panic breaths. Harlan picked up the truncheon and balanced its skull-cracking weight on his palm. “I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to tell me what I want to know,” he began in a quiet, tightly controlled voice. “What do you know about Ethan Reed’s abduction?”
“Only what I’ve read in the papers.”
Harlan hefted the truncheon menacingly. “You know a lot more than that.”
Jones flinched, pressing back against the pillows and speaking in a trembling whimper. “I don’t. Honestly. Why do you think the police let me go?”
“You know where Ethan goes to school and which park he plays in, don’t you?”
“I’ve seen him around,” admitted Jones.
“Have you painted him?”
“I dunno.”
Harlan aimed the torch at the pale rectangles. “Where are the pictures that hung there?”
From the flash of anger that passed over Jones’s face it was clear the question touched a sore spot. “The police took them.”
“Why?”
“They thought one of the children in them looked like Ethan.”
“And was it him?”
“I told you, I dunno. Maybe. I paint so many that I forget.”
“You like painting kids.”
It was an observation, not a question, but Jones spoke anyway, a fiercely protective note vying with the fear in his voice. “Yeah. So? It’s not illegal, is it?”
“No, but abducting and molesting them is.”
“I’ve never abducted a kid in my life.”
“You’ve molested them, though.”
Red splotches rose up Jones’s throat, mottling his face. “I took some photos of a girl once, for artistic purposes. But I never laid a hand on her.”
“That’s not what she said.”
Jones jutted his chin up at Harlan. “Yeah, well she was a lying little slut.”
“Forensics don’t lie,” Harlan pointed out, his voice growing cooler as Jones’s grew more heated. The old feeling of controlled calmness he used to get from phasing out suspects and pushing their buttons was seeping back in. “I’ve read the newspaper reports. Traces of your semen were found on her clothes.”
Jones’s eyes narrowed a fraction, as if something had just occurred to him. He heaved an asthmatic sigh, the defiance draining from his features. “Okay, so I did some…some bad things once. But I haven’t done anything like that in years. Not since I started painting. You see, painting, well, it’s an outlet for my emotions. It’s what keeps me straight. As long as I can paint, I’m alright.”
“And do you only paint what you see?”
“Yeah. I’m a realist. I can’t allow myself to fantasise.”
“So where did you do that drawing of the man and the boy holding hands outside a tunnel?”
Jones was silent a moment, brows drawn together, as if unsure which picture Harlan was referring to. Then he said, “Oh that little thing. I did that years ago, while I was doing my time. It’s…it’s nowhere. It’s what’s inside me. The darkness that calls to me. Y’know?”
Harlan knew. He’d spent years trying to see through other peoples’ darkness. He also knew deceit when he heard its hesitating voice. He brought the truncheon down with concussive force inches from Jones’s head. The bound man flinched and quivered and gave a choking little sob, as his captor snarled, “Either you stop bullshitting me, or I’m gonna start breaking bones.”
“Don’t hurt me, please! It’s the truth. So help me Christ, it’s the truth.”
“Christ can’t help you now. Only you can help yourself.” Harlan leaned in close, applying pressure to Jones’s injured arm. “Where did you do that drawing? This is the last time I’m gonna ask nicely.” His voice was full of quiet menace, but inside his heart was thumping wildly.
Jones grimaced, tears spilling over the piggish folds of skin beneath his eyes. His mouth opened. It closed. It opened again, but still no words came. Finally, his breath coming in rancid gasps, he screwed his eyes closed and shook his head. Seeing that he wasn’t going to get another word out of his captive unless he followed through on his threat, Harlan raised the truncheon high. His own breathing grew more rapid despite his best efforts to keep it regular, as the truncheon hung in the air for one second, ten seconds, thirty seconds, a minute. Tremors passed up his body into his arms. He seemed to be struggling against some invisible force that prevented him from striking Jones. It was hot under the balaclava, and worms of sweat slithered into his eyes, blurring his vision. He swiped a hand across his eyes, trying to wipe the stinging sweat away, but also vainly trying to rid himself of the image of Robert Reed that loomed before him, blood fanning from his shattered skull. He made as if to look away. But there was no looking away. Suddenly, as if he’d been punched in the solar plexus, his body sagged and his arms dropped limply onto his lap. He sat for long seconds, staring at the threadbare carpet, though seeming to stare at nothing. Letting the truncheon fall to the floor, he staggered from the room.
Harlan’s legs almost gave way as he squirmed through the window and dropped to the ground. He squatted on his haunches for a few seconds, yanking off the balaclava and sucking in lungfuls of the cold, cleansing night air. Then he approached the gate, and after a glance to make sure the alley was clear, set off walking fast — but not too fast — in the direction of his car.
He detoured down some steps at the side of a bridge to toss his gloves, balaclava, sweatshirt and the contents of his rucksack into the river Don’s murmuring waters. Looking at the deeper darkness under the bridge, he thought about the drawing. He felt in his bones that Jones knew something about something. It was another question, however, whether that something had anything to do with Ethan’s abduction. Jones was obviously a dangerous man — a predatory pervert with a few millimetres of fragile paint and canvas between himself and his next victim. But was he the type to go breaking into someone’s house and snatching a kid? Harlan doubted it. He was more the type to patiently groom his victims, ply them with gifts and favours, gain their trust. He was also a bit long in the tooth and heavy in the gut to be climbing through windows and creeping about houses. What really made Harlan doubt Jones’s involvement, though, were the paintings. There’d been no trace of hesitation in Jones’s voice as he spoke about what they meant to him. As repulsive as they were, they were clearly a sincere attempt to channel his thoughts, his emotions, his desires into something that, as he’d said, kept his darkness at bay. Of course, the attempt might’ve been unsuccessful. But even if that was the case, it seemed highly unlikely that Jones would look so close to home for his victims. That would’ve been a suicidal move for someone so locally notorious. And Jones wasn’t suicidal. He was a realist. A survivor.
As Harlan drove to his flat, he wondered what he was going to tell Susan. Whatever he told her, he knew she was going to be as angry and dissatisfied with him as he was with himself. Why hadn’t he been able to do what needed to be done? What was he afraid of? Not prison. Prison held no fear for him. It wasn’t simply that he was afraid of hurting others, either. It went deeper than that, right down to the roots of his psyche. He’d seen the darkness that existed there. He knew what it was capable of. And that was what scared him more than anything else.
At the flat, physically and emotionally spent, Harlan crashed into bed fully dressed. Within seconds he was dreaming. Tom was stood at the entrance to a dark tunnel. Jones was stood next to him. They were holding hands. Tom was looking at Harlan. He didn’t seem scared. There was a strange, sorrowful blankness in his eyes. Jones bent and whispered something to Tom. To Harlan’s horror, the two of them turned and headed into the tunnel. “Tom, stop!” cried Harlan. “Don’t go in there.”
Tom didn’t seem to hear.
“Let my son go, you fucker,” yelled Harlan. “Let him go or I’ll kill you.” He tried to give chase, but his feet felt glued to the ground.
The darkness closed like a fist around the two figures. “Tom!” screamed Harlan. “Tom!” There was no reply, except the echo of his own voice. He collapsed to his knees, weeping with impotent despair and rage.
Chapter 10
