Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  He studied Hollie’s photo for the hundredth time and tried not to see Jamie Cryer.

  Hold on, lass. I’m coming.

  A smooth-voiced pilot announced their imminent landing, and Alex stretched awake. She licked the side of her mouth, took a tissue from her handbag, and dabbed her chin.

  “Sorry, boss. That cannot have been attractive.”

  “No idea what you mean.” Jones stared out the window and acted the innocent.

  She smiled knowingly. “I believe you.”

  After a steep, ear-popping descent, they arrived at the head of the customs queue. Alex lugged a small overnight bag. Jones carried nothing but a camera case containing four items of police equipment and a pair of binoculars. The items had caused a huge fuss at the security gate at Birmingham International Airport. In the end, he showed his warrant card to three security officials of increasing rank before they allowed him to board without checking the items as cargo. He feared the French border guards might be worse.

  “Bonjour monsieur, passeports s'il vous plaît.”

  The pretty, uniformed official smiled and surpassed by miles the po-faced greetings delivered by his fellow-countrymen at BIA. He flashed the thin blue travel document and expected the third degree, but the woman took no more than a glance and waved him through.

  No bells, no whistles, no fuss.

  Jones followed Alex to the car-rental kiosk, decorated in an eye-watering lemon yellow, and handed her the rental agreement Phil had printed for them three-and-a-half hours earlier. The speed and efficiency of international travel in the Information Age never ceased to astonish him. Once again, he vowed to sign up for IT classes, when he found a quiet week between cases.

  Dream on, Jones.

  Alex did the talking, and after a few minutes of efficient paperwork, the salesman pointed them towards the car park. Their gleaming Range Rover Defender stood in the centre of the lot—black, powerful, imposing.

  As they approached the car, the centralised locking system clunked and the door-locks disengaged with a loud two-toned electronic bleep. Jones opened the right-hand door, and climbed into the cab before realising the steering wheel was on the other side.

  Damn it. Bloody idiot.

  Lickety-split, Alex jumped in the driver’s seat. “Good idea, boss. I am used to driving on the proper side of the road.” She kept a straight face. “And you can rest. You look tired.”

  Jones hesitated but decided to give it one last try. “Listen Alex, I’m still worried about your being here. It’s not a good idea. Why don’t I drop you off near a Police Station, er, gendarmerie? Give me a couple of hour’s head start before raising the alarm. It’ll take the locals a while to organise a raid. Meanwhile, I’ll check Flynn’s cottage.

  “When the gendarmes arrive I’ll be able to give them the lay of the land, and you’ll be protected from any fall-out.”

  Alex turned to him, and she shook her head firmly. “Boss,” she said. “You need a second pair of eyes, and I can take care of myself. Now we should let that be an end to the discussion, ja?”

  She set her jaw again and Jones gave up. She’d earned his respect long ago.

  “Yes, Constable Olganski,” he sighed. “Please carry on. But don’t blame me when we’re handed our discharge papers.”

  She relaxed and broke out a considered smile. “No, boss.”

  Alex powered up the satnav and programmed their destination, the tiny hamlet of Carhoët Grande, Finistère East. While the device calculated the route, Alex pressed the big red ignition button in the centre of the dashboard.

  Given that the Defender’s console resembled the cockpit of a plane, with full-bore flashing LED lights and digital display screens, he half expected the motor to sound like a jet engine on take-off. Instead, the big diesel purred into quiet life with nothing but the slightest vibration transmitted through to the leather seats. A far cry from the beat-up farm vehicles he remembered from childhood. Hell, the big diesel ran more smoothly than his beloved Rover’s petrol engine.

  The brash American voice on the satnav announced an ETA of 11:33, some nineteen hours after the abduction. Would they be in time to do something other than identify a corpse?

  Alex pushed the lever into drive and they pulled away from the airport. Jones leaned back into the soft seats. He took in the aroma of new leather and Alex’s subtle eau-de-cologne.

  Six kilometres from the airport, the satnav pointed them east to the N165 dual carriageway, towards the coastal town of Quimper.

  An early-morning sun shone low through the windscreen. Jones lowered the visor and closed his eyes but the smiling face of a blonde fourteen-year-old girl played on the cinema screen behind his lids.

  Christ on a bike.

  “Won’t this bloody truck go any faster?”

  Alex floored the throttle and the needle crept to one-hundred-and-fifty kilometres per hour.

  Jones closed his eyes again and tried not to dwell on the indignities that Hollie Jardine might be suffering. If Ellis Flynn had taken on the mantle of his sick father, she’d be undergoing all manner of mental and physical hell about now. Jones hoped and prayed he was wrong.

  Perhaps the young girl was basking in the sun in a flower-strewn cottage garden in the middle of Brittany. Perhaps Ellis Flynn didn’t harbour any feelings of malice.

  Yeah, and perhaps tonight’s moon will be a beautiful shade of sapphire.

  8

  Friday midday - Cottage in the Country

  Time since abduction: nineteen hours

  Ellis glanced in the rear view mirror again, as he had done for much of the past hour-and-a-half. The Hottie had taken too long to shower, so he handcuffed her to the cooker unit, wrapped in a towel and dripping wet. She held the towel tight, but every time he turned the wheel, she shot out a steadying hand, and the towel slipped, giving him a delightful peep show. At one stage he stamped on the brake pedal without warning, to see her land spread-eagled on the floor, legs splayed, big round arse exposed, complete with the purple palm-print.

  Jenkins enjoyed it too, and spent most of the journey facing the back, baring his teeth in a devilish smile and taking photos with his mobile phone. He kept his face hidden behind the head restraint. Only his see-all eyes showed beneath the long blond wig.

  Ellis spotted his turn, dropped down the gears, and inched along the rutted lane. The big camper slewed and bobbed like a dingy in a force nine gale until he pulled it to a halt in front of a gate that looked ready to collapse.

  “Here we are, darling. Home at last, and in plenty of time for lunch.”

  Ellis didn’t think he could wait much longer to sample the delights of their latest houseguest, but priorities first. The cottage needed warming after a month’s disuse. He had a fire to light and tools to sharpen—weeks of damp dulled the honed edges.

  They had plenty of time to party. He’d leave the Hottie to simmer on the metaphorical hob first, before carving into the meat. The house would be full of cobwebs, spiders, dead flies, and mice—the perfect atmosphere for their new plaything. He couldn’t wait to see what she made of the cellar. The shock alone made some guests collapse in dread.

  Ellis jumped out, pulled open the gate, returned to the cab, and manoeuvred the big camper into the Dutch barn. It stood on the far side of the cottage, and hid the camper from all but the resident wildlife. He avoided the weak spot in the floor. It wouldn’t do to damage the equipment.

  Jenkins watched the performance from his seat and gave him a thumbs-up.

  “Nicely done, my boy” he whispered. “Can’t be easy to reverse-park this monster.” Jenkins patted his knee. Electric sparks passed through him and Ellis’ heart pumped hard. It wouldn’t be long now.

  God knew where he’d be without Jenkins’ tutelage. Locked away with the rest of the scum probably.

  “I’ll go power up the generator and check the recording equipment. You okay with the tart?”

  Ellis grinned. “Yes, Mr. Jenkins. I’m perfectly okay here. M
e and Hollie will be fine.”

  A cooling breeze rustled the branches and leaves around them. Birds called and the stream out back babbled happily.

  “There’s no place like home, eh?” Jenkins said. He climbed awkwardly from the cab and hobbled around the side of the barn and headed towards the house.

  Ellis opened the camper’s side door and stared in appreciation at their trophy. “Okay, my lovely,” he whispered. “Time to get you settled.”

  Hollie Jardine screamed.

  The medieval village of Carhoët Grande clung to the sides of a steep wooded valley. Oaks, chestnuts, willows, and conifers clustered together in an uninterrupted wildness, coddling the hamlet like a baby blanket.

  A row of stone cottages, a grocery, a restaurant, and the ubiquitous Bar Tabac rolled past Jones’ window. A pair of old men sat at a table in the sun. Each nursed cigarettes and a pre-lunch glass of Pastis and water, a hideous aniseed drink Jones couldn’t abide. The world carried on as normal while, quite probably, a young girl fought for her life not three miles distant.

  Life goes on; one anomaly Jones could never come to terms with, despite the passing years.

  The spire on the town’s granite church pierced the sky, the clock on its eastern face showing eleven-twenty-three. He checked the digital clock on the dashboard and his Seiko—all the times matched. He wondered how many church clocks in England would be accurate more than twice a day.

  The village ended abruptly and the road continued into quiet countryside. Beautiful and tranquil here, but what lay ahead?

  The satnav voice announced, “In two-point-five kilometres, turn right.”

  “You can switch off that damnable American now. It’s the next turning.”

  Alex pressed a button on the dashboard and eased back on the throttle.

  They needed to pause. Needed to breathe, to plan. Rushing in half-cocked would be something worthy of the CSR. He’d done little more than react since linking Hollie to Flynn. Now, he needed to behave like a professional. Not easy when every time he thought about Hollie Jardine and Ellis Flynn, his heart stopped.

  He took a breath, wiped his face with the hankie, and folded the cotton into a square before returning it to his pocket.

  “Is the aircon working in here?”

  Damp patches under his arms spread to meet the one soaking his back. He should have bought water at the airport. Talk about being underprepared.

  Two-and-a-half kilometres beyond Carhoët Grande, they made a right and hit a rutted, single lane farm track.

  “Take it easy here, Alex. Don't raise any dust.”

  “There is cover.” Alex pointed to the expanse of trees and brush to the left of the track about half a mile below, and slowed the Defender to near walking pace.

  Jones’ heart thumped. He wiped moist hands with his hankie, and focused on a young oak that punched through the verge close to the lane. The rough black trunk reached straight and true, branches spreading wide to the clear blue sky. At any other time, Jones would see the sapling as beautiful—a bright, strong hope for the future. Today it reminded him of the hanging trees in the black-and-white cowboy films he absorbed as a boy in the orphanage.

  As a child, he only had the westerns and his books to keep him company, but Hollie had parents who loved her. Jones wanted, no, needed to return her to them.

  They bounced along the potholed lane for eight hundred metres before the track jagged left and entered a heavily wooded world of mottled light and cooling shade. After three hundred metres, the undergrowth thinned enough to show where the track ended at a ramshackle, three bar gate.

  “Stop here.”

  Alex reversed the Defender into an opening in the bushes that pressed in on the track.

  Jones released his seatbelt and extricated the four pieces of equipment that so excited the BIA security guards from the camera case.

  “These might come in handy.” He handed Alex a pair of handcuffs.

  The other two articles found secure resting places in the front pockets of his sleeveless fishing jacket. He hung the binoculars around his neck, closed his eyes, and took another breath.

  “Alex.”

  She locked blue eyes on his and lifted her chin. “Boss?”

  “Whatever happens I want to thank you for being here. I appreciate it.” He cleared his throat.

  “Det gör inget. It is nothing.” She smiled. “I would not miss this for anything. I joined the police for the travel.”

  “Right, let’s get going. Comms ready?”

  Jones fitted a small plastic device in his ear and Alex followed his example. He clicked his hand-unit twice and the corresponding double burst of static in his earpiece—the earwig—told him his unit functioned properly. Alex tapped her ear and nodded.

  They exited the car, keeping the heavy undergrowth between them and the cottage. Jones signalled a halt at the edge of the treeline and raised the binoculars. He cupped his hands around the lenses to eliminate glare from the sun reflecting off the glass.

  The gate, now less than a hundred metres away, spanned the opening in the two-metre high granite wall. Piles of stones lay at irregular intervals along the base of the wall, forming gaps like missing teeth. Jones’ tongue searched out the space left where he’d lost a molar a year earlier.

  He needed to have the bridgework done.

  “Excellent,” he said, pointing to a break in the stonework fifty metres east of the gate. “If we scale the wall at that gap, we’ll be out of sight of the buildings and close to the woods. Ready?”

  Alex nodded. Her eyes shone and she produced one of her confident thin-lipped smiles. Jones had seen her in action before and knew she wouldn’t let him down; he hoped he’d be as effective.

  He checked the bushes behind them and confirmed no one could see the big Defender from the cottage. Nobody on the lane would see it until passing directly alongside.

  Good enough for now.

  They took it in turns to sprint at the crouch across the grassy space between the edge of the bushes and the wall. Once under its protection, they hurried to the break where the wall stood less than two feet high.

  Jones paused for a second to recover his breath. “Wait here until I reach the woods. I’ll signal you when it’s safe.”

  He scaled the stonework with ease, and crawled to the safety of a large oak. A buzzard screeched in the treetops. A large animal, perhaps a deer, crashed through the woods a few metres away. Jones couldn’t see it in the stippled light.

  His heart thumped and he struggled to stay calm. When did he last do any serious fieldwork? Early 1970s? Was it that long ago? A lifetime. His short spell in the army came back to him in a rush. Days and nights spent crawling through marshland with a rifle in his grasp, and filth on his hands. The filth.

  For God’s sake man, get a grip. Concentrate.

  The air, warmed by the early summer sun, smelled of acrid dandelions and sweet rape flowers. A stream burbled somewhere beyond the cottage, but otherwise the only sounds came from the wildlife, and a distant tractor.

  Jones focused the lenses on the cottage, searching for signs of life. Despite the morning heat, he shivered at the images running through his head.

  The cottage, forty metres away, slouched low to the valley floor. The top metre of the granite walls and the black slate roof showed above overgrown grass, and garden shrubbery gone wild. A thin trail of lazy smoke rose from the chimney and climbed towards the sky. His heartbeat peaked again.

  Someone’s home. We were right.

  Tall trees towered over the rundown farmstead and cast shadows against the sun’s brilliant glare. They might seem ominous to Hollie, if she was still alive to see them, but they offered decent cover for Jones’ approach.

  Cover, of sorts.

  He raised the comms unit and whispered, “Okay, Alex. Nobody in sight. Over you come.”

  He kept the binoculars to his eyes while Alex crossed the field and came to a crouch beside him. He looked up to the cloudless, d
eep blue sky. He’d prefer to wait for dark, but at this time of year that meant a ten-hour delay.

  Too bloody long.

  “Make your way around to the back and come out by the barn,” he whispered, pointing to a spot behind the cottage. “Any noise you make will be masked by the stream. I’ll get to that birch, and wait ‘til you’re in position.” He pointed to a tree with a light trunk and dark leaves.

  “Why not come with me and we can both approach from behind the cottage?”

  “No, won’t work. Someone has to keep an eye on the front in case Flynn decides to take Hollie somewhere else. You’ll be better at crawling through the woods than me.”

  Alex nodded and placed a hand on his forearm. “Good luck, boss.”

  She crept towards the dark undergrowth, and barely made a sound. Her dark brown trousers and jacket blended into the woods as well as any camouflage uniform he’d ever seen. As she disappeared, Jones chided himself for having any reservations about bringing her along.

  He took a second to clear his head before crawling for thirty metres inside the edge of the tree line. He knelt at the base of a hydrangea bush next to the birch tree. Its dense foliage and wide blue flowers offered a perfect hunter’s hide.

  A meadow, twenty-five metres across, lay between him and the cottage.

  He waited.

  A zephyr rustled leaves in the upper branches and caused ripples in the shadows below. Nothing else moved near the farm.

  Jones raked the house with the binoculars again. A pair of untrimmed rosebushes, dotted with faded pink flowers, clung to the wall beneath two windows. He could see nothing behind the dark rippled glass. The rose bushes offered potential hiding places, but the sun bathed the south-facing wall—not best suited for a covert approach.