Ben Cheetham - Blood Guilt

“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.