The Boneyard: A gripping serial killer crime thriller. Mark Sennen

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       Chapter Two

       Seventy-five miles due west of the Isle of Barra, Scotland. Sunday 16th April. 6.02 a.m.

      There was a rim of light beyond the wing when Kendwick awoke and slid the blind up. Dawn creeping from the east, the plane rushing to meet the new day with an eagerness which he didn’t much share.

      Around him bodies stirred. An hour or so until they touched down. An hour until he walked away from the nightmare of the last twelve months.

       We’ll be waiting for you, Mr Kendwick. Airside. We’ll take you through passport control and hand you over to officers from Devon and Cornwall Police. They’ll whisk you out of the airport without the press so much as getting an inkling of what’s going on. OK?

      OK? No, it wasn’t OK. But the alternative to a little impromptu interrogation by National Crime Agency officers was a full-on assault by the British media. And they made the cops in the US look like kittens.

      Kittens.

      He turned his head, scanning the aisle for the blonde hostess. The one with the translucent shirt and the long hair in a bun. She was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she’d taken herself off to business class to give those who’d paid more for their ticket a breakfast treat.

      He sighed and stared ahead not wanting another conversation with the person next to him. The man with the BO and the persistent chit-chat about his work, his family, his car, his fucking boring life which Kendwick wasn’t the least bit interested in hearing about.

      ‘Back home soon.’ Too late. The man had noticed Kendwick’s gaze move to the aisle in search of the hostess. ‘The Chilterns, me. Goring. Handy for the M4. Know it?’

      Kendwick nodded even though he’d never heard of the bloody place. ‘Nice,’ he said.

      ‘You?’

      ‘Devon.’ Kendwick turned his head to the window, hoping the message that he wasn’t interested in talking would get through.

      ‘Lovely!’ BO seemed impressed and not at all put out by Kendwick’s failure to continue to make eye contact. ‘Long way though. Bit of a hike. But worth the journey. Me and the wife were down there a couple of years ago. The Rick Stein place. Padstow. Stayed in a little holiday cottage right on the harbour. Pretty as a postcard. Beautiful.’

      Padstow was in Cornwall, not Devon, but Kendwick kept quiet. He wished he’d just named a random London borough. Then again, the man would have probably found something to say about that too.

      ‘Tell you what,’ BO continued. ‘My car’s in the long-term parking. I could give you a lift as far as Reading. I normally take junction twelve, but I could just as easily go off on ten and run you to the station. You could catch the Paddington train there. Save all that nonsense at the Heathrow end, wouldn’t it?’

      Kendwick turned back. Tried hard not to tell the moron to fuck off. Said instead: ‘Thanks, but no thanks. I’m being met at the airport. I’ve got a lift all the way home. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to try and get another hour or so sleep, OK?’

      BO hesitated for a moment. ‘Sure,’ he said, nodding and swivelling in his seat and then muttering. ‘Only trying to be friendly. Some people.’

      Yeah, thought Kendwick. Some fucking people.

      Savage was pissed off. They’d got up and breakfasted in good time so as to arrive at the airport by nine as planned. However, as they’d parked the car she’d phoned her contact in the NCA, DCI Kevin Rollins. He told her Kendwick had taken a different flight.

      ‘United 901,’ Rollins said. ‘Direct from San Francisco instead of via LAX. Landed a little after seven o’clock. We’re all done and dusted and your man’s just waiting to be picked up. We’ll bring him round to the VIP arrivals lounge.’

      Rollins hung up before Savage could say anything.

      ‘Ma’am?’ Riley read the displeasure on her face. ‘Everything all right?’

      ‘No it bloody isn’t.’ Savage slipped the phone into her pocket. She explained to Riley what had happened. ‘The NCA are playing games with us. They knew we’d stayed over and must have known Kendwick was on an earlier flight. Rollins thinks we’re no better than a taxi service.’

      Fifteen minutes later and they were striding across the near-empty VIP lounge. In one corner, two men in suits and a third in a Coldplay T-shirt sat at a low table. Savage recognised the man in the T-shirt as Kendwick. Early thirties, with a muscular, well-defined torso. Long black hair tied in a ponytail, the hair with a sheen like something from a men’s toiletries commercial. As he laughed at a joke one of the men had made, his lips parted to show perfect teeth. American teeth. He was good-looking, for sure. Quite a charmer.

      As they approached, one of the men in suits turned and then stood.

      ‘DI Savage?’ he said. ‘DCI Kevin Rollins. Sorry about the mix-up with the flights. No harm done and all that, hey?’

      Rollins was at least a decade or so older than Kendwick and a bit flabby round the edges. A bald patch poked from greying hair. By his swagger he plainly fancied himself, but alongside the younger man he was nothing.

      Kendwick didn’t bother to get up. Savage could see he was well aware the handful of passengers in the lounge were looking their way and assuming he was some kind of star, the two men in the cheap suits his bodyguards.

      ‘Ah, my chauffeur,’ he said. ‘Or should I say, chaperone? Someone to stop me getting into trouble, right?’

      ‘Detective Inspector Charlotte Savage,’ Savage said. She held out her hand and Kendwick reached up and took it, his palm cold and dry. ‘If you’ve finished your business with DCI Rollins then we may as well get going. It’s a long journey.’

      ‘I like the way you said СКАЧАТЬ