Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  “Précisément.” He nodded towards Hollie, who was receiving treatment for her cuts and bruises. “J'ai une fille de douze ans … Um, excuse me. I have a twelve-year-old daughter and understand your sensibilities in missing children cases such as this. So I am inclined to act with lenience under these circumstances.” He paused and stared at the body again. “However, this is a serious situation et compliqué.”

  He placed his palms together as if in prayer and pointed the fingers at Flynn’s body. “Would you care to explain to me how monsieur Flynn came to be in this … condition?”

  Jones thought for a moment before answering. Everything he’d seen of Jean-Luc so far screamed ‘professional police officer’. He had shown consideration and intelligence from the start. The man’s eyes seemed to miss nothing and Jones was certain Jean-Luc had interpreted Flynn’s injuries in the only way possible. Jones made the decision to trust the tall Frenchman. Even his warning mechanism reduced in volume.

  He told Jean-Luc everything he could remember, including details of how Hollie struck the fatal blow. Jean-Luc interrupted only when the language barrier required a clearer explanation. Otherwise, he listened in concentration, nodding occasionally.

  Jones concluded with, “But Hollie was not responsible for her actions. I must insist that is made absolutely clear to your coroner.”

  When Jones finished he expected a barrage of questions and accusations, but received silence until Jean-Luc pursed his lips and said, “Je comprends.”

  The Frenchman’s deadpan expression gave nothing away and Jones decided never to play poker with the man.

  “And now I must visit the cave. I mean the cellar.”

  Jones made a move towards the staircase but Jean-Luc raised his hand. “No, David, I must do this alone. You understand.”

  “I can assure you, Jean-Luc,” Jones said, “I have not interfered in any way with the evidence.” He pulled the latex gloves and shoe covers from his pocket and showed them to Jean-Luc.

  “I am sorry. It is our procedure. I mean no disrespect.” Jean-Luc fished a torch from a pocket in his utility belt, and an image of ‘Batman’ flew, uninvited, into Jones’ head.

  Jean-Luc called from the doorway and a short, but powerfully built fair-haired man with metal sergeant’s chevrons on his epaulettes arrived at the double. Jean-Luc spoke in low tones to the sergeant as he pulled on his own gloves and shoe covers. The sergeant turned cool eyes on Jones and rested a hand on his holster.

  Jones swallowed hard.

  As Jean-Luc made his way to the trapdoor, the sergeant stayed in the doorway, surveying the room. His hand remained on the gun, but the pistol stayed in the holster.

  After a sideways glance at Jones, the colonel reversed into the cellar as Jones had done less than half an hour earlier.

  Rather you than me, my friend.

  With the colonel out of sight, Jones signalled to Alex. She left the girl with the medic and joined him near body. “How’s Hollie?” he whispered.

  Alex grimaced and waggled her open hand. “You saw us all go into the bathroom, yes?”

  “Rape kit?”

  “Yes, and Hollie spoke the truth, she is, er … undamaged. You understand? Cuts and bruises only. We will now take a blood sample to test for drugs, and dress her wounds.”

  Jones closed his eyes for a moment and nodded. “She’s a lucky girl.”

  “You saved her.”

  “We both did, but I can’t help wondering whether I could have done more.” He hiked a thumb towards Flynn and shook his head. “Wish I knew what Coué’s thinking. Seems reasonable enough, but I can’t read him.”

  “You told him everything?”

  “Had to, he’s a sharp cookie. He’d have seen straight through a lie.”

  It didn’t take long for Jean-Luc to re-emerge, ashen faced, from the cellar. He straightened his tunic, dusted off his trousers, and approached them. Alex backed towards the couch.

  “Please stay, Constable um … Olan-ky?”

  “Olganski,” Alex corrected.

  “Pardonnez-moi s’il vous plaît, Constable Olganski, but I need to talk to Chief Inspector Jones, and I may need you to translate. I want no confusion.”

  Jones bristled at the use of his rank and surname.

  What’s happened to ‘David’ and ‘Jean-Luc’?

  Coué continued. “Un moment s'il vous plaît.” He ignored Jones and returned to his colleague at the doorway. Coué showed them his back and spoke quietly to his man.

  Jones felt the colour drain from his face. Had he misjudged Coué? He studied the men in the doorway and hardly dared to breathe.

  “What is happening, boss?” Alex whispered.

  “Don’t know. Can’t say I like the look of it, though.”

  Coué slammed the front door behind the sergeant and returned to the middle of the room. He spoke slowly, pronouncing each word clearly. “This is the worst case I have ever investigated. Ours is a small rural community. We have very few attempted murders, abductions, or violent crimes each year, and now this. Merde! I am lost.” He paused to scratch his chin.

  Jones cast a sideways glance at Alex who stood to attention and stared straight ahead.

  Coué brushed a cobweb from his sleeve and coughed. He stood over the corpse and shook his head. “Detective Chief Inspector Jones, I have to say I was completely wrong in my initial appraisal of the situation. What you told me is not what happened.”

  What?

  The walls closed in around Jones. He found it difficult to breathe.

  12

  Friday afternoon — “The Good Samaritan”

  Time since Flynn’s death: thirty-eight minutes

  A seething Jenkins ripped the speaker-jack from his ear. He’d heard every word spoken in the cottage lounge, and French held no mysteries to him.

  Poor Ellis. The poor beautiful boy. It took fucking years to train the lad in his image, and now he was gone. His love, his hope for the future. Gone.

  What was he going to do?

  He forced himself to keep the car within the speed limit—ninety kph. Not that he’d seen any patrol cars on the near-empty roads—one of the many joys of having a base of operations in Brittany. The Bretons hadn’t installed the same number of speed cameras and CCTV stations that had mushroomed all over England. It would be a joy to drive here if not for the piece-of-shit Citroën, and if a fucking teenage girl and a bastard old copper hadn’t screwed his plans.

  He blamed them for everything.

  Things had been going so well until the arrival of DCI David-fucking-Jones and his blonde bitch of an assistant.

  Jones.

  David Jones.

  A name he’d remember long after the bastard was dead. The son-of-a-bitch was going to pay. Him and that big blonde cow, and Hollie-fucking-Jardine. They’d die one-by-one. But Jones’ death would be last, and by Jenkins’ own hand. Up close and very, very personal. He wouldn’t contract that out. No chance.

  “Nobody screws wi’ me or mine,” he screamed at the windscreen.

  The cogs whirred inside his head.

  “I’ll show him Davey Jones’ shittin’ locker.”

  Jenkins imagined tying a concrete block to DCI Jones’ scrawny legs and dumping him over the rail of his seventy-foot cruiser in the middle of the English Channel. He’d watch the cold grey waters close over the fucker’s head, but not before he’d chopped off the bastard’s bollocks and force-fed them to him as sweetbreads. The thoughts placated Jenkins and he unclenched his jaws. Revenge would come, but first he had to get back to England. Back to his like-minded friends.

  He tried to make sense of what happened and worked hard to answer the questions charging through his mind.

  How much time did he have before the gendarmes identified the crappy Citroën?

  That was easy. The car had been in the Flynn family since the early 1980s, but they’d bought it privately and never had it registered. The shitting gendarmes wouldn’t be able to associate the Citroën w
ith Ellis and he hadn’t seen a single road patrol so far. He was probably safe enough for an hour or two. Time enough to board the plane to England.

  The car’s speedometer crept above ninety-five, and he eased back on the accelerator.

  How did the police find the cottage?

  That one was more difficult. Jones must have linked Ellis with the girl somehow. Ellis, the poor malleable boy was still a relative novice in the enticement game. Jenkins should have been more careful, should have schooled the lad better. Why did he let Ellis pick her up outside the school? It was bound to raise alarm bells. The campervan stood out like a bride in a bloody gimp suit. Damn it! Yep, that was it—the camper. But that led to the next uncertainty.

  Could the cops connect him to Ellis?

  Unlikely. He never visited the house in Tile Hill, and Ellis had never been anywhere near Jenkins’ home. Heaven forefend. There was a distant link, but it would take a better man than fucking Jones to find it.

  He squinted in the vibrating wing-mirror. Road empty. He increased the pressure on the accelerator pedal. The Citroën shuddered, coughed, and the speedometer needle trembled clockwise another five kph.

  So who was this Jones?

  He’d Google the fucker as soon as he reached home. The French and English police were going to release the details soon enough. Police Press Officers would milk the story for all its worth. Good news for the piggies was bloody gold dust these days. Jenkins pictured the headlines: ‘English and French Police Work Together to Save Abducted Teenager’. A PR man’s wet dream.

  Jenkins needed information on Jones and he knew exactly where to go. His ‘friend and associate’, PDC—Paedocop—was going to start earning his corn, and Jenkins’ silence, and not before fucking time.

  The road cut through a small village, more a hamlet. Young children kicking a football in a school playground prickled Jenkins’ interest, but he drove on—this time. He touched the brakes, but nothing much happened until he pumped the pedal.

  He hoped he wouldn’t have to stop in a hurry.

  What about the film set?

  Jones had already found the cellar. The other place wouldn’t take them long to find. Damn it. All that expensive equipment wasted, but he’d bought it through seven different shell companies, so the cops wouldn’t be able to link it back to him. No way. He’d have to take the second site back home in Scotland out of mothballs.

  “Bloody fucking bastard Jones,” he screamed again.

  Next question.

  Would the girl be able to identify him?

  Unlikely. Without his disguise, he could walk right past her in the street and she’d never recognise him.

  Jenkins’ hands cramped from gripping the steering wheel too hard. He flexed his fingers and emptied his lungs before sucking in a huge gulp of the car’s hot air. Even with both front windows open, the fumes from the Citroën’s cracked exhaust made him gag. On top of everything else, he now fought a bloody migraine.

  Any more questions?

  Oh yes. Would the gendarmes be able to link any of the carcases back to him?

  Although he had artistic and directorial control of the product, he didn’t just stay behind the movie-camera lens. He liked to be hands-on for the kill, but he always wore gloves in the cottage and a smock when doing the actual butchery.

  At sixty-odd kilometres from the cottage, Jenkins slowed the car and drove close to the grassy edge of the road. Jenkins removed each pea-green contact lens and flicked it through the open passenger window. He massaged his eyes and blinked away the strain.

  He hadn’t seen another vehicle since the village, but checked the mirror before ripping off the wavy blond wig and scratching at his close-cropped hair. What a relief to be free of the shitty hairpiece. He used the wig to wipe the make-up from his face and neck, and removed two prosthetic cheek inserts. He rubbed his face hard and stretched his mouth. It would take a while for the skin to return to its natural tension, but there was time enough before he reached the airport.

  Wig, cheek implants, contacts, and makeup. That’s all it took. Less is more, as his school drama teacher used to say.

  A quick glance at his face in the rear-view mirror confirmed that the smudged, dark foundation made him look like a sun-baked son-of-the-sod in dire need of a bath. Not brilliant, but good enough until he could find a rest room. A cap taken from his carrier bag would hide the shiny white bald patch.

  He wrapped the cheek-pads in the wig and dropped the bundle on the passenger’s seat.

  The blare of a horn nearly caused him to lose control of both the Citroën and his bladder.

  “Jesus!”

  The reflection of a dirty great big Volvo truck filled the rear-view mirror.

  “Where the fuck did you come from?”

  The truck-driver flashed headlights and waved an angry fist. Jenkins checked the speedometer—forty-five kph.

  Damn it. Driving too slow was as bad as speeding for attracting attention. He gave the impatient driver the finger and mashed the throttle pedal hard to the floor. The Citroën’s engine coughed, spluttered, and died. Jenkins tried the ignition again and pumped the useless accelerator pedal. Nothing worked and the dead car juddered to a faltering stop in the middle of nowhere. He rolled it to the verge.

  The truck overtook with horn blaring. Gravel from its rear wheels rattled the grill.

  “Damn it all to fuck!” He screamed and slammed both hands on the steering wheel with enough force to crack the feeble plastic rim.

  He didn’t have time to do much before a Mercedes Benz pulled in close behind him. The driver, a sixty-something wrinkly, with a blue-rinse perm and glasses hanging around her neck on a string of pearls, waved at him through the windscreen.

  Jenkins smiled, recognising a golden opportunity when one presented itself on a plate. He rounded his shoulders into a dowager’s hump, and set his expression to ‘ever-so-grateful. The Citroën’s door opened with an angry, extended moan, a sound mournful enough to do justice to the set of a horror flick.

  “Excuse me, Madam,” he called as he slid out of the useless Citroën. “Thank you so much for stopping. You might have saved my life.”

  With one hand gripped on the silver handle of his cane, and the other behind his back to hide the eight-inch gutting knife, Jenkins hobbled towards the Good Samaritan.

  13

  Friday afternoon — “Thank you, David”

  Time since Flynn’s death: forty minutes

  Jones stiffened and opened his mouth to object, but Coué silenced him with a raised hand.

  “No,” he said, and pointed at Flynn’s body. The swarm of blowflies and buzzing houseflies fought over the patches of matted blood. “I had it wrong. I now see it this way.” Coué cleared his throat. “Monsieur Flynn attacked you, David, and mademoiselle Hollie stabbed him in your defence. You restrained him with the handcuffs and the chain, afterwards, while you, Constable Olganski, took care of the mademoiselle. Only then, did the creature perish.” He stopped talking and lifted his head to peer down his nose at Jones. “Is that not the way it happened?”

  Jones couldn’t believe he heard correctly. He turned to Alex. “Can you leave us for a moment please, Alex?”

  He waited until she rejoined Hollie on the couch before answering Jean-Luc’s question. He kept his voice low. “Are you sure you want to go down this route, Jean-Luc?”

  “Excusez-moi?”

  “I mean, what are the consequences for Hollie?”

  “Eventually, she will have to return to France and make a statement, but for now …”

  “You mean you’re letting her go home?”

  “Of course. She needs to be with her parents, yes?”

  Jones ran a hand through his hair. He’d been so wrong about the French police, or at least one of them. “Um, I don’t know what to say, but thank you, Jean-Luc. Thank you very much. Merci.”

  “There is however something you can do for me.”

  “Name it.”

  �
��As I said, in Brittany we have a small gendarmerie, er, police force. We have not many detectives. Would you stay for a few days in France to help us with the case, as a liaison? I wonder, perhaps if we could obtain approval from your department.” He leaned close and lowered his voice. “Especially since, according to the passports you found in the camping-car, three of the potential victims are British citizens. Furthermore, I fear there may be more than three bodies.”

  Jones paused for a moment and weighed his options. “I’ll have to contact my Chief Constable in the morning, but this is a high-profile case and I can’t see a problem.”

  Assuming I still have a job after going off-reservation without permission.

  Jean-Luc gave a brief nod and the moustache twitched again. “Excellent. I am sure your help will be extremely useful. You will make a statement, of course. And we have another pédophile assassin to catch, yes?”

  Jones nodded and opened his hands in agreement.

  Jean-Luc continued. “There are new tyre tracks made by a small car leading from the barn. We are looking through our records for vehicles registered in France to monsieur Flynn. The accomplice might be using it to escape. It is worth a try, n’est pas?”

  Jones nodded. “And DC Olganski?”

  Jean-Luc tilted his head again and frowned. “But she must accompany mademoiselle Hollie back to England. I cannot send the child back without a chaperone.”

  “I agree, Jean-Luc.” Jones grinned in relief. “She’s far too young to travel all that way alone.”

  A great weight lifted from his shoulders.

  The French paramedic took a further fifteen minutes to treat Hollie’s visible wounds, take the necessary evidentiary samples, and declare her fit to travel. By the time she’d completed her ministrations, Jean-Luc had booked Alex and Hollie on the next available flight to England. He also tasked the medic and a second gendarme to act as bodyguards for the return journey to the airport. To top it all, he gave Jones his satellite phone to arrange a reception committee at Birmingham Airport.