Blood Guilt

by Ben Cheetham

  Relax, thought Harlan, how the hell am I supposed to do that? As if in answer, the nurse handed him a pot of pills and poured some water to swallow them with. She wheeled the cart from the room, pausing to give him a glance that said, don’t even think about getting out of bed again. The pills quickly did their job, numbing his physical, but not his mental pain. As a heavy blanket of medicated sleep dropped over him, the images pierced his brain again. Ethan dying slowly. Susan falling apart fast. And there was nothing he could do for either of them. In his sleep, he wept with frustration.

  Chapter 17

  When Harlan next awoke, a nurse was setting out his breakfast. His heart sat like a stone in his chest at the knowledge that another night had passed. Although he had no appetite, desperate to regain his strength, he ate everything there was to the last crumb of toast. Afterwards, he watched the morning news. Jamie Sutton’s face was all over it. The screen showed photos of a bright-eyed, smiling, chubby-cheeked schoolboy who bore only a passing resemblance to the boy Harlan had rescued. There was an interview with a po-faced detective who, apart from stating that a suspect had been arrested, refused to answer any questions, saying only that this was an ongoing investigation. Speculation was rife in the studio as to the suspect’s identity and whether there was any connection to the abductions of Jack Holland and Ethan Reed. The term ‘serial child abductor’ was bandied around. Jamie’s rescue was a big story in itself, but the journalists smelled an even bigger one. There was a camera shot of a police car blocking the dirt road to the caravan, followed by a sweeping aerial shot of the treetops. Yellow and white forensic tents had been erected over the caravan and the entrance to the caves. A line of policemen could be glimpsed advancing slowly through the woods, combing the undergrowth.

  Tagged onto the end of the report was a short piece about a lantern vigil that’d been held for Ethan. Hundreds of people had gathered at a park close to his home to launch Chinese lanterns with prayers for Ethan attached to them. The lanterns rose into the night sky like fiery jewels, borne by the wind to some unknown destination. The preacher, Lewis Gunn, said that the event had raised more than forty-thousand pounds for the reward fund. There was no sign of Susan, which was hardly surprising considering what was going on elsewhere. Even so, her absence deepened Harlan’s anxiety for her.

  Forehead drawn into lines, Harlan turned off the television. It wasn’t only Ethan and Susan that troubled him. It was the fact that the DI had said ‘suspect’ when he should’ve said ‘suspects’. Clearly the police still didn’t have sufficient evidence to bring charges against Jones.

  There was a knock at the door and Jim entered the room. “Morning. You’re looking a lot better.”

  Harlan read the lines of sombre weariness etched into his ex-partner’s face. “Do I even need to ask if you’ve found him?”

  Jim dropped heavily onto a chair. “We’re still searching the caves, but if you ask me he’s not down there.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “We’ve searched to a depth of over two hundred feet. Why would Nash take Ethan so far down, when he kept Jamie and the dead boy close to the surface?”

  “Maybe he kept Ethan somewhere else. After all, he took Jack Holland to the storm-drain, not the caves.”

  “Or maybe Ethan’s buried somewhere in those woods.”

  Harlan shook his head. “He wouldn’t have buried him. He likes to keep their bodies where he can see and touch them, so he can relive the crime, extend the fantasy. Have you finished searching Mary Webster’s house?”

  “We’ve torn the fucking place apart. Pulled up every floorboard. Dug up the cellar and garden. Nothing.”

  “What about Nash. Has he spoken?”

  “Not a fucking word.” Sighing, Jim rubbed his craggy eyes. “We’ve been going at him day and night, but he just stares off into space like a zombie.”

  “Sounds like you need some kind of fresh angle. Has he got any family or friends?”

  “Both his parents are dead. No siblings. An aunt and a couple of cousins in Birmingham. No one he cares about enough to stay in touch with. Mary Webster’s the closest thing he’s got to a friend.”

  “Then maybe she’s the angle you’re looking for. Why not let her talk to him? See if she can appeal to his conscience.”

  Jim’s nose scrunched up. “That scumbag’s got no conscience.”

  “Not when it comes to his victims. They’re nothing more than objects to him. Tools to satisfy his desires. But Mary Webster’s something different. She’s a vulnerable old woman with no family. She was totally in his power. He could easily have abused her. But he didn’t. Why?”

  “Because he needed her.”

  “Maybe it’s the other way around. Maybe she was the first person in his life who’d really needed him. And that made him feel good – good in a way nothing else had done before.” Harlan’s eyes faded away from Jim’s. He suddenly found himself thinking about Tom. All his life he’d felt lonely. Even after he got together with Eve. But the first time he’d cradled Tom in his arms, and gazed into his tiny, helpless eyes, the pangs of loneliness had been replaced by a warm sense of being needed that’d made him feel capable of doing anything.

  Jim’s voice jerked Harlan back into the room. “When you put it like that, it’s got to be worth a shot.”

  “You reckon Garrett will agree to it?”

  “I don’t see he’s got a choice. We need to come up with something fast. In fact, I’ll call him right now.” Pulling out his phone, Jim left the room. He returned after several minutes, his manner more brisk and animated. “He wasn’t entirely convinced, the idea of using the old woman makes him nervous, but he’s going to set it up. You know, Harlan, I’ve got a good feeling about this. If anyone can get through to Nash, surely it’s her.” He looked at Harlan with a regretful, admiring gleam in his eyes. “Christ, I wish you could be there when she speaks to him. I’ve never known anyone who could get inside the heads of bastards like him, like you can.”

  “Any other developments I should know about?”

  “The pathologist’s report on the body came in. We got a dental ID. His name’s Lee Dale. He was an eight-year old Stockport boy who went missing on his way home from school in 2003.”

  “That’s the year Jones and Nash met. Don’t tell me that’s coincidence.”

  Jim shook his head. “You know what I think about coincidences.” The furrows on his forehead turned into ravines. “Problem is we still can’t connect Jones to the crime scenes.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Jim, he took me to the caravan. What more do you need?”

  “Hard forensic evidence. You know as well as I do what’d happen if we prosecuted Jones on the basis of information you tortured out of him: you’d be the one who ended up in prison, not him.”

  “Don’t go cutting any deals with that fucker just to keep me out of prison.”

  “No one’s cutting those kinds of deals. If Jones agrees not to press charges, it’ll be because he knows we’ll make his life a living hell otherwise. If we get any evidence on him, he’s going down. It’s as simple as that.”

  “And if you can’t get the evidence, what then?”

  “We will. Even if there are no forensics and Nash refuses to crack, I’ll find some way to nail the bastard. Trust me.”

  Harlan did trust Jim. But he didn’t trust the system. He’d seen scumbags like Jones slip through its net too many times. And Jim was a dutiful, if somewhat pessimistic, servant of the system. That was why he’d been partnered with Harlan – to rein in his maverick tendencies. And it’d worked, for the most part, whilst they were partners. But they weren’t partners anymore. He thought about Jamie painting a picture in the air in his car. If bodies were Nash’s trophies, paintings were Jones’s. Somewhere there was a place where Jones kept his most prized trophies. Finding that place was the key to nailing him. But how to find it? Harlan heaved a sigh, hoping Jim would prove right and he’d never be forced to search for the answer to th
at question. “So what else did the pathologist’s report say?”

  “Exactly when Lee Dale died can’t be established for certain, but the advanced state of decay indicates he’s been dead for around seven years. Which means Nash kept him alive for a year or so. Cause of death was inconclusive. He’d suffered more than a dozen fractures, but no single injury that was enough to kill him. Most probably he died from an accumulation of injuries combined with the effects of malnutrition.”

  The dark thing that lurked in the far regions of Harlan’s psyche whispered to him as he thought about Lee Dale being slowly tortured and starved to death. His fingers dug convulsively into the mattress.

  “You okay?” asked Jim.

  “Just a little pain in my side.”

  “I’ll go. Let you get some rest.”

  “Any news on how Susan Reed’s doing?” Harlan asked, as his ex-partner stood to leave.

  Jim shook his head, but something about his eyes, some flicker of awkwardness, told Harlan that he was keeping something from him. “Don’t bullshit me, Jim. I know you too well.”

  Jim dredged up another sigh. “Okay, here’s the thing. Her other boy, Kane, found her collapsed unconscious yesterday.” As Harlan started to sit up in alarm, Jim added quickly, “Don’t worry, she’s fine. He called for an ambulance and the paramedics pumped her stomach.”

  “What’d she taken?”

  “A shit load of booze and some sleeping-pills.”

  “She tried to kill herself.”

  “She says it was an accident. Claims she just wanted to get some sleep.”

  Harlan shook his head doubtfully. “Where is she now?”

  “At home. She refused to go to hospital.”

  “Who’s with her?”

  “Just her son, as far as I know.”

  Harlan’s brow creased. “Why the hell isn’t there a uniform with her?”

  “She wouldn’t let anyone else in the house.” Jim’s phone beeped as a text message came in. He flipped it open. “The meeting’s set up for half-ten. Shit, I’d better get a move on. I’ll call you, let you know how it goes.” He hurried from the room.

  Even before Jim’s footfalls had died away, Harlan was punching the call button to summon a nurse. His fingers drummed against the mattress as he waited. When a nurse finally poked her head into the room, he said, “I need to see the doctor.”

  “Doctor Hill’s doing her rounds right now. She’ll be looking in on you in a bit.”

  Irritation surged up in Harlan. But before he could retort that he wanted to see Doctor fucking Hill right this fucking minute, Eve’s smiling face appeared at the nurse’s shoulder. Her smile faded at the sight of Harlan. As the nurse moved away, Eve approached him, carrying a brown paper bag of fruit. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “I’ve got to get out of this fucking place.”

  “Why?”

  Harlan told her about Susan. “I need to see her, otherwise…” He couldn’t bring himself to say what he feared might happen otherwise.

  “But surely you’re not ready to be discharged yet. Your wound could–”

  “Fuck my wound,” cut in Harlan. Seeing Eve blink at the harshness of his retort, he gave her an apologetic look. “Look, when the doctor gets here, just back up whatever I say to her, will you?”

  Harlan was sat on the edge of his bed when Dr Hill arrived. “You should be lying down,” said the doctor.

  “I want to be discharged,” said Harlan.

  “I’d strongly advise against that. We need to keep you under observation for at least another forty-eight hours.”

  “I feel fine.”

  “You need total bed rest. If you walk, you could tear your stitches.”

  “I promise I won’t walk a step. Eve will make sure of that, won’t you?”

  Eve’s lips pursed into a tight line, but she nodded.

  “Before you can go anywhere, I’ll need to examine you.” Dr Hill took Harlan’s temperature and checked his blood-pressure. Then she carefully peeled back the bandage and sterile gauze pad. The stitches looked like an ugly, puckered mouth. The skin around them was storm-cloud black, fading to purplish yellow. The colour leached from Eve’s face at the sight. “All your vitals are normal and there’s no sign of infection.”

  “So I can leave.”

  “Are you dead set on this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay then, I can’t stop you from doing it, but before you go there are a few things we need to sort out.”

  Dr Hill explained to Eve that the wound needed redressing every day for the first week and demonstrated how to apply a fresh bandage. Then she spoke about what tablets Harlan had to take and when to take them. Finally, she headed off to sort out the discharge arrangements and find a nurse to help Harlan get dressed. “Get dressed in what?” asked Harlan. He had a hazy memory of his trousers and sweatshirt being cut off him when he arrived at A&E. His wallet, phone, shoes and socks were in a plastic bag in the bedside cabinet, caked in dried blood.

  “There are some shops downstairs. I’ll see if I can find you something,” said Eve. She weighed Harlan up. “You’ve lost a little weight since I last bought clothes for you.”

  Harlan managed a smile. “I guess that’s one good thing prison did for me, got rid of my love handles.”

  Soon enough Eve returned with a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a hooded sweatshirt she’d found in a charity shop. “Not exactly the height of fashion, but I figured tracksuit bottoms would be the most comfortable thing.”

  Harlan pulled on the sweatshirt. A nurse helped him into the tracksuit bottoms while Eve cleaned the blood off his shoes as best she could at the sink. Clapping her hand to her mouth suddenly, she rushed retching from the room. Harlan looked at her with concern when, after several minutes, she returned. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. The blood turned my stomach, that’s all.”

  A flicker of surprise crossed Harlan’s face. Gripping the bed’s support frame, he lowered himself into a wheelchair from which hung plastic bags full of bandages and pill boxes. After he’d scribbled his signature on a few forms, Eve wheeled him to her car. He shook his head as she moved to help him into the passenger seat and gestured at the wheelchair. “Get rid of this thing.”

  “But the doctor said–”

  “I don’t give a shit what she said. Get rid of it.”

  Sighing, Eve returned the wheelchair to the hospital building.

  For some time they drove in silence, Harlan staring out the window, casting occasional thoughtful glances at Eve. “How you feeling?” he asked.

  “I told you, I’m fine.”

  “It’s just you’re not usually the type to get queasy at the sight of blood.”

  “Instead of worrying about me, Harlan, you should worry about looking after yourself. I’m assuming you don’t want me hanging around once we get to Susan Reed’s house.”

  “I’ll be okay. I’m not planning on doing anything more strenuous than talking. I just want to be there for her, make sure she doesn’t try anything stupid.”

  “What makes you think she wants you to be there for her?”

  “Because I’m all she’s got right now.”

  Eve flicked Harlan a glance and he could see her thoughts. She was thinking: what about me? Who the fuck have I got? She didn’t say it, though. However much she was hurting, she knew it was nothing compared to Susan Reed’s pain. When they arrived at Susan’s house, all the curtains were closed. Eve looked at Harlan like a mother would look at a child she was reluctant to let out of her sight. “I’ll wait in case she doesn’t let you in.”

  Harlan shook his head. “If she sees you it’ll make her angry.”

  Eve frowned. “Why? Because she can’t stand to think you might have any happiness in life?”

  Harlan held in a sigh. He didn’t have the energy for this now. “Thanks for the lift, Eve. I’ll call you.”

  “When? In the next fucking life?”

  The sigh escaped
. Harlan reached for the door-handle.

  “Wait.” Eve put her hand on his arm. Her voice came more softly. “If you need me to change your bandage, cook you a meal, whatever, you know where I am.”

  Mustering up a small smile, Harlan nodded and squeezed Eve’s hand. Their eyes mirrored each other’s sadness – not the sadness of lovers parting, but a deeper, more profound sadness of shared loss. She took the key out of the ignition and proffered it to him. “Take it,” she insisted as he shook his head. “Please, Harlan, for me. I won’t be able to rest otherwise.”

  Harlan accepted the key. “Thanks.”

  Eve leaned in towards him hesitantly, as if unsure whether to kiss him. She didn’t kiss him. She just murmured, “I love you.” Then she got out of the car. Harlan watched her until she reached the end of the street, before slowly approaching and knocking on Susan’s front door. No answer. He knocked again. Still no answer. Not even a twitch of the curtains.

  “Susan,” Harlan called through the letterbox, voice tight with the pain of bending. “It’s Harlan Miller.” To his relief, after a few seconds, his straining ears caught the sound of feet descending the stairs. His relief evaporated when the door opened and he saw Susan. He expected her to look bad, but her face, ashen and cadaverous with deep bruised circles under the eyes, was even ghastlier than he’d imagined. He’d seen corpses that looked more alive than she did. Gaze darting over his shoulder, she motioned for him to come inside. She closed the door quickly behind him and shot the lock.

  Chapter 18

  The small living-room was gloomy and stale smelling. Like a tomb. The thought popped unbidden into Harlan’s head. It made him feel a little suffocated, and he resisted an urge to fling open the window. Leaflets with Ethan’s face on them were piled on every available surface – the carpet, the sofa, the hearth, the television. “Do you mind if I sit down?” he asked, one hand pressed over his bandage. Susan shook her head. Picking his way through the leaflets, he limped to the sofa, cleared a space and carefully lowered himself onto it.