Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  Jones leafed through the concertina file once more and removed a clear plastic evidence bag five centimetres square, zip-locked along its top edge. He pinched the top of the bag between finger and thumb and waved it under Harper’s nose.

  “This, Mr Harper, is what we found inside the lock of the kitchen door. Can you tell what it is?”

  The Nail’s eyes narrowed as he focused on the baggie’s contents—the scorched remains of a matchstick.

  “You screwed up again. The metal lock protected the match, and the DNA trace you left on it!”

  Harper’s chin trembled. His eyes glazed.

  “That’s it. With your record we won’t have much difficulty convincing a jury you murdered Julie Harris and attempted to murder my officer!” Jones shouted the last five words. Until that point, he’d been quiet. The effect was as dramatic as it was unexpected.

  Roy-the-Nail Harper burst into tears.

  “I’m sorry,” he wailed. “I … I can’t help myself, see? I … I have this illness, right? A compulsion.”

  Jones allowed him to keep it up for a couple of minutes. Harper wailed on about how his doctors said he needed treatment, how his father beat him as a child and stubbed out cigarettes on his feet. In the end, he broke down, burying his head in his manacled hands. He finished with, “Help me, please.”

  It was pitiful.

  Jones waited for the initial outpouring to quieten. He didn’t believe anything the little creep said, and as for remorse? Jones had seen Julie’s body in the morgue and the charred remains of the houses he torched. He held no sympathy for the cowering arsonist.

  Time to go for the jugular, or in Jean-Luc’s terms, the ‘coup de grâce’.

  “Shut up and listen!”

  Harper’s head snapped back and he stiffened.

  “Remember at the start of my little story I said I was going to ask you a question? Well it’s coming, so concentrate.”

  Harper sniffed and dipped his head to wipe a runny nose on the shoulder of his baggy T-shirt. Jones tried not to look at the glimmering smear on the blue cotton.

  “We’ve got you for one murder, but I’m not having you pleading diminished responsibility and spending a few years in some cushy hospital discussing your bedwetting problems with a do-gooder counsellor. Oh no.” He paused for effect. “Shall I tell you what I propose?”

  Harper looked up through cowed eyes. Jones caught the smell of fresh urine.

  “I’m sending you to France with Colonel Coué. You’re going to die.” Jones stood and made a show of searching his jacket pockets. “Jean-Luc? He’s all yours. Take him. Now, where are the keys to those damned handcuffs?”

  Jean-Luc sneered and made a move forward.

  Harper’s jaw dropped. He shook his head and tried to speak, but the words came out as a strangled cry.

  “Unless …” added Jones.

  “What?” Harper managed between sobs.

  “Here’s that question. Ready?”

  Jones chose his next words carefully. If he chose badly, the whole act might be for nothing. But Roy-the-Nail had given him the clue and Jones took the gamble.

  “Answer me this and I’ll let you face trial here in Britain.” Jones slapped his hand on the table. The sharp crack resounded through the room and Jones’ ribs shot out an electric bolt of pain. “Where’s Hammer?”

  “I don’t know!” Harper squealed.

  Hell!

  “But I know how to get hold of him.”

  As soon as Harper broke down, Jones released his bonds and offered him a drink of water. Harper was so pathetically grateful to have the threat of Devil’s Island and the Guillotine lifted, he cried like a teething baby. He not only agreed to tell them how to contact Hammer, but also agreed to helped lure the hitman back to Birmingham on the pretext of another contract from Jenkins. Giles Danforth would be in on the takedown—Jones insisted on that.

  Jones closed the door to IR3 behind them and led Jean-Luc towards the canteen. “You played that well, Jean-Luc, merci.”

  The Frenchman stared at Jones and tilted his head in question. “You know Devil’s Island is now a holiday resort, and we have not had the death penalty in France since 1981? Its abolition is enshrined in our constitution.”

  Jones grinned. “Yep, but Roy-the-Bloody-Idiot doesn’t.”

  “Aha. Nicely done, David.”

  Jones’ grin broadened into a smile and he slapped Jean-Luc on the shoulder. He had to reach up high to do it. “I researched French jurisprudence on the internet last night. Sergeant Cryer would have been so proud. I hope you have time to meet him before you return to France.”

  “And the matchstick. Surely, there can be no viable DNA evidence left after it was cooked in the fire.”

  Jones winked. “Correct. Stupid criminals make it too easy for us sometimes. Fancy a snack before our next appointment? We have plenty of time.”

  “What about Jenkins?” Jean-Luc asked. “We should be searching for him, no? Your forensics man may have identified him by now if his fingerprints and DNA are on your database.”

  “No need to rush. I’ve had a covert observation unit following Jenkins since yesterday morning. He’s sitting in his office now. We’ll be going there after lunch. We need to leave time for our sniper, Hammer, to make his way to Derby.” Jean-Luc followed him along the corridor. “I can’t promise cordon bleu, but the tea’s hot and the bacon rolls are excellent.”

  Jones spent the next couple of hours eating two wickedly unhealthy, but wonderful BLT rolls, drinking two mugs of tea, and fielding dozens of questions from an enthusiastic and inquisitive Jean-Luc Coué.

  At two o’clock, Jones’ mobile buzzed. “Excuse me, Jean-Luc.” He clamped the phone to his ear; the background noise in the canteen made the speakerphone redundant. “Hello Ryan, everything ready?

  “Yes, boss. No problems with the warrant.”

  “Excellent. What about the voice recordings and the video link to Saint Mary’s?”

  “Equipment’s all prepped and we’re ready to go on your say-so.”

  “Meet us out front in five minutes.”

  Jean-Luc stood. “As they say in the movies, ‘we are ready to roll’, yes?”

  Jones smiled. “Shall we go arrest a serial killer?”

  35

  Monday midday - Arthur M Buckthorn

  Time since Hollie Jardine’s shooting: fifty-one hours

  Arthur Michael Buckthorn eased himself into his plush leather chair and emitted a grateful sigh. He hooked the ivory-handled cane over the arm of the chair and opened the broadsheet newspaper to the centre double-page spread. It followed on from the front-page story. The bold headline screamed, “Hollie Jardine Murdered Following Second Abduction.” Not pithy, but accurate.

  Buckthorn allowed himself a satisfied smile. One problem dealt with, but the article’s only comment on Jones was to say the detective had returned to England and remained unavailable for interview.

  The bastard had to be dead or dying, didn’t he? He’d taken a bullet square to the chest. He didn’t have body-armour—at least none that showed through under that god-awful grey jacket, which the sod probably bought off the peg from Tesco.

  Buckthorn would have pumped a couple of rounds into the miserable fucker’s head but the big ugly copper, Giles Something-or-other, shot him.

  He touched the wound where the bullet entered his shoulder. His backpack absorbed some of the shell’s force, but the wound went deep and the resulting nerve damage might turn out to be permanent. His well-paid private doctor, another member of the exclusive ‘Ring’, advised bed-rest and a sling but that was out of the question. Antibiotics and over-the-counter painkillers would have to do. If he were to arrive at the office wearing a sling, he’d have to field too many awkward questions. Luckily, he held the walking stick in his left hand and was still able to walk.

  Fucking Jones. Pain in the arse. Why did he wear the jacket on such a warm day? Was he still alive?

  Buckthorn had one sure-
fire way to find out. He picked up his ‘burner’ phone, a pay-as-you-go mobile, and dialled. The man Buckthorn called PDC behind his back, answered without preamble.

  “That business in the hospital in Birmingham and at Derby, down to you, right?”

  “Sure was,” Buckthorn answered with pride.

  “You moron! The girl was one thing, but killing three police officers and that doctor. Stupid. What do you think you were doing? Why draw that much attention?” He spoke in a stage whisper, but the anger was clear.

  Buckthorn took a breath. “Had to be done. The constables stood in the way of your man, Hammer, and Jones killed Ellis. He had to pay.”

  “Stupid, stupid thing to do. You should have left the girl well alone.”

  “Perhaps, but I’ve sorted the mess now and it’s fucking over.”

  “Oh dear. There’s no need for the foul language,” the bent cop chided. “Swearing is the last resort of the feeble mind.”

  Cheeky fucker, thought Buckthorn. Who did he think he was?

  “Okay, assho—” Buckthorn aimed at disdain, but a shoulder twinge made him cut the work short, lessening the impact. “Perhaps you’d like to start earning my silence.”

  PDC followed his sharp intake of breath with, “I wouldn’t continue that thought if I were you, Arthur. I know who you are and where you live. Remember that.”

  A pause, followed by a muffled scraping on the speaker at Buckthorn’s ear, told him PDC had covered his mouthpiece. After a few moments, the sound cleared and he spoke again. “Be quick, I’m busy.” A conference of voices in the background grew louder, as the man probably moved closer to the crowd.

  “DCI David Jones, Midlands Police. Tell me about him.”

  “I’ve already sent you his file, what more do you want?”

  “Do you know him?”

  “I’ve never been to the Midlands, but I know him by reputation. Good, solid officer. Honest. From memory, he’s a couple of years from retirement.”

  “Is he really dead?”

  “No idea. Why?”

  “I shot him in the chest, but there’s nothing in the news about it. Can you find out for certain?”

  “I’ll make a few calls when I get out of this conference, but it won’t be for a couple of hours. Anything else?”

  “The girl’s definitely dead then?” Despite the newspaper story, he had to make sure.

  “Yes. Spoke to a mate in the Derbyshire force this morning after I saw the breakfast news. Head shot.”

  “Yeah. Hammer’s a good man. Knows his stuff. Thanks for the intro.”

  “You’re welcome. Never misses. I use him for all my wet work.”

  Buckthorn wondered how many assassinations a dirty cop would need to commission. He decided to tone down his aggression in future. He didn’t want to be the subject of one of those contracts.

  “I’m thinking of putting him on the payroll.”

  “Right.” PDC sneezed three times in quick succession. “Bloody hay-fever. Hate this time of year. Anything else?”

  “I’m going to reopen the Glasgow studio. Need to find more ‘stars’. The buyers want the next film, and soon. You know anyone who can reel in another kiddie, or shall we take one off the street?”

  “There’s always some little scrubber in the pipeline. Shame about Ellis though, he was pretty useful in that respect. I’ll get back to you this evening after I’ve made a few calls.”

  “Okay, and I’ll do the same. We can compare notes. Another fourteen-year-old busty blonde would be nice. I’ll be able to use the footage we already have in the can.”

  Buckthorn closed the phone and dropped it into his breast pocket. Paedocop, PDC, was an arrogant bastard, but he did have his uses.

  The intercom on his desk buzzed. Careful to avoid jarring his shoulder, he leaned forward and clicked the ‘speak’ button.

  “Yes, Valerie?”

  His personal assistant of twenty-three years replied. She was efficient, loyal, and owned the inconsequential body of a stick insect.

  “Sir Ellery Danvers, on line three, Dr Buckthorn. Calling as arranged.”

  “Excellent. Thank you.” He pressed the requisite button. “Sir Ellery, how may I be of service to the Minister for Prisons?”

  “Hello Arthur, I’ll be brief. Just left a Cabinet meeting. The PM read your report and approved the proposal.”

  “That’s wonderful news, Sir Ellery.” Fifteen years work neared fruition. Buckthorn could barely contain his excitement. “Which parts of the plan is he going to sign off?”

  “All of it. You will have full funding for a National Youth Detention Centre that will be built within the next two years. The PM is putting you in charge of the new Department for Youth Justice. Congratulations, Arthur. I wouldn’t be surprised to see your name appear in the New Year’s Honours list for services to childre—”

  Silence.

  “Hello?” Buckthorn pressed the intercom button again. “Valerie? My call’s been cut off.”

  More silence.

  “Valerie?”

  The office door burst open. Four men and a woman stormed in. Buckthorn’s heart lurched and pounded hard against his ribcage.

  No! It can’t be.

  The first man, middle-aged, slim, with wavy grey hair, wore a light summer jacket, collar and tie, and a thin smile. The woman, blonde hair tied tight back from her face, white earpiece in her left ear, stood two paces behind the men and glowered. It looked like she wanted to eat him alive.

  Jones and Blondie. How the fucking hell?

  The man beside Jones stood over six feet tall. He wore a smart grey suit and blue shirt, no tie. A trimmed moustache hovered above thin lips, his jaw clean-shaven. The other two men wore police uniforms. Buckthorn turned his concentration to Jones.

  “Good afternoon, Dr Buckthorn,” said Jones. The smile widened to show a straight row of gleaming white teeth. “Or do you prefer, Jonathan C Jenkins?”

  Jones stared at the man in the fancy chair, behind the fancy leather-topped mahogany desk, and inhaled the rich aroma of beeswax and expensive aftershave.

  Here he was at last, Dr Arthur Buckthorn, PhD.

  In his early fifties, with short-cropped, dark brown hair, he looked like your average civil servant. No one would ever guess the man’s dark secret, not by looks alone. But wasn’t that always the way? The real monsters didn’t look like Frankenstein’s creation. That would make his job too easy. They always looked normal on the surface, but scratch a little deeper.

  Buckthorn had been in charge of the Derbyshire Detention Centre for the best part of twenty years before its closure. Hell, he must have felt like a glutton in a bakery with unfettered access to the flawed population. He’d groomed Ellis Flynn for five years, moulding, and shaping him into the image of his father, Edward. God knows how many other young men Buckthorn had perverted over the years, and how many deaths he’d caused. And there he sat as the Chair of a government prison reform committee. A sick irony.

  On the wall behind Buckthorn’s head, framed under non-reflective glass, hung his life’s story told in paper and pictures. Academic honours, including a doctorate from the University of Abertay, citations, and commemorative photographs clung in even rows.

  In each photo, Buckthorn stood beside the great and good—a rogue’s gallery of the country’s rich and powerful. Prime Ministers, Home Secretaries, TV celebrities, and film stars queued to shake his hand. Finally, in pride of place at the centre, was a diptych, a matched pair. The first photo, in monochrome, showed a younger Buckthorn standing, without the aid of a stick, under a wrought iron sign in front of a large Victorian building. The sign read, ‘Derbyshire Detention Centre’. The second picture, this one in colour, showed the same tableau, but in this, Buckthorn was older, leaning on a stick, and the spelling on the sign had changed.

  The pictures hung off square, offending his eye. All of Jones’ being wanted to straighten it, put things right, but he didn’t trust himself to pass close to the monster. He
thought of Hollie, lying in a hospital bed in Derby. He also thought of the mutilated corpses buried in a Brittany wood, Julie Harris, his two fallen colleagues, and the unfortunate Doctor Ericsson.

  There he sat, feigning offence. Buckthorn recognised him. Of that, there was no doubt. Jones wanted to yank the bastard out of his chair and frogmarch him through the outer office in handcuffs, in front of all his subordinates. He wanted to humiliate him for the torment he caused his victims. In fact, Jones wanted to do a damned sight more to the animal, but he dared not. He needed to do things correctly, by the book, follow procedures.

  “Who are you?” Buckthorn asked. He kept his voice low, without any of the histrionics Jones usually faced during an arrest. “And what do you mean by bursting into my office like this. Valerie?” He leaned towards the intercom. “Call security.” He puffed out his chest.

  Jones ignored him. He let Buckthorn stew a little longer. He turned to the two constables. “Search the place. There might be a gun in here somewhere.”

  Buckthorn grabbed hold of his walking stick and struggled to his feet. “This is a Government building. You’ve no right—”

  “We’ve served a search warrant to the building manager, and there’s a team tearing up your house and grounds as I speak, so sit down and shut up!”

  Buckthorn sat and placed the cane across the arms of the chair. He rolled the stick along the leather padding. The ivory handle spun clockwise and anti-clockwise, glowing in the sunlight flooding through the floor-to-ceiling window behind him.

  The constables didn’t take long to search the sparsely furnished office. Apart from the main desk, a low coffee table and two comfortable-looking leather chairs were huddled next to the window. A small glass vase of cut flowers in the middle of the table might be of use as a weapon of sorts. Jones instructed one of the constables to remove it. The second officer searched the desk and removed a silver letter opener and a pair of scissors.