ale, nutty and flavoured with rich Kentish hops, slipped down his throat better than vintage claret.

  “First thing in the morning, you can tear Buckthorn’s life apart. Full background check. I want to know everything about the sick bugger from the second he entered the world: family connections; education, finances, inside leg measurement, the works. Drag in all the office resources you need. I’m sure Phil will be happy to help on the quiet. He’s crawling the walls at home.”

  As is Manda.

  “And you?” Ryan emptied his beer in two swallows.

  In times past, Jones could match heavy drinkers, glass for glass, but took things steady these days. He removed three sheets of paper from his briefcase. Each contained a copy of the photograph page from the passports Alex recovered from Ellis Flynn’s campervan. He studied the pictures.

  “We know three families with missing daughters. I need to tell them what we found.” He took another sip. The Bombardier didn’t taste as nice this time.

  “Don’t envy you that job, boss.” Ryan stood. “Anyone want another?”

  Jean-Luc sampled his example of England’s finest ale again and put the glass down. “No thank you, Ryan. This is quite enough for me.”

  Ryan disappeared to refill his glass. Jones and Jean-Luc sat side-by-side in companionable silence. Jones nursed his beer. Jean-Luc left his glass on the table.

  Jones cleared his throat. “I, um … I never really had the chance to thank you properly for what you did.” He turned his head towards the Frenchman. “After Jenkins gave me that ultimatum, I was … well, lost. Without your help I’d never have worked out where the meeting …”

  “Nonsense, David. I did little. You put the ones and twos together.” He reached for his glass and took a second sip. His lips thinned and he stuck out his tongue.

  “Arranging the helicopter made all the difference.”

  “Ah, that reminds me. Dans mon porte-documents … in my briefcase, I have the bill for your accounts department. It totals thousands of Euros, I am afraid.”

  Jones smiled. “I’ll make sure it’s paid quickly and in full. I have a sense my bean-counters will play nice for a while.”

  Ryan returned carrying a tray with two beers, a bottle of wine and an empty wine glass. “I saw what you thought of the beer, sir. Thought you’d prefer some grape juice.”

  “Ryan Washington,” said Jones. “I always said you’d make a great detective one day.”

  Ryan beamed.

  Jean-Luc pushed his beer to the other side of the table. He poured the wine, swirled it in the glass, and sniffed the bouquet. “A good nose.” He nibbled the liquid and nodded in approval. “An acceptable claret. Merci, Ryan.”

  “I asked for the most expensive bottle in the house,” he winked. “Put it on Charlie Pelham’s account. Didn’t think he’d mind. Cheers.” They touched glasses. “What are your immediate plans, Colonel Coué? I could show you Birmingham’s nightlife. We could hit the city and party.”

  “Alas, Ryan, I need an early night. I must return home tomorrow and oversee the investigation. There is much yet to do. A team of forensic accountants is researching the financial dealings of monsieur Plouay. Hopefully, we will find a link between him and monsieur Buckthorn and from there …” He shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe we will break the vice ring?”

  Jones nodded. “That’s near enough. I agree, we aren’t even close to wrapping this case up. In fact, we’ve barely scratched the surface. Think about it.”

  He rattled off a list that included locating the moneymen and following the distribution network from source to destination. After a pause for another sip of beer and some thought, he added, victim identification, finding the snuff-film clients, and researching the post-release records of inmates from the detention centre.

  “And I’m not forgetting there’s at least one corrupt policeman out there somewhere.” Jones made a f
ist. “He’s on my list, and I won’t bloody rest.”

  “I’m with you there, boss.”

  “And don’t you worry, Ryan,” Jones concluded. “I’ll make sure Alex’s and your role in the case is fully recognised. I can see the Home Office and its French equivalent setting up an international task force. We have more than enough here to keep the Serious Crime Unit busy for a while. What do you think, Jean-Luc?”

  The gendarme nodded. “I think, David, Ryan … I think I will never get used to that warm beer of yours. I will keep to the, er … grape juice.”

  Jones raised his glass, “Absent friends.”

  Epilogue

  Lysekil, Coast of Sweden

  Time since Hollie Jardine’s shooting: three months

  A tall blonde woman in jeans and a thin woollen cardigan pushes a wheelchair along a pavement. The sun is low in the western sky. The light crisp and clear. In the chair is another blonde, this one in her teens. The girl is dressed in a warm coat. A blanket covers her legs. A cool wind whips off the sea.

  Following behind the two is a middle-aged couple. The woman holds tight to the man’s arm. They stride forward with confidence. There’s a smile on the man’s face as he watches his daughter being pushed by one of her guardian angels.

  The girl shields her eyes from the low sun and stares across the bay to the other shore. She points to a large stone church standing proud on a low hill. It gazes with benign munificence upon a town of multi-coloured wooden houses. “It’s beautiful, Alex. How could you ever leave this place?”

  A dark cloud casts a shadow over Alex’s face. “I followed my heart.”

  The girl pushes the brake lever on her chair and struggles to her feet. She uses the arms of the wheelchair for support and turns to face her friend.