by Ben Cheetham
The hours crawled by like they were as weighed down with anxiety as Harlan. At one AM, he packed the gear into the rucksack, shouldered it and left the car again. Keeping to the shadows, he made his way back along the alley to Jones’s house. There was no light in the upstairs window now. He took out the crowbar, and after a quick glance to check no one was around, set to work. He jammed the crowbar between the gate and its frame and threw his weight against it, heaving it back and forth until the muscles of his arms burned. The wood cracked and splintered and finally, with a groan, the lock gave way. He found himself in small concrete yard strewn with the debris of material Jones had used to repair and reinforce his house – rotten wooden boards, bags of mouldy cement, rusty screws and nails. He crouched in the darkness, barely breathing, listening. There were no sounds of movement from inside the house.
Harlan pulled on the balaclava, then picked his way across the yard to the backdoor. He briefly aimed the torch beam at it. The door was reinforced with steel panels and deadbolts. It would take a battering-ram to break it down. He turned his attention to the downstairs window, which was protected by wire-mesh screwed into the brickwork. The window had no visible lock. He took out his screwdriver and set to work removing the screws, many of which were almost ready to drop out of the crumbling mortar. He piled up some bags of cement and stood on them to reach the uppermost screws. When they were all out, he peeled away the mesh, jimmied the blade of the screwdriver under the rattling, rotten window frame and dislodged the latch. Seconds later he was wriggling in through the open window, pulling aside the curtains and lowering himself to the floor. There was a hollow clink of glass bottles as his feet came into to contact with a plastic bag. He froze, ears straining. Again, there was no sound of movement.
Nose wrinkling at a pungent smell that was part fried food and alcohol, part stale cigarette smoke and even staler sweat, part mildew and something else he couldn’t quite place, Harlan reached for his torch. Its pale yellow beam revealed what the something else was – an easel was set up in the centre of the room, holding a canvas thickly encrusted with gaudy, glistening acrylic paint. The painting depicted a group of children at a playground, kicking their legs high on some swings, their heads thrown back, their mouths wide with laughter. It would’ve been a perfectly innocent scene in any other context, but seeing it here gave Harlan a cold feeling in his stomach. The feeling intensified as he shone the torch around the walls, which were covered with dozens of paintings and drawings. Some hung in cheap frames, others were simply tacked to the yellowed woodchip wallpaper. Some portrayed scenes similar to the canvas on the easel, others showed children at play in school-yards, children riding bicycles, children eating, children reading, children sleeping. All the paintings’ subjects were rendered in too-bright colours, so that they seemed to possess a heightened reality. There was nothing overtly sinister about any of the individual artworks, yet collectively it was one of the most sinister things he’d ever seen. He realised now why Jones stubbornly refused to leave his house. This collection was clearly his pride and joy – his life’s work.
The cold feeling came up stronger and stronger. Harlan let it rise into his gullet, hard and big as a fist, knowing he’d need it when he came face to face with Jones. A cursory examination of the remainder of the room revealed a threadbare sofa and two armchairs piled with boxes of paint, brushes and blank canvases; no carpet, only bare paint-spattered floorboards; bin-liners bulging with empty cans of super-strength cider and bottles of cheap sherry; the greasy remnants of a meal; the ashes of a long dead fire. There were three doors. One stood open, leading to a small, pot-cluttered kitchen. Very quietly, very slowly he opened one of the other doors. It led to a hallway that terminated at the front door. The third door opened onto a flight of stairs. Wincing at every creak, he padded up them. Like the living-room, the stairwell was papered with artworks. Halfway up, Harlan paused as one in particular caught his eye. It depicted two figures drawn in silhouette – an adult and a child holding hands at the entrance to a yawning black tunnel. Harlan wondered whether the drawing represented reality, or whether it was some kind of symbolic representation of Jones’s relationship with children. Whatever the case, the grim little drawing was somehow truer and less distorted than its more garish neighbours.
Harlan stiffened at a sound from upstairs – a sort of asthmatic snuffle followed by a phlegmy cough. He waited until silence resumed, before climbing to the landing. To his right a short hallway led to a bathroom, from which emanated a tang of stale urine. To his left was a closed door. Pressing his ear to its chipped paintwork, he heard a low snore. He switched off his torch, and waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, before easing the door open. In the faint ambient glow of the city that filtered through the bedroom curtains, his eyes traced the outline of Jones’s sleeping figure on a single bed. He was laid on his back beneath a tangle of blankets, his round-bowl of a belly gently rising with each snore. His right hand gripped what looked like an old-fashioned police truncheon. Harlan couldn’t clearly make out Jones’s face, but he knew from the newspapers that he was a late middle-aged man with the vein-streaked skin and puffy eyes of a heavy drinker. The vinegary smell of cider hung in the air like an invisible smog.
Keeping his breathing low and shallow, Harlan approached Jones. He paused at the bedside, staring down at the sleeping man. A tremor ran through him as the image of Robert Reed wormed its way into his mind. With a shake of his head, he shoved it back down through the layers of his consciousness. In its place he pictured Ethan – Ethan stood hand-in-hand with Jones at the entrance to a tunnel. The image seared through him like cold flames. It took hold of him and made him reach to snatch away the truncheon.
Jones’s eyelids flickered. “Wha…?” he slurred.
With a fluid, practised movement, Harlan flipped Jones onto his belly and twisted his arm up behind him. Jones struggled furiously to break free, bucking like a maddened bull as Harlan straddled his squat, powerfully built body. Harlan twisted harder. Something popped. Jones gave out a muffled scream and his struggles subsided. For a moment both men were still and silent, except for the sound of their accelerated breathing. Then, his voice ragged with pain and fear, Jones said, “What do you want?”
Harlan pressed the point of his screwdriver against Jones’s neck. “Move and you’re dead,” he hissed, trying to disguise his voice by talking through his teeth.
“Please, you don’t need to hurt me anymore, I’ll–”
“Shut the fuck up. Don’t speak unless I ask you a direct question.”
Harlan took out the duct tape. Jones whimpered as Harlan wrapped it tightly around his wrists and ankles. When he was done, he rolled Jones onto his back again. The beam of his torch explored the bedroom – more paintings; some cheap-looking furniture; a bedside table cluttered with brown-plastic pill bottles; a stack of newspapers, the uppermost carrying a photo of Ethan. The light lingered on some pale rectangles on the tobacco-stained walls where pictures used to hang, before landing on Jones’s face. Jones’s bloodshot eyes blinked in their folds of bruised-looking flesh. Quivers ran through his sallow, stubbly cheeks. His chest rattled as he sucked in deep panic breaths. Harlan picked up the truncheon and balanced its skull-cracking weight on his palm. “I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to tell me what I want to know,” he began in a quiet, tightly controlled voice. “What do you know about Ethan Reed’s abduction?”
“Only what I’ve read in the papers.”
Harlan hefted the truncheon menacingly. “You know a lot more than that.”
Jones flinched, pressing back against the pillows and speaking in a trembling whimper. “I don’t. Honestly. Why do you think the police let me go?”
“You know where Ethan goes to school and which park he plays in, don’t you?”
“I’ve seen him around,” admitted Jones.
“Have you painted him?”
“I dunno.”
Harlan aimed the torch
at the pale rectangles. “Where are the pictures that hung there?”
From the flash of anger that passed over Jones’s face it was clear the question touched a sore spot. “The police took them.”
“Why?”
“They thought one of the children in them looked like Ethan.”
“And was it him?”
“I told you, I dunno. Maybe. I paint so many that I forget.”
“You like painting kids.”
It was an observation, not a question, but Jones spoke anyway, a fiercely protective note vying with the fear in his voice. “Yeah. So? It’s not illegal, is it?”
“No, but abducting and molesting them is.”
“I’ve never abducted a kid in my life.”
“You’ve molested them, though.”
Red splotches rose up Jones’s throat, mottling his face. “I took some photos of a girl once, for artistic purposes. But I never laid a hand on her.”
“That’s not what she said.”
Jones jutted his chin up at Harlan. “Yeah, well she was a lying little slut.”
“Forensics don’t lie,” Harlan pointed out, his voice growing cooler as Jones’s grew more heated. The old feeling of controlled calmness he used to get from phasing out suspects and pushing their buttons was seeping back in. “I’ve read the newspaper reports. Traces of your semen were found on her clothes.”
Jones’s eyes narrowed a fraction, as if something had just occurred to him. He heaved an asthmatic sigh, the defiance draining from his features. “Okay, so I did some…some bad things once. But I haven’t done anything like that in years. Not since I started painting. You see, painting, well, it’s an outlet for my emotions. It’s what keeps me straight. As long as I can paint, I’m alright.”
“And do you only paint what you see?”
“Yeah. I’m a realist. I can’t allow myself to fantasise.”
“So where did you do that drawing of the man and the boy holding hands outside a tunnel?”
Jones was silent a moment, brows drawn together, as if unsure which picture Harlan was referring to. Then he said, “Oh that little thing. I did that years ago, while I was doing my time. It’s…it’s nowhere. It’s what’s inside me. The darkness that calls to me. Y’know?”
Harlan knew. He’d spent years trying to see through other peoples’ darkness. He also knew deceit when he heard its hesitating voice. He brought the truncheon down with concussive force inches from Jones’s head. The bound man flinched and quivered and gave a choking little sob, as his captor snarled, “Either you stop bullshitting me, or I’m gonna start breaking bones.”
“Don’t hurt me, please! It’s the truth. So help me Christ, it’s the truth.”
“Christ can’t help you now. Only you can help yourself.” Harlan leaned in close, applying pressure to Jones’s injured arm. “Where did you do that drawing? This is the last time I’m gonna ask nicely.” His voice was full of quiet menace, but inside his heart was thumping wildly.
Jones grimaced, tears spilling over the piggish folds of skin beneath his eyes. His mouth opened. It closed. It opened again, but still no words came. Finally, his breath coming in rancid gasps, he screwed his eyes closed and shook his head. Seeing that he wasn’t going to get another word out of his captive unless he followed through on his threat, Harlan raised the truncheon high. His own breathing grew more rapid despite his best efforts to keep it regular, as the truncheon hung in the air for one second, ten seconds, thirty seconds, a minute. Tremors passed up his body into his arms. He seemed to be struggling against some invisible force that prevented him from striking Jones. It was hot under the balaclava, and worms of sweat slithered into his eyes, blurring his vision. He swiped a hand across his eyes, trying to wipe the stinging sweat away, but also vainly trying to rid himself of the image of Robert Reed that loomed before him, blood fanning from his shattered skull. He made as if to look away. But there was no looking away. Suddenly, as if he’d been punched in the solar plexus, his body sagged and his arms dropped limply onto his lap. He sat for long seconds, staring at the threadbare carpet, though seeming to stare at nothing. Letting the truncheon fall to the floor, he staggered from the room.
Harlan’s legs almost gave way as he squirmed through the window and dropped to the ground. He squatted on his haunches for a few seconds, yanking off the balaclava and sucking in lungfuls of the cold, cleansing night air. Then he approached the gate, and after a glance to make sure the alley was clear, set off walking fast – but not too fast – in the direction of his car.
He detoured down some steps at the side of a bridge to toss his gloves, balaclava, sweatshirt and the contents of his rucksack into the river Don’s murmuring waters. Looking at the deeper darkness under the bridge, he thought about the drawing. He felt in his bones that Jones knew something about something. It was another question, however, whether that something had anything to do with Ethan’s abduction. Jones was obviously a dangerous man – a predatory pervert with a few millimetres of fragile paint and canvas between himself and his next victim. But was he the type to go breaking into someone’s house and snatching a kid? Harlan doubted it. He was more the type to patiently groom his victims, ply them with gifts and favours, gain their trust. He was also a bit long in the tooth and heavy in the gut to be climbing through windows and creeping about houses. What really made Harlan doubt Jones’s involvement, though, were the paintings. There’d been no trace of hesitation in Jones’s voice as he spoke about what they meant to him. As repulsive as they were, they were clearly a sincere attempt to channel his thoughts, his emotions, his desires into something that, as he’d said, kept his darkness at bay. Of course, the attempt might’ve been unsuccessful. But even if that was the case, it seemed highly unlikely that Jones would look so close to home for his victims. That would’ve been a suicidal move for someone so locally notorious. And Jones wasn’t suicidal. He was a realist. A survivor.
As Harlan drove to his flat, he wondered what he was going to tell Susan. Whatever he told her, he knew she was going to be as angry and dissatisfied with him as he was with himself. Why hadn’t he been able to do what needed to be done? What was he afraid of? Not prison. Prison held no fear for him. It wasn’t simply that he was afraid of hurting others, either. It went deeper than that, right down to the roots of his psyche. He’d seen the darkness that existed there. He knew what it was capable of. And that was what scared him more than anything else.
At the flat, physically and emotionally spent, Harlan crashed into bed fully dressed. Within seconds he was dreaming. Tom was stood at the entrance to a dark tunnel. Jones was stood next to him. They were holding hands. Tom was looking at Harlan. He didn’t seem scared. There was a strange, sorrowful blankness in his eyes. Jones bent and whispered something to Tom. To Harlan’s horror, the two of them turned and headed into the tunnel. “Tom, stop!” cried Harlan. “Don’t go in there.”
Tom didn’t seem to hear.
“Let my son go, you fucker,” yelled Harlan. “Let him go or I’ll kill you.” He tried to give chase, but his feet felt glued to the ground.
The darkness closed like a fist around the two figures. “Tom!” screamed Harlan. “Tom!” There was no reply, except the echo of his own voice. He collapsed to his knees, weeping with impotent despair and rage.
Chapter 10
Harlan was woken by an insistent and ominously regular knocking at his door. It was a knock he recognised, a knock he’d fully expected. It sent a thrill down his back. Not rushing, he rose and went through to the toilet. By the time he was done in there, he’d composed his thoughts and appearance. “Mr Miller,” shouted a male voice, impatient but professional.
“Coming,” called Harlan, flushing the loo. He opened the door and found himself faced by the steely eyed DI Scott Greenwood and his po-faced partner DI Amy Sheridan. “Sorry about that. How can I help you?”
“We’d like you to accompany us down to the station,” said DI Greenwood.
“Why? What’s going on
?”
“We’re just here to fetch you. The DCI wants a chat.”
“A chat?” Harlan frowned. “About what?”
DI Greenwood’s purse-lipped expression made it clear that whether or not he knew the answer, he wasn’t about to tell Harlan.
“Am I under arrest?” asked Harlan.
“No.”
“And what if I don’t feel like going down the station?”
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” put in DI Sheridan. “The choice is yours.”
“It doesn’t sound like I’ve got a choice.” Harlan pulled on his shoes and coat, and followed the detectives to their car. They rode to the station in silence, punctuated by brief spurts of gabble on the two-way radio.
DI Greenwood led Harlan to an interview room while DI Sheridan went to inform Garrett of their arrival. When the DCI entered the room, Harlan asked with feigned puzzlement, “What’s this about?”
A scowl creased Garrett’s pink, well-scrubbed face. “Don’t play games with me, Miller. You bloody well know what this is about.”
“Sorry, but I–”
Before Harlan could finish, Garrett brought his hand down on the table with a bang that reverberated around the room. “Where were you last night?”
“At my flat.”
“All night?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Alone?”
Harlan nodded. He expelled an impatient breath through his nostrils. “Look, either you tell me what I’m doing here or I’m leaving.”
Garrett regarded him with narrowed, probing eyes. “William Jones. Recognise the name?”
“Of course. It was all over the newspapers.”
Garrett gave a small wince, as if the fact pained him. “Have you ever met him?”
“No.”
“You sure about that?”
“Well, not a hundred percent. I’ve met a lot of scumbags in my time. You know how it is. After you’ve been on the job for a few years, the faces and names all start to blend together.”
