morning, his number plates were missing. We didn’t hear or see anything.”
“What about your neighbours? Did any of them see anything?”
“No.”
Harlan thanked the woman and hung up. The fact that the plates were stolen gave credence to the idea that the Golf had been cruising Susan Reed’s street on some criminal expedition. But it also meant the lead was a dead end, unless the car had been caught on camera speeding, or driving away from a petrol station without paying, or some such thing — and even if it had, he didn’t have the means of finding out. The best use of his time at present, as far as he could see, was simply to get out there and search the streets for the Golf. He glanced out the window at the plainclothes sheltering from a sudden downpour in a shop porch. He deleted his browsing history, left the library and made his way hurriedly to the nearest second-hand car dealership. There was a black VW Golf on the forecourt. He went into the dealer’s office and slapped down the cash to buy it.
Harlan cruised the streets, searching for silver VW Golfs, scanning licence-plate numbers. There was little hope in it, but — for the moment, at least — he could see no other course open to him. He switched the radio on and tuned into the news, which was playing an edited version of Garrett’s statement. There was no mention of the VW Golf. It was always a tricky question — whether and when to make such information public. On the one hand, someone who’d seen the car or knew its owner or the owner themselves might well contact the police. On the other, if the car’s owner and Ethan’s kidnapper were one and the same, they might try to hide or destroy the car, or even worse, they might be panicked into killing the boy. Harlan guessed that if the information was released at all, it wouldn’t be until the four day mark passed. After that, in their minds Ethan was dead, so they’d have a shit lot less to lose by going public.
All day long Harlan vainly searched for the VW, circling outwards from the city centre, paying special attention to the uninhabited houses, cadaverous factories and pockets of woodland and wasteland in the lonelier parts of the urban sprawl. He wasn’t the only one searching. Almost everywhere he went there were uniforms doing their thing. Police helicopters hovered and circled over the city. He didn’t stop to eat, he only stopped to fill up on petrol. As the hours flashed past like silent lightening, a sense of frustration swelled in his gut. Outside the official information loop, he felt blind and helpless. He tried several times to ring Jim, but got no reply. He supposed his ex-partner was either too busy or too pissed with him to answer — Jim would certainly have heard by now what he was up to.
Harlan’s stomach gave a lurch when he heard his name on the radio. “Detectives are speaking to persons of interest in the case,” said the news reader, “including ex-police officer, Harlan Miller, who was recently released from prison after serving a four-year sentence for the Harlan reflexively snapped the radio off. After the space of a breath, he turned it back on, wondering who the other persons of interest were. But no more names were mentioned.
Before the news report was even finished, Harlan’s phone rang. A number he didn’t recognise flashed up on its screen. He answered the phone and waited for whoever it was to speak. His stomach gave another lurch when Eve’s voice came over the line. “Harlan?”
Harlan hadn’t spoken to Eve since starting his prison sentence. She’d written him, asking if she could visit. He’d written back, saying it would be for the best if she stayed away. He’d also told her he was sorry. It’d been wrong of him to blame her for Tom’s death — in some perverse way, killing Robert Reed had made him see that. Finally, he’d told her that the one thing she could do to help him through his sentence was to get on with her life. It’d hurt him deep and long to write that, but it was necessary.
Eve’s voice sounded different — no, not different, just changed. There was a softness to it that reminded him why he’d first fallen in love with her. A thickness rose in his throat. He swallowed it in a lump and shoved it far down. “I assume Jim gave you my number.”
“He’s worried about you.” There was a slight hesitation, then Eve added, “We both are.”
“Well don’t be. I’m not worth your worry.”
“That’s not true. You’re a good man.”
“Good men don’t kill.”
“You lashed out in a moment of madness and despair. Yes, a man died, but you’ve paid for-”
“You’re wasting your time,” broke in Harlan. “This is something I’ve got to do.”
“They’ll send you back to prison.”
“If they do, they do. Susan Reed’s already lost her husband. I can’t let her lose her son as well. You of all people should understand that.”
Eve was silent a moment. When she next spoke, Harlan could tell she was struggling to keep her voice from shaking, and it hurt him to hear. “But what can you do on your own?”
“I don’t know. Probably nothing. But I’ve got to try.”
Eve sighed. “Okay, Harlan, if I can’t change your mind then all I can say is good luck. Find that boy. Find him and return him where he belongs.”
Another silence passed between them. Harlan waited for Eve to say goodbye — he’d never been any good at goodbyes — but instead she said hesitatingly, “Maybe we could meet up sometime.”
Christ yes, his heart said. How he would love to meet up with Eve, listen to her soft voice, smell her, touch her. He suddenly found himself remembering how it felt to kiss her, the way she used to murmur his name as he nuzzled her neck, her ear. And the memory of it made his blood quicken. But he knew he couldn’t allow himself to follow his heart. After all, what did he have to offer her? Nothing but memories and misery. “I don’t think that’d be good idea.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. I don’t know why I even suggested it. Take care, Harlan.”
“You too.”
Harlan hung up, releasing a heavy breath. “Focus,” he said sharply. He focused on the street shining wetly beneath the orange glow of the lampposts. That life is gone, he told himself. This right here, this is all the life you’ve got left, so make it count.
All night Harlan searched in vain. When darkness began to give way to the blue of dawn, he grabbed a bite to eat at a cafe. The breakfast news blared out of a television on the wall. The waitress served him in silence, then quickly retreated behind the counter, where she fell into a whispered conversation with another woman. Both women shot him uneasy, frowning glances. He ignored them, concentrating on eating and the news. The police were having no more luck than him, it seemed. There had been no reported sightings of Ethan, and the police had expanded the focus of their search beyond Sheffield into the surrounding regions, particularly the Northwest where there’d recently been a suspected child abduction — Jamie Sutton, an eleven-year old boy, had disappeared while out riding his bike in Prestwich, a northern suburb of Manchester, nearly two months ago. A massive search had been conducted, thousands of missing-person posters had been distributed, private donors had put together a reward of two-hundred thousand pounds for anyone who came forward with solid information that led to the boy’s rescue. All to no avail. Jamie Sutton, it seemed, had literally vanished into thin air.
Harlan considered expanding the focus of his search too, but quickly decided against it. The connection between the cases was too tenuous. For starters, it was impossible to say with certainty that Jamie Sutton had been abducted. He might’ve been the victim of a hit-and-run, met with some kind of accident, or maybe even be a runaway. Secondly, if Jamie had been abducted, then the kidnapper’s MO was significantly different, more suggestive of an opportunistic mindset. Thirdly, Jamie was a very different boy from Ethan — whereas Ethan looked shy and timid, Jamie had a broad face and bold, self-confident eyes. Finally, and most importantly as far as Harlan was concerned, he saw little hope in himself succeeding where the best efforts of the police had failed. Better to continue the search here, where the trail was still fresh.
It was midday when the posters started appearing on lampposts and in shop windows. They featured close- ups of Ethan taken from different angles and with different expressions. Above his face in big letters was the word ‘KIDNAPPED’. Below his face were the numbers of a couple of freephone tip hotlines. There were also groups of people on the streets — not police, but volunteers — handing out leaflets to passersby and motorists. Harlan rolled his window down to take one from a woman. “There’s going to be a march through the streets around Ethan’s home tonight,” she said. “Everybody’s welcome.”
“Everybody doesn’t include me,” said Harlan, and he drove on, working his way methodically through the city.
New information trickled through the radio. Police dogs had picked up Ethan’s scent, but the trail they’d found ended several feet from the backyard gate. Detectives were holding a local man for questioning. William Jones, a
