Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  As the most senior officer on duty, Jones didn’t need a warrant under the exigent circumstances rule, and they smashed their way through the flimsy front door. Ellis Flynn wasn’t home, as Jones knew in his heart he wouldn’t be.

  “Ryan, make sure you call the Estate Agent in the morning. See whether they have Flynn’s contact number, although I’ll bet he’s referred everything through a solicitor.”

  Ryan made a note on his computer tablet.

  “Charlie, go talk to the neighbours. See whether anyone knows where Flynn’s gone. Actually, canvass the whole damned street and take the uniforms with you.”

  Pelham sighed, shook his head, and wandered off. Jones frowned at his back and turned to Ryan, the SCU’s keen petrol head. “Take the garage. See if you can find out whether Flynn owned a campervan.”

  Jones sent Alex to search upstairs, while he took the ground floor.

  The house, although tired and in need of modernisation, had been thoroughly cleaned. If the For Sale sign didn’t make it clear enough, the bare bones furniture covered in dustsheets confirmed Ellis Flynn’s intention to leave the house he’d lived in since his birth. Jones found no registration documents, no official papers, passports, birth certificates, or school qualifications. He found no deeds to other buildings and no utility bills for any property other than this one.

  In short, he found nothing to tell them where Flynn might have taken Hollie. Nor did they find anything concrete to link Flynn with the girl. It didn’t make sense, but somehow Jones knew Ellis Flynn was their man. He felt it. There was a smell to the place. An aura of decay, of evil.

  Alex returned to the front room and shook her head. “Nothing upstairs. No clothes in the wardrobes. The linen and bedclothes are also gone. Nothing in the bathroom either. Ellis Flynn has gone on a runner.”

  “Same down here. Nothing personal left in the place, only that photo over there.” He pointed to a simple glass-fronted picture frame on the mantelpiece above the fire.

  The picture showed a thirty-something woman dressed in clothes from the 1980s—the decade taste ignored. Flynn’s mother he presumed. The woman in the frame didn’t figure in Ellis Flynn’s current life or he’d have a more up-to-date picture, and he wouldn’t have left this one behind.

  Why did he leave it here?

  He took a second look, and crossed the room in four quick strides. “Do you see this?”

  Alex stepped beside him and studied the picture. The woman in the frame wore her blonde hair long and loose. She had blue eyes, and a toothy, dimpled smile. “Jävla helvete! She looks like Hollie!”

  Before either of them had time to speak, Ryan burst through the door, breathing heavily.

  “Found something, boss,” he said and smiled as he held up two evidence bags. “There’s an incinerator in the garden, still warm. But Flynn doesn’t know diddly about setting fires. He let it go out. Look.”

  Ryan handed over the first of his treasure trove—the lower third of a photo booth film strip. A scorched edge showed the fire damage, but the bottom picture remained relatively intact. It showed Hollie Jardine and a handsome man in his early twenties. Hollie smiled and gazed into the man’s eyes. Ellis Flynn, and it had to be him, wore his thick dark hair long. He bore a passing similarity to a young film actor, but Jones couldn’t put a name to the celebrity. Flynn stared back at Jones through cold, lifeless eyes, as though he knew Jones had trespassed in his domain.

  A cold shiver rushed up from Jones’ shiny black shoes. Ryan’s voice broke through his thoughts.

  “…garage is definitely large enough to hold a campervan, boss. There are discarded oil and air filter boxes in the bin, along with used diesel glow plugs. It looks like he might have prepared the camper for a long drive. But that’s not all.” With a smile and the flourish of a stage magician pulling a card out of his sleeve, he held up a second evidence bag. It contained a sheet of paper covered in oily fingerprints. “I found this on the floor under the workbench. It’s a till receipt for a new shower pump to fit a caravan … or a camper.”

  Jones clenched his fist. “Okay, that’s confirmation enough for me. Any sign of a registration document?”

  Ryan shook his head. “Sorry, boss. I’d check the online driver’s listings for a registration number, but the PNC … The DVLA won’t be open until eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  Bloody computers—bloody DVLA.

  Jones’ mobile buzzed and he answered before checking the caller id.

  “Chief Inspector Jones?” Mr Jardine’s high-pitched, pleading voice hit him like a blow to the gut. Jones regretted giving out his personal number, then immediately reprimanded himself for being so callous.

  “Mr Jardine, I’m sorry, but there’s no news ye—”

  “We’ve just had a reporter knock on our door.”

  Already?

  “Really?”

  “He was from the local paper. A man called Wilson. Said he was in close liaison with the police and asked me to comment on research showing most abductees are killed within the first six hours!”

  ‘Old’ Luke Wilson. Wait ‘til I get my hands around his pencil neck.

  “Mr Jardine, we have no reason to think the worst.” Jones tried to sound calm and comforting but knew it wasn’t working. “You mustn’t give up hope. In fact, we’re looking into a lead. Tell me, has Hollie ever mentioned an Ellis Flynn?”

  “Oh God! Is that who took her?” Jardine’s voice cracked.

  “We’re not certain, but do you recognise the name?”

  “Ellis Flynn? No, Hollie never mentioned him, but I never knew the name of her friends. I can’t ask Emma, the doctor gave her a strong sedative and she’s asleep. She’s taken this so badly.”

  Jones let Mr Jardine ramble on for a few moments, offered him some platitudes, and rang off as Pelham strolled in with a smirk on his flaccid, stubble-blurred face. “Looks like I were right after all.”

  “About?”

  “Hollie Jardine’s gone and run off wi’ this Ellis-bloody-Flynn.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Spoke to the neighbour. The old biddy weren’t too happy to be woke in the middle of the night, but she were helpful.”

  “In what way?”

  “Turns out Hollie Jardine’s been visiting Ellis Flynn a couple of afternoons a week.” Pelham consulted his notepad. “Mrs Tomlinson, her next door, said she were shocked ‘cause the girl looked so young. Arrived in her school uniform one day.”

  “Did she give you a description of the camper?” Jones asked, trying to ignore Pelham’s look of smug satisfaction.

  “Yes, boss. And I quote, ‘It’s a big, white monstrosity. Takes up two car parking spaces and blocks out all my light’. Mrs Tomlinson’s in her eighties, boss. Wouldn’t know the difference between a camper and a truck.”

  “She’s certain it was Hollie?”

  Pelham sucked his teeth and twisted his thin lips into a wry grin. “Yep. She recognised the photo. Nobody’s abducted the silly fool. She ran away with Flynn. This is a bloody waste of time. We could be tucked up in our nice warm pits fast asleep instead of chasing around town after a bloody stupid runaway.”

  Jones stepped closer. “By all means go home to your bed, Sergeant Pelham,” Jones said, quietly. “But if you do, you can empty your desk and resign yourself to writing parking tickets for the rest of your useless career.”

  Pelham’s jaw dropped.

  Jones locked angry eyes with his sergeant and counted off the points on his fingers. “A fourteen-year-old girl is swept off her feet. She packs a bag, and takes her passport. A man grooming her for weeks fuels up his camper and whisks her away to who-the-hell-knows-where. Now, I don’t care that she apparently went willingly, and I don’t care about your bloody warm bed. If Flynn touches one hair on her head, it makes him a paedophile, and I’m going to have the bugger strung up by his scrotum. Understand?”

  “Er, sorry, boss. Just kidding,” Pelham offered. His cheeks flushed, an
d he averted his eyes from Jones’ steel glare.

  “This isn’t a joking matter. Even if Hollie did go voluntarily, she’s still a minor and we need to find her.”

  Pelham swallowed hard. “Yes, boss. What do you want me to do?”

  “Go back to the station and phone all the ports in the country. Flynn’s taken a campervan so he isn’t going to use an airport. Check whether he’s booked on an overnight ferry to the continent. Check the Channel Tunnel too, and don’t forget sailings to Ireland. With a name like Flynn, he might have relatives over there. And if you find a booking, remember to get a vehicle description and registration.”

  Pelham hesitated.

  “Well get a move on, man!” Jones shouted. “Alex, Ryan, you go help him. Melt some telephone wires.”

  “What are you going to do, boss?” Alex asked from the doorway. The other two clearly didn’t have the nerve.

  “Me?” he said, adding a grim smile. “I’m going to wake my favourite memory man.”

  4

  Friday morning - Mr Memory

  Time since abduction: thirteen hours, thirty minutes

  Jones’ Rover screamed through quiet country lanes, his foot jammed hard on the throttle. The blue flashing lights cast an eerie glow on the hedgerows as he flashed by at twenty miles per hour above the maximum speed limit. The car lurched on soft springs each time he hit a dip in the road, but his right foot remained flat to the floor.

  He hated using the phone while driving, but he’d never learned to operate the hands-free Bluetooth thing the techies issued and time was a luxury. Nor could he work the voice recognition thing either. On a straight stretch of road he risked a glance down and hit the call button.

  It took a while for his call to be answered with a sleepy, “‘ullo?”

  “Philip, ah great. Need your help.”

  A muffled voice replied. “Huh? That you, boss?”

  “Did I wake you?”

  A loud yawn and a groan was followed by, “Christ’s sake, it’s four-thirty. Of course you bloody woke me!”

  “Sorry.” Jones took a breath. “Sorry about breaking into your sick leave, but I’m in a bind. I would have called our international hacking guru, Corky, but he wouldn’t be able to help.”

  “What?”

  “Corky, the hacker. Sean Freeman’s buddy.”

  “Boss, you’re confusing me.”

  “Sorry, Phil. A girl’s disappeared.”

  “Okay, right. Teenager. It’s all over the news. But what can I do? I know nothing about it.”

  Jones snapped a double gear change to negotiate a t-junction and dropped back into top before answering. “You spent a couple of years working with Joe Davies at the Juvenile Crime Unit, right?”

  “Yeah. My last assignment before joining the SCU.” Cryer stifled another yawn and kept his voice low. “So?”

  “I need access to your memory banks.”

  “Hell, boss. Can’t this wait? Paulie’s teething. We haven’t had a full night’s sleep for weeks.”

  “I doubt Hollie Jardine’s getting much sleep either.”

  The city streetlights grew in the distance.

  Not far now.

  “Ouch, I deserved that, I suppose. Can’t you get someone to help you run a database search?”

  “Love to, but the bloody system’s down for a wash and scrub, or whatever. I wouldn’t ask, Phil, but the girl’s been gone over twelve hours. And you know what that means.”

  Phil sighed. “Right, boss. I’m awake now. What do you need?”

  “I’m guessing when you were at the JCU, you spent the quiet times reading old case files. Like you do now?”

  Phil sighed. “Right, I understand. Where are you at the moment?”

  “Fifteen minutes out. Put the kettle on and wake up that wonderful eidetic memory of yours. I’ll need all you can tell me about the child molester and murderer, Edward Flynn. And, more importantly, his son, Ellis.”

  A baby cried in the background.

  “Oh great, we’ve woken Paulie.” Phil grunted. “I’ll leave the back door unlatched. Keep the noise down when you get here, yeah?”

  Manda Cryer stirred. “Was that David?”

  “Yep. Who else is gonna call at this time of the morning? He’s on the missing girl case—Hollie Jardine. Thinks I can help him. Sorry, I should have disconnected the bloody phone.”

  Phil pulled back the covers and grunted as he sat and eased his injured leg over the edge of the bed.

  Manda rolled over and scrunched her eyes against the light from her husband’s bedside lamp. “Philip Cryer, don’t you dare talk like that. There’s a young girl missing and you’ll do what you can to help. You know you will.”

  She grimaced with him as he struggled out of bed, grabbed the walking stick, and shuffled towards the en suite. He dragged his left leg.

  “Thinks I might know something.”

  She sat, and rubbed her eyes. “I’ll go and settle the little monster before he wakes Jamie.”

  “Take a neutron bomb to wake that little madam.”

  As Paulie’s cry grew more strident, Manda bounced out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown. “I feel sorry for David sometimes.”

  Phil popped his head around the bathroom door. He held a toothbrush in the air. Toothpaste foam dribbled down his chin. “Why?”

  “He doesn’t have many friends outside of work.” She picked up a screwdriver from her bedside cabinet, poked it into a hole in the bedroom door, and used it as a handle. The door, stripped of its paint and ironmongery, had been awaiting its primer coat for weeks, as was just about every other wooden fixture in the house. Phil would get to it when his leg recovered, probably. ‘Be great when it’s finished’ had become the family motto.

  Manda returned with Paulie in her arms. She handed the lad to Phil who hugged the boy close.

  “Hello my little man,” he cooed. “Did the nasty telephone wake you up?”

  Paulie grumbled for a few seconds, snuggled into the crook of his daddy’s arm, and fell back to sleep in a flash.

  Manda smiled at the picture of her two men. “I suppose David’s on his way?”

  “Yeah. I’ll go fill the kettle. He’ll want his tea and I’ll need a gallon of coffee to wake me up. You stay here and have a lie-in.” He sniffed the air close to his son. “Better change him first, though.”

  “I’ll sort him out and be down in a little while. I’m glad David’s coming over. At least I can send him away with a nice cooked breakfast. He looks more emaciated every time I see him. Needs a good woman to take care of him.”

  Phil stared at her with exaggerated patience and made a slow shake of the head. “Don’t get ideas about setting him up with any more of your friends. Remember what happened last time?”

  Manda sniffed. “Alison Carpenter would have been perfect. David never gave her a chance.”

  Phil placed the sleeping infant on the bed between two pillows. “I almost fell off my chair when she offered to share her dessert. Thought he’d have a fit.” He chuckled.

  “Yes, well next time I set him up with one of my girlfriends, I’ll brief her a little better. David might have a thing about dirt and dust, but he’s a lovely man and I hate seeing him lonely. Never fear, I’ll find someone for him one day.”

  Phil paused at the door. He leaned on his cane and made an awkward turn to face her. “The boss has already had a go at me about your matchmaking efforts. Doubt there’ll be a next time.”

  Manda smiled and kissed Paulie’s forehead. “I understand your lab has a vacancy for a Scenes of Crime Team Leader after poor Mr Prendergast’s … meltdown.”

  “That’s right. And?”

  “Robyn’s looking to move out of London.”

  Phil shot her his special look.

  All those years ago, the nineteen-year-old Amanda Durbridge knew Phil Cryer as a friend of a friend for months before he used the look on her. Manda’s lumbering, handsome bear of a husband could still give her goose bumps wit
h that one searing glance. And still the lovely man had no idea.

  “Robyn?” he said and gave her a wide-eyed nod. “Didn’t know she wanted to leave London. You could have something there, love. At least they’d talk the same language. She’s quite fastidious as well. Worth thinking about,” he called over his shoulder, and then laughed.

  “Why the giggle?”

  “I pictured the two of them trying to work out which side of the bed to sleep on.”

  Phil disappeared through the doorway and thumped down the stairs. The tip of his walking stick clicked on the bare wooden treads.

  Manda smiled and started planning how to engineer a meeting between David Jones and her best friend in the world, Dr Robyn Spence, PhD.

  Robyn, a senior forensic scientist of the London Metropolitan Police would do very nicely indeed. Manda wondered why she hadn’t thought of her sooner.

  She pulled a fresh terry-cloth nappy from a drawer under the bed; the horrible and environmentally unfriendly disposables would not do for her little angel.

  The predawn sky promised another warm early summer’s day.

  David Jones rolled the midnight blue Rover to a sedate stop in front of the Cryers’ small, detached house. He closed the car door with a clump and pressed the button on his key-fob. The fizz-click of the central locking system echoed through the quiet residential street and startled the neighbour’s cat. It darted through a hole in the Cryers’ dilapidated fence and scuttled out of sight in the primped herbaceous border.

  Leaves rustled on trees in the morning breeze. On any other day Jones would have paused to soak up the sights and sounds of daybreak, but this wasn’t the time, or the place. There was no dawn chorus this far into the city, only the gentle grumble-rumble of incessant traffic on the nearby trunk roads. The infamous Spaghetti Junction, with its tangle of motorways, dual carriageways, and slip roads lay four miles due east. The Cryers’ street would never qualify as anybody’s peaceful haven.

  Jaded after the night’s frustrating searches, Jones stretched his aching neck. The cervical bones clicked in protest. A yawn, deep and long, confirmed his exhaustion. Sleep would be great, but he’d made Hollie’s father that ridiculous promise, and rest wouldn’t help him keep it. Besides, it’s not as if anything awaited him at home but an empty bed, another sleepless night, and talk radio.