A dark, four-panelled door barred his way. He pushed it open. From his reading of the floor plan, he already knew where it led—the headmaster’s study, or rather, the warden’s office.
Jones’ spirits lifted. The room would be in full view of the front gates. Giles would be able to see him. They had a chance.
Jones entered a bare room. Wooden floorboards, blackened with age and dotted with woodworm, creaked underfoot. He made sure to keep away from the windows. Something whimpered to his left. He snapped his head around.
“Hollie!”
She sat on the floor in the corner of the room. Two thick cable ties bound her hands and feet to a cast-iron radiator. Blood trickled from wounds caused by the bindings. She still wore the hospital gown, filthy now and stained with her body waste. The instant he saw her head taped to a downpipe feeding the radiator, he knew Jenkins’ plan.
Stupid idiot, Jones. All for nothing.
He made a move forward.
“Stop! Raise your hands.”
Jones complied.
Jenkins’ voice had a different sound, natural, not enhanced by electronics. It came from the doorway Jones had recently stepped through, now directly behind him.
Bastard’s in the room.
Every cell in his body wanted to rush to Hollie, release her, and scoot her from the room. His earpiece remained silent.
Where are you, Giles?
“Make one move before I tell you and the girl dies.”
“What happens now?” Jones risked the question.
“I get to watch you suffer.”
“What?” Jones tensed, preparing for the inevitable.
Hollie groaned and tried to lift her head and pull her hands free of the radiator.
“Hollie,” Jones whispered. “Don’t move.”
Her eyes opened and swivelled. Bare feet scraped at the floorboards trying to push away from the radiator. She caught sight of Jones and blinked.
“David?” A brief flicker of hope reached her blue eyes before they stared past Jones and opened wide in fear.
Jenkins’ voice screamed the single word that ended Jones’ hope.
“Fire.”
“No!” Jones dived towards the girl trying to shield her, but he had no chance. Behind him, glass broke. A high-pitched sizzle flew by his right ear. Heat scorched his hair as it passed.
The top of Hollie’s head exploded in a bright red splatter of blood and hair. She slumped.
It happened in the half-second Jones flew through the air. He landed hard on the floor a metre short of Hollie and let out an animal roar.
“Hollie!”
Her hand trembled as the final vestiges of her short life ended.
No. Oh God. No.
The iron-rich smell of warm blood invaded his senses. The rage of lost hope boiled. Blood pumped in his ears.
Behind him, Jenkins chuckled. “Oh dear. Terrible waste of a good cast member.”
Jones twisted and stared through tear-blurred eyes filled with rage.
A man stood in the doorway.
Jenkins.
He leaned on a whitewood cane, its silver handle gripped tight in his left hand. The right hand clutched a dull black revolver, the barrel levelled at Jones’ chest. The monster wore a baseball cap, dark glasses, and a broad grin. He shook his head in mock sadness.
Jones screamed and scrambled to his feet. Nothing mattered. He needed to rip, to maim, to kill. Before he reached half way, the gun exploded in a ball of yellow fire and a billow of blue-grey smoke.
The bullet hit Jones full square in the chest. It spun him around and lifted him off his feet. Another gunshot followed.
Jones’ heart jolted. He stared up at the plaster ceiling. The ornate cornices, the reminders of a time gone by, faded to a smoky blur.
His vision misted, turned first to grey, then to black.
Part III
“What the hell’s happening to the world when an innocent child can be treated like this?”
32
Saturday afternoon - Aftermath
Time since the shootings: seven minutes
“David?” Giles Danforth placed two fingers against his friend’s carotid artery. His mind turned back to the last time he did the same thing, in the hospital lift. Miraculously, this time he found a pulse, strong and firm.
“Thank Christ. Rest there, mate. Ryan called for an ambulance. Be here in a couple of minutes.”
David’s head moved, lips twitched. “Can’t breathe,” he whispered. “Get this bloody thing off will you?”
Giles pulled at David’s jacket and ripped open the shirt. One of the buttons popped from the cloth and rolled across the floor. He released the Velcro straps from the micro-light ceramic body-armour. Jenkins’ bullet had struck dead centre, a black dimple marked the spot on the white surface. Without the protective vest, a certain kill shot. There would be damage though. Bruised ribs at least, maybe a break or two, but his friend lived.
David groaned and struggled to raise his head. “Hollie?”
Giles glanced up at the girl he couldn’t save. Her body lay crumpled in the corner, hands and feet still tethered to the radiator, the top of her head a real mess. Hair, blood, and scalp tissue plastered the walls behind her. The spatter was a piece of graffiti painted by a butcher. Something Damien Hirst might have dreamed up.
So damned young. What the fuck did she do to deserve that?
David’s eyes fluttered. He winced as he tried to sit. “Hollie?” he asked again through gritted teeth. The pain in his eyes didn’t only originate from the blow to the chest, Giles was sure of that.
“She’s gone, David. I’m so sorry. I let you down.”
David lowered his head. “Why am I still alive? Jenkins fired twice after Hollie was hit. How’d he miss with the second one?”
“No, David. I made the third shot through the window after the sniper killed Hollie. I had a clean shot. Don’t know how I missed the bastard. But there’s no blood and he was gone by the time I arrived.” Giles punched the floor with the side of his fist. “The animal locked the front doors behind you and the comms went down after the first PA announcement. He must have jammed the bloody signal somehow.”
“State-of-the-art, you said.” David, lying prone, rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.
“Don’t know how he did it without the signal frequency. But I’ll find out.” Giles shook his head. He’d screwed up. Hollie died because he didn’t search the surroundings properly. Their early arrival should have given them the edge, but the sniper had beaten them to it.
Hollie was the second hostage to die on Giles’ watch. It got no easier.
Jones winced again. “How’d Jenkins get away? He can’t move fast with that limp.”
“Dunno. Dozens of rooms and corridors … We’ll need sniffer dogs and the locals to form search teams. But it’ll be too fucking late by the time they get here.”
With another groan, David rolled onto his left side and struggled to all fours. Giles helped him stand. They avoided the corner of the room.
David stood, head bowed, shoulders slumped. Giles had never seen him look so damned … old.
Giles half-carried him to the window. Splinters of broken glass peppered the sill. He brushed them away with a gloved hand. They hit the floorboards like a shower of salt crystals, scarcely making a sound. He rested a hand on David’s shoulder, forcing him to sit as the siren of an ambulance broke the oppressive silence.
“What about the sniper?”
“Away on his toes. He fired from a rooftop near where we parked the car Ryan spotted him after he heard my comms shout. He and Dylan are there now, searching.
“You sure he’s gone? Are they safe?”
“Yes, he drove off in an old Ford. Dylan didn’t have a shot and the bugger got away. Ryan’s sent out a description.”
To Giles it sounded so bloody lame. Such a fucking balls up.
David rested his elbows on shaking knees but kept his back locked straight.
&nb
sp; Giles paced the room but stayed well away from Hollie’s body. The place was now a crime scene and he knew better than to get too close. He turned his back on the pieces of scalp and strands of hair stuck in the blood—the silken threads of a hideous cobweb. “So sorry, David. What a God-awful mess.”
The siren stopped. Doors opened, slammed shut, and footsteps crunched on gravel. Giles rushed to open the main doors and escorted two green-clad paramedics into the Warden’s office.
The leader, Pik Jessop, according to the name embroidered on the front of his tunic, paused in the doorway, took one look at David’s pallid face and pained expression, and headed straight for him.
“You’ve been shot, sir?”
“I’m okay.” David raised his head and pointed at Hollie. “Go to her.”
Jessop turned his head to the left. A shock of long brown hair flopped over his eyes. “Oh … right, sorry.”
The ambulance men crossed to the body and squatted. Jessop placed the medical bag on the floor and removed a stethoscope. He handed a scalpel to his mate and fixed the stethoscope’s buds into his ears. “Cut those ties. I need to—” His body tensed. “Jesus, there’s a pulse. This girl’s alive.”
David jumped to his feet, arms wrapped tight around his chest, and took two paces towards the corner. A look of disbelief twisted his ashen face.
“Don’t play silly buggers. How can she be alive?”
He clenched a fist and his face contorted in pain. He teetered. Giles rushed across and grabbed his arm.
The paramedics released Hollie’s hands, feet, and head, and gently placed her in the recovery position. Her chest moved.
Christ, thought Giles, she is still breathing.
The assistant paramedic hurried out the door and returned moments later with a collapsible stretcher.
“How’s that possible?” Giles asked.
Colour returned to David’s face and tore his arm free of Giles’ grip. He knelt beside Hollie, took her hand, and closed his eyes.
“Head wounds bleed profusely, sir,” said Jessop. “Her scalp’s a mess, and I suspect a depressed skull fracture. She’ll need a scan … heart rate slow but regular … breathing shallow.” He removed a penlight from his breast pocket, raised Hollie’s lids one at a time, and waved the light in front of her eyes.
“Pupils evenly dilated and responsive.” He broke off from the examination and stole a glance at each of them. A thin smile played on his lips. “She’s still in danger, but there’s a chance. A lucky young woman.”
David moved back to allow the medics room. They took great care rolling Hollie onto the stretcher, draped a loose bandage over her wound, and attached a clip monitor to her left index finger.
With Jessop at the head, and his mate at the feet, they hefted the stretcher gently and carried Hollie towards the door.
As Jessop passed, he spoke to Giles. “There’s a bullet hole in the wall back there you’ll want to take a look at.”
“Where are you taking her?” David’s voice strengthened as he spoke.
“Saint Mary’s cranial suite. We’ve got to go right now.”
David raised an open hand. His fingers trembled. “Wait.”
“But, sir—”
“No, wait. Please.”
“David,” Giles said quietly. “She needs to go to the hospital. She’s in danger.”
David straightened and fixed him with an impatient glare. “I know that, Giles, but Jenkins and the sniper are still out there somewhere. If Jenkins hasn’t bugged this room, he’ll still think Hollie’s dead. Let’s keep her condition quiet. At least until we’ve set up a secure room at the hospital.”
Giles wondered why he hadn’t thought of that.
The light returned to David’s pale-green eyes and he recovered some of his old composure. He looked calm, centred, controlled. Sharp as the scalpel they’d used to free Hollie. Giles smiled and thanked fuck he had his old friend back.
“Mr Jessop,” David said with the tone of quiet authority Giles recognised and admired so much. “Would it harm Hollie’s chances to cover her face with that sheet and disconnect the monitor?”
Jessop hesitated and studied Hollie for a second. He pursed his lips.
“Only ‘til you get her into the ambulance?” David added. “Someone’s tried to kill her twice in the past twenty-four hours.”
“Um … yes. But we’ll have to hurry.”
Giles followed them to the foyer as Ryan burst through the entrance door. His jaw dropped when he spotted Hollie on the stretcher, still breathing. He broke into a smile wide enough to span the Thames at London Bridge.
“How the fuck—”
David cut him off with a raised hand. “Go with them to the hospital. Tell no one. Not even her parents. I’ll contact them later. No one’s to know Hollie’s still alive but us. Get it?” Ryan nodded. “And stop grinning, man. Droop your shoulders. You’re sad, right?”
Ryan changed his expression to deadpan and augmented it with an additional stoop. “Got it. What about Dylan? Should we get him to mount guard while we’re there?”
David looked to Giles for permission—Bob Dylan was under Giles’ command, not his.
“Good idea,” said Giles. “But make sure he changes into plain clothes. Wouldn’t want people wondering why an armed officer is protecting a corpse.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jessop cleared his throat. “We’re ready.”
Hollie lay on her back, the sheet pulled over her head. David leaned close to her and whispered, “Stay with us, Hollie. Be strong,” and squeezed her hand.
Giles stood aside while the paramedics loaded the stretcher into the ambulance. Jessop and Ryan hopped in the back and the other man drove away slowly, without the sirens and flashing lights. They weren’t in a hurry. No need to race to the mortuary.
By the time Giles retraced his steps to the office, David had returned to the windowsill. He sat, face in hands, shoulders shaking.
Giles coughed as he entered the room. The old man wouldn’t want anyone seeing him cry. David straightened slowly and took a stuttering breath.
“Are you okay, David? You took a hell of a blow to the chest. Should have gone with them to the hospital.”
DCI David Jones stood, pulled his shirtfront together, straightened his tie, and tugged the creases out of his jacket. The eyes, though still shiny, had their old fire back.
“Time enough for the hospital when I’m dead, Giles.” He turned to face the window and squinted. He studied the glass closely for a moment asking, “What’s that?”
He pointed at the bullet holes. One cut through the top left quadrant of the window. The other, smaller than the first, was ten inches lower and to the right.
“Top one’s from the sniper. The other’s mine.”
David frowned and leaned to one side to study the damage from an oblique angle. “Something’s wrong with them. You’re the expert. What do you reckon?”
Giles stepped closer to the window and fingered the two cone-shaped bullet holes. They were smaller than he expected, and the edges crenulated when they should have been smooth. The spider web pattern of cracks radiating out from the centres didn’t look right either. They were tighter, more concentrated than they should have been.
“You’re right, well spotted. What the bloody hell does it mean?”
“Take a look from the side. The glass is much thicker than you’d think. It could be why you missed your shot, and why Hollie’s still alive. I want a ballistics report—”
He pressed a hand to his breastbone and sucked air through his teeth.
“You sure I shouldn’t take you to the hospital?”
“No, a twinge is all. Be all right in a minute. Let’s go find Jenkins, or whatever the fuck he’s really called.”
“Wow, never heard you swear.”
“Sorry.” He winked. “Don’t tell the team, or they’ll think I’m human.”
“Never seen anyone more human than you, mate,” Giles said and
clapped David on the back before remembering his friend’s ribs.
“Easy, Giles. I’m a broken old man, remember.”
Six hours spent searching for Jenkins proved fruitless. Sniffer dogs lost his trail within minutes in the dank building. The lame killer had disappeared faster than an early morning mist under a hot sun. The hired gun had gone too.
The Officer-in-Charge and Jones’ local counterpart, DCI Mike Fuller, was apoplectic when he arrived to find Hollie’s body gone, but dialled it back after receiving a full briefing. He shot question after question, obviously concerned for Jones’ sanity, before agreeing to keep Hollie’s condition quiet for as long as he could.
At half-past seven that evening, and with a great deal of reluctance, Jones left the local murder team and crime scene investigators to their business. Jenkins had escaped him yet again.
The estimable DCI Fuller organised transport to the hospital where Jones spent the rest of the evening pacing the corridor outside the operating suite. Mr and Mrs Jardine sat patiently in the dedicated waiting section. God only knew how they had managed to cope with the events of the previous two days. A pale-skinned and sunken-eyed Emma Jardine sat in silence. Frank’s shoulders sagged, but his tired eyes glistened with hope and he kept smiling and thanking Jones for bringing his daughter back to them again. Jones had to admire the man’s inner strength.
A few minutes before midnight, a grey-haired surgeon, Mr Albright, breezed through the operating suite doors. He wore washed-out green hospital scrubs and a tired smile.
An exhausted Jones only caught snippets of Albright’s explanation after he told her parents that Hollie had survived the operation. Jones eased into a hard-backed chair and forced his shoulders to relax. He wondered when someone had taken the meat tenderiser to his neck. His back and ribs radiated pain each time he breathed, but emotionally, he was ecstatic. Hollie was alive, and he somehow knew she would recover well from her ordeal.
Albright explained Hollie’s injuries in such detail that another doctor might be able to understand him, but Jones didn’t.
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