“What do you think mon ami? Go down prepared for battle, or treat it as an abandoned potential crime scene?”
“Your call, Jean-Luc, but I’d hate to go down there with loads of men and destroy trace evidence. The dust on those steps hasn’t been disturbed for a while. I doubt there’s anyone down there, not breathing anyway. Shall we risk it?”
Jean-Luc held up a hand when his radio buzzed. After a brief conversation he said, “Sergeant Brunö informs me the communications system is now working.”
“Any news of the accomplice?”
“Je regrette, but there is no record of a vehicle registered to Ellis or Edward Flynn in France. Nor is there a trace of the accomplice. I have informed all the ferry and airports, but we have the barest description.” His mouth formed a thin line before speaking again. “Would you like to contact your colleagues in England?”
“Not yet. We need to look down there first. It might dictate our next move.”
Jones stepped aside to allow the cameraman an unrestricted view of the entrance. The camcorder’s spotlight threw the top four steps into sharp relief and illuminated a panel of five light switches on the left inner wall.
Jones and the gendarmes donned latex gloves and overshoes before making the descent. “Shall we?” he asked.
Jean-Luc nodded and Jones took the initiative. He placed his foot on the top step, crouched, and threw all five switches on the wall panel. The familiar flicker of strip lighting dispelled the darkness below. With Jean-Luc at his side, weapon drawn, and the cameraman and guard following close behind, they descended.
Twelve steps led to a rectangular room eight metres long and five deep. It stood two metres high from the floor to the thick, reinforced ceiling. The bottom step finished at a small landing surfaced in cream-coloured ceramic tiles. The same textured tiles covered the floor stretching out before them.
Jean-Luc signalled for the cameraman to stay on the steps and film from there while he, the guard, and Jones stepped into the chamber.
The underground room, decorated in the clean, harsh style of an operating theatre, was a sharp contrast to the cellar. Polar opposites. Painted a harsh clinical white, and spotless, the room reeked of bleach, pine air-freshener, and mould.
Jones couldn’t explain why the ambience of the place matched the vibe he received from the torture chamber in the cellar, but it did.
“This is a bad place.” Jean-Luc swallowed. His tanned face had lost a few shades of colour. He removed his hat and combed long fingers through his cropped hair.
“Recent, judging by the door mechanics and the electrical equipment, but how could anyone build this here and keep it quiet from the locals? They’d need some major equipment to excavate a hole this large.”
Jean-Luc frowned. “I may have a partial answer. During the war, the resistance would dig hiding places for weapons and escaped prisoners.” He whispered as though to avoid waking the ghosts crawling up Jones’ spine. He continued, “This farm is secluded and would make an ideal location, but the later modifications, I agree, would need considerable resources.”
Jones and Jean-Luc stood against the wall at the foot of the staircase to allow the camera operator a chance to film the room in one slow, panning shot.
As when he first entered Flynn’s cottage, Jean-Luc stopped and swept the room with his eyes rather than go blundering ahead. Jones did likewise.
Only the background hum of an air conditioning unit broke the oppressive silence. This, together with the smell of disinfectant, reinforced the clinical atmosphere, but the under-note of rot punched through the superficial cleanliness.
A jumble of images assaulted Jones’ vision. Stainless steel fittings reflected the ceiling lights in a dazzling flash of information overload. He closed his eyes and balled his hands into tight fists. When calm returned, he scanned slowly, from left to right, as the cameraman had done. To retain control of his emotions, Jones concentrated on one object at a time.
Treat it like an inventory, a stock-take.
Ahead of him on the left, a stainless-steel washbasin hung from the wall, and beyond that, a metal toilet without a seat. The setup offered no privacy to anyone using the facilities. Next to the basin, a wet-room area, complete with shower and bidet occupied the first corner. Again, no shower curtains obstructed the view.
The oppressive low ceiling made Jones want to stoop, but he counter-intuitively stretched to his full height. He would not be cowed. He’d be strong, even though he would have preferred to run from the ominous place.
He glanced at Jean-Luc. The gendarme’s bunched jaw-muscles and flared nostrils showed him to be as uncomfortable as Jones. Like Jones, he too stood with fists trembling. The guard, eyes wide, skin pale, licked his lips. Jean-Luc signalled him to stay on the plinth. The guard looked relieved and happy to obey.
Jones continued his sweep.
A floor-to-ceiling mirror, three metres wide occupied half the far wall. He approached and pressed his finger to the surface. The absence of a gap between his fingertip and the image confirmed his suspicions—one-way glass.
A flat-panelled door cut into the wall to the right of the mirror. The place had all the hallmarks of a laboratory observation suite.
In the middle of the floor stood a marble butcher’s block on top of a solid tubular metal frame. Drip-grooves in the block’s surface and a drain hole near the foot made its utility clear—a mortician’s slab. Far more horrific to Jones were the straps attached to each corner of the gruesome tablet.
“Merde!”
The cameraman voiced Jones’ thoughts precisely. Shit!
Jean-Luc spoke in a hushed tone. “This is not good.” His right hand reached up to smooth the moustache once again. Jean-Luc’s nervous tick.
A side-table, like some macabre serving tray on wheels, stuck out at right angles at the head of the marble slab. Its top was free of the expected implements of torture. Perhaps the animals who’d set this place up, Flynn and Green-eyes, used the same tools from the cottage dungeon? For continuity.
To the right of the slab, the final third of the room was set up as a bedroom, complete with four-poster bed, but without the curtains. Empty side-tables stood either side of the headboard. An ominous stain darkened the centre of the mattress.
Apart from the stained mattress and the absence of a window with a view, the space could have passed for a bedroom in a medium-class hotel anywhere in the world.
Jones cut a sideways glance at Jean-Luc who studied the same mark on the mattress and made the sign-of-the-cross, eyes closed and head bowed. Jones lowered his eyes. He admired Jean-Luc’s faith, and sometimes wished he’d held to a religion, but … not anymore.
God hasn’t reached this place, Jean-Luc.
Jones scratched his stubble. “Shit!” he muttered.
“Did you notice the cameras, mon ami?” Jean-Luc’s words broke into his thoughts.
Jones nodded and pointed to the half dozen closed-circuit units set high into walls in the centre and at each corner. Together, they would have covered every square centimetre of the room.
“It is like the Big Brother house, no?”
“I imagine so.” Jones had never watched the so-called ‘reality’ TV show, but knew what it entailed. He pointed at the door beside the mirror. “I’m guessing that’s the command and operations centre for this … place.”
Jean-Luc signalled the camera operator to follow. The guard accompanied him.
The unlocked door opened into a room as wide as the chamber but only two metres deep. It was full of audiovisual equipment, communications devices, monitors, and computer servers. The screens were dead and the LED lights inactive.
“Someone spent a small fortune on this facility, this observation room,” Jones announced, instinctively knowing how the owners recouped their investment. “Jean-Luc,” he said, and pointed to the DVD recorders. “You know what all this is for don’t you?”
“I think so.” Further colour leached from his face.
“Oui. People pay money to watch those things. Incroyable.”
“I agree. Sick bastards.”
“David, I think we must secure this, er … facility until the forensics team arrives, n’est-ce pas?”
“Absolutely.”
Jean-Luc spoke to the video operator and guard who hustled from the observation room.
“The cameraman will have Sergeant Brunö upload the images to the main server and the guard will remain at the top of the steps.” Jean-Luc paused and took a final look. “At least there are no cells down here. I thought we would find—”
“Me too.”
Jones struggled up the steps and stumbled out of the barn’s shadow. His hands shook and the acid taste of the foetid air scoured his tongue and throat. He popped another mint into his mouth and passed the packet to Jean-Luc. This time the colonel accepted the packet and took a tablet. Anything to take the taste of the observation from his mouth.
The courtyard offered relief of sorts, and Jones welcomed the now gentle warmth of the fading sun. The vivid greens and browns of the woods, and the pale blue sky overhead were welcoming contrasts to the white austerity of the room underground. He rested his back against his favourite wall and took appreciative note of the newly-erected tent that housed Sergeant Brunö’s communications hub. It included a large-screened laptop, a complicated radio setup stacked on a strong camping table. The sergeant sat on a fold-away chair, working the equipment. Jean-Luc hovered over him and conducted operations via a mobile phone.
Jones sucked in clean, clear air through his nose hoping to clear the residue of stink from the room under the barn. Thoughts of Hollie Jardine jagged into his head—her bruised face and cut lip. Anger bubbled up and threatened to overwhelm him. He pressed the rough wall with his palms, gaining comfort from its solidity and texture. He shuddered again as one question kept repeating itself. The question had no answer.
How long would Flynn and Green-eyes have kept Hollie alive before strapping her to the marble slab?
17
Friday afternoon - Le Maire de Carhoët Grande
Time since Flynn’s death: six hours
Jones had seen so much during his career, more than anyone should have to contend with. He knew what people were capable of doing. He’d seen deaths, both accidental and premeditated. Bodies torn apart by drunk drivers, corpses burnt, crushed, mutilated. Families left behind to grieve and wonder why. But this?
This was something else entirely, something far more depraved and calculating. The cellar and observation room were bad enough, but the beautiful setting, the light breeze fluttering the leafy canopy, the musical stream, the chittering birds and buzzing insects seemed to make it so much worse.
Jean-Luc left him to his thoughts. The considerate Frenchman seemed to know exactly what to do and when.
Jones closed his eyes and tried to bring his senses into balance, but the gentle head and shoulder rotations did nothing to ease the crick in his neck. Nor did they fix the ache in his heart.
How could anybody treat other human beings the way Flynn and Green-eyes had treated Hollie and the others? And who were those ‘others’?
He retrieved the three passports Alex found in the camper from Jean-Luc. Three girls, young and pretty, two blondes, and a redhead, aged between fourteen and eighteen. Each had blue eyes, fresh, clear skin, and the sweet, wide-eyed innocence of youth. Were they dead, buried somewhere in this beautiful countryside? Were there others?
Torture, butchery, and barbarism. Christ, where the hell would this case lead?
Alex had a list of the names and dates of birth from the passports, and would have someone search the Missing Persons database as soon as she arrived in England. Three families, maybe more, grieved, but if they found the remains buried here, then the families would at least have some form of closure. Whatever good that did.
Jones felt sorrow for the lost lives, of course he did, but grieving wouldn’t do any good. He needed to focus. Needed to find the people responsible and destroy the operation, or more would suffer.
For the second time that day, flashing lights and a two-tone siren interrupted his thoughts and heralded the return of the SUV, which raced down the lane. This time the blue-flashers stood out clear in the evening light.
At some stage during the underground exploration, the SUV that took Alex and Hollie to the airport had also returned, and the extra gendarmes swelled the numbers of the search teams. The second SUV pulled alongside the first. An officer jumped out, marched across the concrete to Jean-Luc, and delivered his report in a quiet aside.
While his officer spoke, Jean-Luc kept glancing at Jones, but Jones couldn’t dredge up the energy to approach the Frenchmen. What little remained of his strength had leached away during his walk from the barn. He sank to his haunches and buried his face in his hands.
Jones kept playing the scenario in his head. He imagined Hollie down in the cellar, terrified, beaten, raped, and dragged to the false comfort of the observation room. She’d be confused, compliant, and maybe even grateful. How long would it have taken her to work out the significance of the marble slab? How would she react? How many thousands of sick bastards would have watched her torment? Were they going to broadcast the pictures live?
Not helping, Jones. Pack it in.
The remaining gendarmes took a break from searching the grounds and gathered around the rear of the newly arrived truck. Jones took little notice of their animated chatter until a hand touched his shoulder. He raised his head to see the stoic face of a twenty-something officer. His brown eyes showed concern and sympathy as he handed Jones a mug of steaming coffee, a bottle of water, and half a baguette stuffed to overflowing with cheese, tomatoes, and lettuce.
Jones didn’t have the heart, or the vocabulary, to tell the gendarme he preferred tea, so he took the offerings and mumbled a faltering, “Merci, monsieur.”
The gendarme broke out a wide smile, exposing a set of uneven teeth. He gave Jones a thumbs-up, and returned to his comrades by the trucks. The other gendarmes raised their drinks to him and nodded their encouragement. To show willing, Jones sipped at the scalding black liquid and gagged at its sweetness. He took a bite of the sandwich to mask the powerful taste of the acrid brew.
Exhaustion had dampened his appetite, but the act of chewing made his mouth water and hunger returned with a vengeance. He vacuumed up the rest of the excellent baguette and washed it down with the bottle of water before Jean-Luc called him across to the comms tent. He left the unfinished coffee at the base of the bush.
The food revitalised him. Energy flooded through his system and he rose on steady legs.
Jean-Luc munched on an apple and offered Jones one from a bag on the camping table. “We have some new information, David.”
With the apple halfway to his open mouth, Jones said, “Please, go on,” before he took a large bite. The sharply sweet juices ran down his chin and he mopped it with his sleeve.
What the hell, the shirt’s ruined anyway.
“My officer interviewed the maire of the village, Carhoët Grande, when he collected our provisions. We now know the marque of the vehicle our green-eyed man used to make his escape. It is an ancient Citroën. I have transmitted the details and the index number to our traffic division. Unfortunately, there is no further description of the man. No one in the village admits to seeing him.”
“That’s strange.”
“Oui, d’accord. In a small community, everybody knows the business of everybody else.” Jean-Luc paused for a moment and as he looked towards the barn, his smile faltered. “Or so we thought. But we have more information about the room beneath the barn.”
“Yes?”
“The modification began three years ago, in the summer of 2008.”
“How do we know this?”
“The office of the maire received a complaint from the owner of these woods.” Jean-Luc shrugged and his moustach
e drooped. “Mr Flynn did not obtain un permis before commencing building works and the maire paid close attention. Flynn told them he planned to set up an orchard and the underground room would house a press and storeroom for cider and calvados. He said it would create jobs. The community levied fines and granted permission, but the commune du Carhoët monitored the work closely from that point on.”
Jones stopped chewing the apple and swallowed quickly. “That’s interesting. The construction began a year after Flynn walked free from detention. Where did he find the money? That work would have cost a fortune.”
Jean-Luc spoke quietly. “He had a sponsor, I think.”
“Green-eyes? Have you learned anything else?”
“Oui. The boulanger said that Flynn bought bread when he visited, in amounts that suggested he had guests. The most recent visit before today was one month ago.”
Jones’ emotions prickled. Flynn’s last visit took place about a week before he met Hollie.
“What do you think, Jean-Luc? Should we talk to the owner of the woods? He might have seen something.”
“But the one who owns the woods and the maire is the same person, David. In the country, these things occur.”
“So, let me get this straight. The neighbour, who is also the mayor, made a complaint about the work. The Commune levied a fine, but ultimately allowed the work to continue. And this same mayor fails to tell your officer about a procession of visits to the farm and he can’t put a name to Flynn’s accomplice, nor can he offer a decent description. Doesn’t this strike you as suspicious?”
Jean-Luc smoothed his moustache and nodded. “I will have the man investigated. I will also find out whether any local teenager girls have gone missing.”
“If the mayor … what’s his name?”
“Plouay, Alain Plouay.”
“Well, if monsieur Plouay is mixed up in this, he’s unlikely to kidnap a local girl and draw all that attention. But you might want to check his background and maybe his bank accounts. He sounds like a man not averse to dipping his hands in the till.”
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