calling on local sex-offenders; looking for that vital scrap of evidence, that tiny piece of the jigsaw that would crack the case.
Harlan’s phone rang. He snatched it up. “Are you watching it on the telly?” asked Jim.
“Yes.”
“Insane, isn’t it? I mean, what kind of fucker snatches a kid from his bed like that?”
“So how did it go down?”
“Like Garrett said, sometime between twelve and four someone forced the kitchen window and took the boy.”
“Come on, Jim, you’ve got a lot more than that.”
Jim was silent a moment, then he said, “First you’ve got to promise me you’ll stay away from this case.”
“How am I supposed to do that when I’m a goddamn suspect?”
“Don’t be coy with me, Harlan. You know what I mean. I can hear that cop’s brain of yours cranking into motion. You want to play armchair detective, fine. Just make sure it goes no further. Besides, no one here seriously considers you a suspect, not even Garrett.”
“Then why am I being watched?”
“Procedure. We can’t take any chances in a case like this. You know that.”
“Look, I’m not about to start tearing this city apart searching for Ethan Reed. All I want is to hear the details of the case, see if anything jogs in my memory. After all, I was sat outside the vic’s house for several hours two days before all this happened. I might’ve seen something without realising it.”
“Okay, Harlan, but I’m trusting you as a friend not to get any more involved than you already are.” Jim took a breath, and as if reading from a sheet of paper, continued in an atonal voice, “Ethan shares a bunk-bed with his brother, Kane. Both were in bed asleep by ten. Susan went to bed at midnight. Sometime after that, Kane woke when he heard his brother say, who are you? He saw Ethan stood in his pyjamas facing a figure dressed in a black sweatshirt, camouflage trousers, gloves and a balaclava. The figure whispered to Ethan, be quiet or I’ll kill you and your brother. Kane pretended to be asleep, but kept his eyes open just enough to see that the figure’s wrists were white with dark hairs on them. He also saw that the figure was holding a handgun. The figure led Ethan from the room. Kane remained in bed, terrified that if he moved or made a sound the figure would return and carry out his threat. At approximately four o’clock he went to his mother’s bedroom. It took him a while to wake her up because, like most nights since her husband’s death, she was out of it on sleeping-pills and alcohol.”
Guilt loomed like a tainted shadow at Harlan’s back again. He shook it aside. This was no time to give in to emotion. If he was going to be of any help, he had to keep his head clear. “Maybe the kidnapper knew Susan was on sleeping-tablets.”
“Maybe. Maybe our guy knows her. Or maybe the brothers confided in their friends and teachers about her problems. Or maybe one of Susan’s friends or someone in her family or extended family talked with their spouses or friends about her. Or maybe our guy doesn’t know Susan and was crazy or stupid or desperate enough to do what he did anyway. Or maybe-”
“Alright, I get the point. What about leads? Any concrete leads?”
“Just one. At approximately three AM a milkman saw a silver VW golf with tinted windows cruising up and down the street. He thought the driver might be aiming to rob him, so he took down the number plate.”
“What’s the reg?”
“I don’t think you need to know that?”
“You’re right, it probably won’t make any difference. But why take the chance?”
“No, I think I’ve told you all I want to for now. I’ve got to get back to it. Remember what I said, Harlan. Keep your head down.”
“Just tell me one more thing. What does your gut say? Dead or alive?”
Jim considered this a brief moment. Then he said, “Dead,” and hung up.
Chapter 4
Dead. The word kept ringing in Harlan’s mind. Dead or soon-to-be-dead. That’s what his gut told him too. Everything he’d heard pointed to a sexual motive. And no sexual predator willing to go to such extremes to get their hands on Ethan was going to leave him alive to tell the tale. Harlan figured the police had a window of maybe two days to find Ethan. After that, forget it.
The television was showing Ethan’s photo again, alongside a grainy photo of his mother’s grief-stricken face. With a jolt, Harlan realised he recognised the photo — it’d been used in a newspaper article about Susan’s husband’s death. If the media hadn’t done so already, Harlan knew it was only a matter of time before they made a connection between his release and Ethan’s abduction. Then his face would be splashed all over the news too. He’d be named as a person of interest, held up for public scrutiny. Regardless of his innocence, the stigma of association would make his life a hell on earth. He wouldn’t be able to leave the flat without attracting hostile looks and verbal abuse. His face drew into deep lines of distress. Not that he was bothered what the general public thought of him — fuck them. What bothered him was the thought of the pain that the media picking at the scars of past wounds would cause Eve — especially as it occurred to him that they might well try to draw some kind of spurious link between Thomas’s death and Ethan’s disappearance.
Once again, Harlan thrust his emotions aside and focused on what needed to be done. Nothing mattered now, except finding Ethan. He hurried into the hallway, grabbing his jacket and scooping up most of the remaining banknotes on his way out of the flat.
In the lift, Harlan phoned the warehouse foreman and told him he wouldn’t be able to make it in to work. “Good,” said the foreman. “And don’t bother coming in tomorrow either. You’re fired.”
The foreman hung up. Harlan sighed, thinking, so it’s already started.
Harlan made his way to a nearby public library, logged onto a computer and searched the local business directory for milkmen. ‘Darren Arnold amp; Sons’ served Susan Reed’s neighbourhood. He phoned them, and when a man picked up, he said, “This is DI Greenwood, Mr Arnold. I’m just going over your statement and I need you to confirm the registration number of the VW Golf you saw.”
“KY09 SGE.”
“Thank you.”
Harlan hung up, navigated to a car registration checker website and typed in the reg. ‘Renault Clio 1.2 16V’ came up on the monitor, which meant the milkman had either got at least part of the reg wrong or the plates were stolen. He phoned the local DVLA and asked for Pete Devlin — a guy he used to know back when he regularly needed to trace vehicles.
“Harlan, how the Christ are you?” said Pete. “When did you get out?”
“A few weeks ago. Listen, Pete, I need a favour. I’m trying to trace a car that pranged me and didn’t stop.”
“What’s the reg?”
Harlan gave Pete the number.
“Renault Clio,” said Pete.
“That’s the one.”
“I shouldn’t be doing this, but seeing as you’re an old friend. It’s registered to a James Barnshaw. 34 Chatfield Crescent.”
“What about the car’s history?”
“It’s clean.”
“Cheers, Pete. I owe you.”
Harlan Googled ‘James Barnshaw’ and the address. Nothing came up. He navigated to the phone book website, found Barnshaw’s number and called it. A woman answered. She sounded middle-aged and middle-class. “Can I speak to James Barnshaw, please?” said Harlan. “My name’s Detective Inspector Greenwood.”
“Is this about James’s number plates being stolen?”
“Yes, I just need to confirm exactly what happened?”
The woman sighed as if she was tired of repeating the story. “When James left the house last Wednesday
