Blood Guilt (4 page)

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 snatch 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.