Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  He pushed through the tatty garden gate, and followed the raked gravel path to the side of the house. He avoided the trip hazard toys and arrived at the lop-sided fence panel that acted as the Cryers’ security gate. The off square hinges and poorly fitted mortise lock stood in mute testament to Phil’s DIY ineptitude. Jones cringed. He’d offered to help refit the blessed thing but Phil couldn’t see anything wrong with it, and Jones had let the matter drop. Not his place to force the issue.

  He tapped gently on the back door, and let himself into the new, professionally-fitted kitchen. Black granite surfaces topped faux-wood carcasses. Jones wondered how long they’d last under the heavy workload of a growing family.

  Phil stood beside his black-on-red cooker and spoke quietly. “Come in, boss, tea’s brewing.” His mussed blond hair, early morning stubble, and bleary eyes showed a man rudely awoken. Jones probably looked as bad—he certainly felt it. He still hadn’t found time to use his razor.

  “Love a cup. Sorry for the intrusion, Phil. I hate disturbing you, but … well, you know.” Jones kept his voice low.

  “Yes, boss. I know.” Phil retrieved Jones’ designated double-sized cup and saucer from its special place in the wall unit, and filled it with the pale brown nectar.

  Jones took a sip. “Lovely. Need this after the night I’ve had.”

  “Come through to the lounge.”

  Phil hobbled into the open-plan lounge-dining room and dropped with an airy thud into his leather chair. He waved Jones to sit.

  “I’ll stand, otherwise I might drop off. I’m shattered. How’s the knee?”

  Phil waggled an open outstretched hand. “Getting stronger every day.” He twisted in his chair and avoided eye contact. “I’ll be fit for work soon though, as long as I don’t have to chase any more villains over rotting rooftops.”

  “I told you not to follow Collins, but you wouldn’t listen.”

  Phil raised both hands to forestall the inevitable lecture. “We’ve been through it a million times, boss. Hot pursuit. Learned my lesson though. Never again.”

  Jones still hadn’t forgiven himself for failing to prevent the accident. Why the hell were they scrambling over rooftops chasing a killer? Utter madness! The image of the rusty metal spike sticking through Phil’s knee would live with Jones forever.

  At least Phil hadn’t lost the leg. He could walk again, thanks to a ten-hour operation and five long months of painful physiotherapy, but only time would tell whether he’d ever be signed fit for work. Jones had cashed-in all his favours, and more, with the Deputy Chief Constable to keep Phil’s place on the Unit open. He owed his friend that much. The rest came down to the physio, the medical officer, and Phil’s willingness to suffer through the torture of rehab.

  Jones took another sip of tea. “Tell me about the Flynns.”

  Phil took a breath and closed his eyes. Once again, Jones marvelled at his protégé’s facility for total recall.

  “Edward Flynn, born … April 18th, 1960. Tile Hill. Home birth. Not so unusual in those days.” Phil opened his eyes. “I have the whole record available” — he tapped his temple — “but he’s dead now, so I reckon you’re more interested in his boy, Ellis, right?”

  “You could say that, unless you think Edward Flynn has risen from the grave.” Jones instantly regretted his sarcasm and raised a hand in apology. “Sorry Phil, fatigue. Carry on, please.”

  “Ellis Flynn. Born 12th, November … 1989, in Birmingham Hospital for Women, Edgbaston. Five weeks premature. The result of a beating his mother received from his ever-loving paedophile father. Turns out Edward Flynn kept his wife chained in the cellar after she tried to run off when the boy was three or four. Daddy Flynn was one sick asshole.” Phil paused and squeezed his eyelids together. “Um … oh yes,” he continued. “Young Ellis spent much of his childhood in and out of one institution or another; hospitals, care homes, and, finally a youth detention centre.”

  “1989? So, Ellis Flynn’s twenty-two? Looks younger in his photo.” Jones tugged his earlobe. “What about the detention centre? Does that explain the young offender record?”

  Phil nodded. “Ellis was caught fiddling with his neighbour’s five-year-old daughter. He was thirteen at the time. The girl’s father beat him half to death.”

  Jones’ skin prickled and the blood pounded in his head. Even if Hollie accompanied Flynn voluntarily, the man’s record confirmed she still faced danger.

  Phil leaned back into his chair and continued. “Young Ellis spent five years locked away at, er … the Derbyshire Detention Centre … a former Grammar School, funded by the Ministry of Justice. The Headmaster-stroke-Governor was a chap by the name of Dr Buckthorn, a qualified and well-respected educational psychologist. The place closed a year after they released young Ellis in 2007. The bloke’s been out a little over four years.” He opened his eyes and shot Jones a knowing glance. “You know what sort of an education he’d have received from the inmates in a place like that.”

  “Yes. They’re training schools for tempering criminals. Didn’t have much of a start in life, did he?”

  Phil’s expression darkened as he stared at the white-plastered ceiling above his head, where the nine-year-old Jamie lay asleep. “Bollocks. Don’t waste your sympathy on Ellis-bloody-Flynn, boss. There’s no excuse for kiddie fiddling. Bastard got what he deserved.”

  Jones could understand Phil’s feelings, and once again wondered how he could sleep at night for worrying about his babies, given the job he did, and the things he saw. That sort of anxiety would send Jones to an early grave. He was much better off alone.

  Yep, that’s right, Jones. Keep thinking it. You’ll never believe it.

  “Anyway,” Phil continued, “last I read, nothing’s been added to the file since his discharge. So he might have been keeping his nose clean.”

  “Or he’s flying below the radar. The molestation is a real worry, though. He might be following Daddy’s lead.”

  Jones collapsed into a chair and rubbed his face in his hands. He raised leaden eyelids and stared at his subordinate. “Anything in either file to suggest where Ellis might have taken her?”

  Phil closed his eyes again. “They banged up Edward Flynn for one murder, but the police attributed three other disappearances to him. The Crown Prosecution Service dropped the other cases after the conviction for lack of evidence. Let me see …” Phil rubbed his forehead. “Edward Flynn raped and strangled Alicia Keen. Twelve-years-old, poor darling. Dumped her body in woods outside Great Malvern. He owned a holiday cottage in the Cotswolds.”

  Jones shook his head and sighed heavily. “That was in Edward’s case file. I sent the locals to check it out but the place has been abandoned for years. No signs of recent activity.”

  Phil nodded. “The cottage was subject to a Confiscation Order. The courts decided Edward Flynn exhibited, and I quote, ‘a criminal lifestyle’ and couldn’t prove how he earned the money for a second home. Under the Proceeds of Crime Act 2002, they sold the cottage to pay victims’ compensation. That was back in 2006.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Sorry.” Phil opened his hands as a sign of defeat.

  “Hell.” Jones stood again and crossed to the patio doors. The rising sun caught the dew. It sparkled like ice on the lawn. “Just a minute, I’ll get the files from the Rover. It might prompt something. Forgot to bring the damn things in with me. Getting old.”

  Jones returned after a few moments and handed the buff-coloured folders across.

  “Hell, boss. These aren’t copies. You stole them from the archives.” Phil tutted and shook his head.

  “Borrowed. Didn’t want you to see them, but thought they might help. Does it spark anything?”

  “Give me a chance. I’m not a clairvoyant. Mind if I open it first?”

  “Sorry.” Jones frowned and looked away. “The case is getting to me.”

  While Phil thumbed the file, Jones drew open the patio doors and stepped into the small, well-te
nded garden. The multi-coloured flower borders demonstrated another of Manda’s talents. As well as having a gift in the kitchen, she had green fingers.

  He waited as long as he could before returning to the lounge.

  “Anything?”

  Phil turned a page and revealed a photograph showing a single story farm building with off-white walls and a tiled roof. Phil clicked his fingers and leaned forward. “Fuck, what happened there? Should have known this. Tired I guess. I have remembered something else. This photo appears in Ellis Flynn’s case file too.”

  “Yes, I thought it was the place in the Cotswolds. Go on.” Jones latched on to Phil’s excitement.

  “During the confiscation case, the court found another holiday home, but they couldn’t continue with the claim because of its location.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. The second house is in Brittany.”

  France!

  A smile widened Phil’s round, unshaved face. “The court deemed the location issues too complicated and let the house ownership stand. You’ll never guess who inherited after Edward’s death.”

  “Little boy Ellis?”

  “Bingo.”

  “Bloody hell. The bugger’s taken Hollie to France!” Jones reached into his pocket and dragged out his mobile. “Excuse me, Phil. Need to call the office.”

  Pelham answered after the first ring. “Serious Crime Unit. Oh, it’s you, boss.” He sounded alive for once. “I was about to call you. We found him!”

  “What? Where is he? How’s Hollie?” Jones heart hammered.

  “Sorry, I mean we found his trail. He boarded the twenty-one-fifteen ferry to Calais. He’s been in France since a little before midnight last night. Alex is on the line with the French police. They’ll have to take it from here.”

  Jones’ warning mechanism flared.

  “Damn it Charlie, stop her!”

  “Come again?”

  “The gendarmes are a bunch of bloody cowboys! If the gendarmes find Flynn, they’re likely to go in shooting. They don’t take kindly to British criminals running loose over there. Hell, they might even call in the CRS, and those boys take no prisoners.”

  “The CRS? Yeah, I’ve read about them, vicious buggers. Rumour has it they think the French Foreign Legion little more than a girl’s prep school.”

  Jones’ mind flashed back in horror to his earlier dealings with the Compagnies Républicaines de Sécurité, the French version of the SAS, but with extra attitude. He blanched at the memory of the botched operation. The three fugitives he chased to Paris all died at the hands of the CRS, as did an innocent bystander. That was back in 1996, but the reputation of the CRS hadn’t mellowed over the years.

  An idea hit. It would be risky, but …

  “Before you put Alex on the line, did Ben Adeoye find anything on MisPer database?”

  “Yeah, there’s bunch of similar girls gone missing all over the region. All over the country come to that, but nobody’s made a link to a single operation.”

  “When the system’s back up and running, add Ellis Flynn to the search string. See if that shows up anything. In particular, filter it down to girls matching Hollie’s description.”

  “It’s top of my to-do list,” Pelham replied with loud yawn. “I’m not a complete moron,” he added in a stage whisper.

  Once again, Jones wondered why he put up with the lazy lump, but after a few seconds’ pause, punctuated by Pelham’s mumbled curses, Alex spoke.

  “Yes, boss?”

  “How far have you reached with the French authorities?”

  “I am waiting for someone to return my call. Is everything okay?”

  “No, not in the slightest.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry, thinking aloud. Can you leave the office? I don’t want Charlie or Ryan to overhear our conversation.”

  “Why not?”

  “Humour me.” Jones waited and counted away the seconds of silence.

  Phil frowned and raised an eyebrow. Jones held up a hand to stay his question.

  “Boss,” Alex said, voice echoing. “I am in the lavatory, you can speak freely now.”

  “I’m going to France. Phil’s given me a lead on a property Flynn owns. I want to scope the place out before involving the locals.”

  “What about Superintendent Peyton? Does he approve?”

  “Don’t worry about the Super. I’ll run it by him later.”

  Not bloody likely. The useless lump would pass it over to the French if only to save on the airfare.

  “But you cannot go alone, boss. It is risky. I should go also.”

  “Absolutely not. I’m out on a limb here. If anything goes wrong I can’t have you anywhere near the fallout.”

  She paused before asking, “What do you want me to do?”

  “When the French call, give them a potted version of the case. No details. Then go home. That way they can’t chase you up again.”

  “I do not like this.”

  “Neither do I,” Jones said, and disconnected.

  “Did I hear you right, David?” Phil asked, leaning forward.

  Jones raised an eyebrow at Phil’s use of his given name. “Don’t you bloody start, Phil. I’m going. Won’t let the damned French bugger things up again.”

  The kitchen door flew open. Manda Cryer stood in the doorway, arms akimbo. “David Jones, what on earth do you think you’re doing using that gutter language in my home?”

  She dropped her arms along with the false scowl, swapping it for a wide smile as she rushed across the room. She stood on tiptoes to plant a wet kiss on Jones’ cheek. He accepted it without reaching for the handkerchief, but thought about it.

  “Oh look at you.” Manda grabbed him by the upper arms and leaned back as though appraising him for a new suit. “When did you last have a decent meal and a proper sleep? You look terrible, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with stubble.”

  “Morning, Manda, you look wonderful.”

  She tutted and tucked a lock of auburn hair behind her ear. “You old charmer. I’ve only just woken up. I’m a real mess.”

  “Never in a millions years. How are the little ones?”

  She wagged a finger at him. “Jamie’s dead to the world and I’ve just got Paulie down again. So, in answer to your next question, no you can’t see them at the moment.”

  Jones nodded and threw her what he hoped was a shamefaced frown. “Sorry to call so early, but I needed Phil’s help.”

  “Yes, I know. Don’t worry about it. Phil’s glad to help.” She spun towards Phil and the scowl returned. “Aren’t you, darling?”

  “Yes, dear. Right, dear. Anything you say, dear.” Phil threw his hands in the air. “And what’s more I might have broken the case. What d’you reckon, boss?”

  Jones threw him a thin smile. “You know what? I think so too, but only if you can remember the address of Ellis Flynn’s holiday home.”

  Phil beamed, pulled a lever on the side of his burgundy-coloured leather chair, and stretched out as it opened into a full-length recliner. He cupped his hands behind his head and purred as he snuggled back into the soft leather. “You know me, boss. Never forget a thing.”

  5

  Thursday evening - Dover Ferry Port

  Time since abduction: three hours, forty minutes

  Ellis Flynn shielded his eyes as a blood red sun dipped behind the swaying masts of small boats anchored in the harbour. The stuttering movements of the spars had increased over the past half hour with the growing wind and rising swell. The pleasure yachts yearned for freedom, and tugged at their anchors, but escape wouldn’t come. Escape never came.

  “The crossing’s gonna be rough tonight,” Flynn said, almost to himself.

  Ellis glanced at Arthur, no, Jenkins in the passenger seat. His mentor stared back, expression calm, reassuring. He could always make Ellis feel safe, even at the worst of times.

  “You’ve chosen well, lad. She’ll do nicely,’ he whispered.
>
  “I knew you’d like her in the flesh. Photos don’t do her justice, do they? Just what you ordered, right? Naive, big blue eyes, big tits?”

  “Yes, son. The clients loved the pictures. Can’t wait to see more of her. Placed loads of advanced orders.” Jenkins gave him a thin smile and Flynn breathed deep in relief.

  “Did I do well?”

  “You did well, my darlin’ boy. She’s the best yet. Perfect skin. Glowing. She’ll look great under the lights.”

  Ellis beamed and stole a look in the rear-view mirror. “Didn’t take long to reel ‘er in. Won her over with a smile and a pair of silver earrings. Look, she’s still wearing them.” He hiked a thumb towards the back of the camper.

  Jenkins frowned and shook his head. “Yeah, but as I said, it was a damn stupid thing, picking her up outside the school. Asking for trouble. This fuckin’ bus is so bloody recognisable and now I’m sitting inside the bloody thing. You should have said before collecting me. We need to be more careful.”

  Ellis swallowed hard. He hated when Jenkins looked at him that way—sadness mixed with disappointment. “Sorry, Art—,”

  Jenkins cut a hand through the air. “Jenkins, remember! And it’s too late for apologies. We’re here now and we’ve got orders to fill.”

  “I can’t help it … she got scared. That disguise of yours terrified her. No wonder she backed out.”

  Jenkins studied the back of the camper. “Stupid fucking cow. She’ll soon learn all about fear.”

  “She won’t be missed for another hour or two, so the filth won’t have been alerted yet. Are we cool?” Ellis held his breath.

  Ellis tried not to sound so fucking feeble, but he hated letting Jenkins down. It made him feel inadequate. He tried to stop the tears forming and his chin wobbling.

  Jenkins reached across and brushed Ellis’ cheek with his fingertips. The skin tingled under his touch and Ellis sniffed back the tears. Jenkins knew exactly what to do and when. He loved the older man like a father, and a million times better than the arsehole that married his mother.