Blood Guilt Page 3

  Without waiting for a response, Susan turned and stalked away. Leaving the money scattered over the carpet, Harlan made his way to the sofa and dropped onto it as if his body was impossibly heavy. So that was that. There could be no redemption. She would give him no chance.

  Harlan’s mobile phone rang. It was Jim. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you since last night,” he said. “Has she been to see you yet?”

  “If by she you mean Susan Reed, then yes.”

  “Shit. She phoned me demanding to know where you live. Sorry, Harlan, but I had to tell her, otherwise she was threatening to tell your parole officer what you did. Just what the hell were you thinking? If she reports you, you could get sent back to prison.”

  I already am in prison, thought Harlan, a prison that holds me captive more securely than any manmade structure could. He said with a fatalistic calmness, “Maybe that’d be for the best.”

  “What are you talking about? Are you okay? Do you want me to come over?”

  “No, I don’t want you to come over. And don’t ring me again either.”

  Harlan hung up. He returned to bed and lay awake, embracing the guilt, letting it consume him. The phone rang several times. He ignored it. When the sun softened to twilight he got up, haggard and sunken-eyed. Mechanically, he dressed and ate. Mechanically, he made his way to work.

  Chapter 3

  After work, on his way back to the flat, Harlan bought a bottle of whisky. He poured a shot and swallowed it – the first drop of alcohol he’d put to his lips since that tragic, fatal day. Jesus Christ, it tasted good. Then he popped all the Valium he could find out of their blister-strips and lined them up on the table. Finally, he propped a photo in the centre of the table of himself, Eve and Thomas. They were on a seaside pier, Eve hugging Tom, Harlan hugging both of them. Behind them the sea sparkled in the sunlight. All three of them were smiling. Harlan stared at the photo, a sheen of tears over his dark eyes. He was still staring at the photo an hour or so later when someone knocked at his door. He ignored the knocking. It came again, louder and accompanied by a terse, insistent voice. “Mr Miller, if you’re in there, open up. This is the police. We need to talk to you.”

  Harlan’s first thought was, so she’s reported me, but then faint lines of doubt marked his forehead. Even if he was right, his parole officer would’ve surely been in touch to get his side of the story before sending some uniforms around to pick him up. “Who’s we?”

  “DI Scott Greenwood and DI Amy Sheridan.”

  Harlan knew then that this was about much more than him. No way they’d send detectives to deal with a parole violation. Something big-time serious had happened, was happening, and he was under some kind of suspicion. He swept the sleeping-pills off the table into the tumbler and put it out of sight. Then, trampling banknotes underfoot, he opened the door just wide enough so that he could peer out. “What’s this about?”

  “Can we come in and ask you some questions?” said DI Greenwood, a stocky man with a veteran’s moustache and steely, watchful eyes.

  It was phrased as a request, but it wasn’t one. If Harlan said no, he knew he’d be in cuffs before he could blink. “Sure.”

  Harlan opened the door fully. DI Sheridan, a poker-faced woman of about thirty, pointed at the banknotes. “Can you explain what that’s about?”

  “Susan Reed threw them there.” Harlan saw no point in dancing around their questions. Susan, or something connected to her, was the only reason he could think of for the detectives to be here, which meant they almost certainly knew about his visit to her house. His mind raced over the possibilities of what might’ve happened, and quickly came to the conclusion that the most obvious likelihood was that Susan or one of her sons, or maybe the entire family, had been hurt or killed in suspicious circumstances.

  “Why?”

  “I tried to give them to her. She didn’t want them.”

  “Do you mind if we take a look around?” said DI Greenwood.

  Another question that wasn’t a question. Harlan shook his head. The detectives worked their way methodically through the flat, checking under the bed and in the wardrobe and cupboards, testing to see if the side of the bath could be removed, even lifting the sofa. Harlan knew what that meant. It meant someone was missing, which was a small relief because it also meant there was a chance no one was dead.

  “Do you have a garage?” asked DI Greenwood.

  “No.”

  “What about a car?”

  Harlan shook his head.

  “Where were you last night between the hours of twelve and four o’clock?”

  “I was working. But you already know that, don’t you? Otherwise I’m guessing I’d be down the station helping with enquiries, or maybe even being read my rights by now.”

  “Tell us exactly what happened with Susan Reed,” said DI Sheridan, pen and notepad at the ready.

  Harlan gave them the full story. “I know it was a foolish thing to do, but I had to do something to try and help her.”

  “And since then you’ve not attempted to make further contact with her?”

  “No.”

  “When you were staking out Susan Reed’s house, did you see anybody else visiting or hanging around?”

  “No.”

  “One final question, Mr Miller. When you were in prison, did you speak with any of your fellow inmates about Susan Reed or her children?”

  A cold fist seemed to close around Harlan’s heart. So this did concern the children. Otherwise, why mention them? “Never. Look, why don’t you tell me what’s going on. Then maybe I can help.”

  “We can’t discuss the details of an ongoing investigation, Mr Miller. You should know that,” said DI Greenwood. “Thanks for your cooperation. We may need to talk to you again later.”

  The detectives headed for the door. Harlan stood at the living-room window. After maybe a minute, the detectives emerged from the stairwell and got into an unmarked car. As they drove away, another car pulled into the car-park. So I’m being watched, thought Harlan. The realisation didn’t bother him. He’d had four long years to get used to the view from the other side of the fence. What tormented him was not knowing why. His gut instinct, which he’d learned over the years to trust, told him it had something to do with the children, and that that something involved the disappearance of one, or both, of them. Working on that assumption, it followed that the police hadn’t ruled out the possibility of abduction. It also followed that it could be a simple runaway case. A sick feeling settled in his stomach as it occurred to him that maybe it was no coincidence that this was happening so soon after his visit to Susan Reed’s house. Maybe his actions had somehow sparked off a course of events that led to one of the boys running away. Unconsciously, he put a clenched fist to his mouth and bit his knuckle hard. If that was the case, if he was the source of yet more pain and loss in that poor woman’s life then…well then there would be no more hesitation. He would swallow the whisky and pills, and do the world a big favour.

  Harlan reached for his phone and called Jim. The instant he picked up, Harlan said, “What the hell’s going on, Jim?”

  “A whole lot of crazy shit. That’s what’s going on. Christ you’re lucky you’ve got a cast-iron alibi, otherwise Garrett would’ve had you strung up by your balls. Hang on.” Harlan heard the faraway sound of Jim talking to someone else, then his voice came down the line again. “I’ve got to go. I’ll call you back as soon as I get a chance.”

  “Wait. Just tell me one thing, tell me this isn’t my fault.”

  “Believe me, Harlan, this isn’t your fault.”

  The sudden release of Harlan’s suppressed breath filled the line. “Thanks.”

  “Watch your back. Garrett’s gunning for you.”

  Harlan gave a mental shrug. He wasn’t concerned about his own back. He would’ve gladly returned to prison to serve out the remainder of his sentence if it meant Susan Reed and her boys would be okay. He hurried from the flat, pausing only to s
natch up a fistful of banknotes. He headed to a nearby row of shops, half an eye on the plainclothes who got out of the unmarked car and followed him at a discreet distance. He bought a television from a pawn shop and hauled it back to his flat. In missing person cases the most important time was the first four days – especially when that person was a child. Most missing children were found or returned home of their own free will within that time-frame. Those that weren’t tended to be dead. So it was crucial to get the news out there as quickly as possible. He tuned into the twenty-four hours news channel and settled down to wait for the news to break.

  Shortly after midday it broke like a bomb, knocking the breath from Harlan’s lungs. “Police are investigating the abduction of an eight-year old boy from his bedroom in the middle of the night by a masked armed intruder,” a news-reader gravely announced.

  Harlan gaped at the television. He’d been prepared for something sinister, but this – this was insane. A child being abducted from the streets was rare enough, but this kind of thing was almost unheard of.

  The news cut from the studio to a live shot of a reporter on the pavement across from Susan Reed’s house. The street behind was lined with police vehicles. Several uniforms and detectives were gathered outside Susan’s front door. Figures in white plastic suits were visible through the windows. “Here’s what we know so far,” said the reporter. “Sometime last night, eight-year old Ethan Reed was abducted at gunpoint from the bedroom he shares with his twelve-year old brother, Kane.”

  “Gunpoint,” murmured Harlan, thinking, this just gets crazier and crazier.

  “Neither Kane nor his mother, Susan, were hurt during the incident,” went on the reporter. “At this time that’s all I can tell you. The police are going to be making a statement shortly…” A sudden buzz of activity at the front door of Susan’s house attracted the reporter’s attention. “In fact, I think…yes, here’s Detective Chief Inspector John Garrett to give us that statement.”

  The camera homed in on a late middle-aged man, with a smooth, polished public school face, and close-set eyes that seemed to be doing their best to appear full of gravity and fortitude. Harlan couldn’t help but curl his lip at the sight. He’d never much liked Garrett as a man or a cop. He found him arrogant and condescending, a persuasive talker and shrewd political negotiator, but lacking a cop’s compass, that intuition or gut instinct or whatever you wanted to call it that you only got through years of ‘dancing with the street’, as Jim used to call pounding the beat.

  As a half-moon of reporters thrust microphones at him, Garrett began, “As you know, at some point between the hours of midnight and four AM last night, an intruder forced entry to the house behind me and abducted Ethan Reed. We’re circulating this recent photo of Ethan.” He held up a photo of Ethan’s fragile, androgynous face, and Harlan felt a sharp little sting in his chest.

  “In terms of physical description,” continued Garrett, “Ethan is around four feet five inches tall and slimly built. At the time of his abduction, he was wearing red and blue Spiderman pyjamas. We believe this abduction wasn’t an act of impulse. The intruder appears to have known which room Ethan slept in. This leads us to conclude that the intruder may have watched the house prior to taking Ethan. With this in mind, we’re urging members of the public to get in touch if you saw anybody in the area over the past few days or weeks who may have looked out of place or who you haven’t seen previously. Similarly, did you see any vehicles in the area that you haven’t seen previously? However irrelevant you think what you saw might be, please contact us. A coordinated search of the local area is being carried out, involving more than two hundred officers and thirty detectives. We’re searching houses, open land, outbuildings and sheds, as well as stopping and questioning motorists. But we’re also asking the public to keep your eyes open. Ethan may be with a dark-haired white man of medium height and build.”

  Jesus, no wonder they’re watching me, thought Harlan. The description fitted him perfectly. It also fitted thousands of other men in the city.

  “Susan Reed has asked me to read a brief statement on her behalf,” said Garrett, transferring his gaze from the camera to a sheet of paper. “To whoever’s got my beautiful son, Ethan, please don’t hurt him. Please let him go. If you or anyone else knows where Ethan is please bring him home safe. Ethan is my life and my love. Knowing he’s out there somewhere and not here where he belongs is devastating beyond anybody’s ability to describe. Please do the right thing and give me back my little boy.”

  Garrett thanked the reporters, and as they fired a barrage of questions at him, turned to re-enter the house. The camera cut back to the studio. The news reader said something, but Harlan wasn’t listening anymore. He was desperately trying to process everything he’d just heard. What the hell was this all about? Ethan obviously hadn’t been snatched in the hope of extracting a ransom from his family. And there was no domestic angle. Which suggested the motive was sexual. Harlan winced like someone in pain. If that was the case, experience told him Ethan was almost as good as dead. The only slight positive he could see to hold onto was the fact that Susan and Kane were still alive, even though, presumably, at least one of them had seen Ethan’s kidnapper. Which meant that whatever else the kidnapper might be, they weren’t an out-and-out killer.

  The television was now showing an aerial shot of Susan’s house and the surrounding area. A forensic tent had been erected in the tiny yard at the back of the house, covering the door and downstairs window – no doubt, one of which was the point of entry. Uniforms were combing an alley beyond the yard, some leading hounds attempting to pick up Ethan’s scent, others leading German Shepards specially trained to sniff out human remains. Further afield, more uniforms were talking to local residents. It was off camera, though, that the work which Harlan knew was the real key to finding Ethan was taking place. Detectives would be building up a picture around Ethan – scrutinising his family, extended family and school friends; trawling through phone records and computer files; 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 y
our 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?”