by P. T. Reade
***
I was impressed and more than a little disturbed with Jamal’s skill. Within a few minutes, he had found his way into the classified files of the local council offices and schools. He fished around a bit and found the information I was looking for. As his fingers danced across the keyboard he chattered on about how hacking was “nothing like the movies” and how something called Social Engineering meant that people, not passwords were the weakest link in online security. I simply nodded as I tried to take in what he said. This was the kind of education you don’t get in College.
“So what are we looking for?” he finally asked.
“Any sort of connections between these people.” I said, showing him a list. “Let’s start with Stephen Harlowe.” I wanted to start there just to test myself. Had I really been that sure about his innocence?
Five minutes passed and he found nothing. “He seems pretty clean from what I can see,” Jamal said. “Who else?”
“How about Billy Bennett? Can you get me into the site for city works like transportation and public services?”
Jamal worked his magic once more and within five minutes, we were looking at just about everything we could ever want to know about Billy Bennett’s work history. As I started to scan over it all, Amir poked his head in through Jamal’s open door.
“Three minutes left,” he said, giving me a stern look.
I barely even nodded as I looked through the files. Before working for the school transportation system, Billy had been a dump truck operator and a sewage treatment specialist. But what I really found interesting was the References section on his application for employment under the school’s transportation department.
There were two references. One was some Council officer. The other struck me as very off-putting.
Henry Atkinson.
“Where else would we look if I wanted to try to uncover some dirt on someone?” I asked him.
“Man, there’s all sorts of places. Police records, psychiatric files, basic background checks. You name it.”
“Could we —” I started, but was again interrupted by Amir.
“Sorry, Thomas. Time’s up. That’s it.”
The look on Amir’s face told me that arguing would be pointless.
“Thanks,” I told Jamal, shaking his hand. It means a lot.”
“It better,” Amir said. “There’s a fine line between help and risking my ass.”
“I know.”
“Did you find anything?”
“Maybe,” I said, wondering why Henry Atkinson hadn’t mentioned any sort of relationship with Billy Bennett.
“Maybe.”
NINE
My mind fumbled with the jigsaw of pieces.
I wanted to go directly to Atkinson and ask him why he’d failed to mention that he’d known the bus driver well enough to provide a work reference for him. I also wanted to ask if he’d heard about the other missing kid more recently. There was anger and the first sparks of a connection firing in my brain but by the time I left Amir’s it was already dark and too late to get to Atkinson.
The drink from earlier in the day had given me just a bit more than a taste. So I went home, changed my clothes, and went to the pub. I sat at the edge of a bar for about three hours, drinking and going over the case in my mind. I spoke to no one, not even the semi attractive woman who asked what I was drinking. I lost myself in the facts of the investigation. The only reason I went back to my apartment was because I damn near nodded off at the bar close to midnight.
When I got home and slipped out of my clothes, I realized that after the recent camera purchase, rent payments, and the tab for that night, I had a grand total of £16.00 to my name. I didn’t stay awake long enough to let that bother me, though.
I slipped into a deep sleep, but it felt like only a few minutes had passed when I was jarred awake by the ringing of my cellphone. The damn thing never rang, and hearing it was like hearing the shrieking of a banshee. Wincing at the noise and feeling an approaching hangover creeping in, I answered it, squinting against the grey daylight pushing through the greasy windows.
“Yeah?” I muttered.
“Mr. Blume, this is Jamal.”
“Oh. Hi.” My mind was fuzzy, slow to piece together how Jamal had helped me yesterday evening.
“Look, so after dad went to sleep last night, I went back in and started looking.”
“Oh, crap,” I said. “Don’t let him find out.”
“Whatever, man. He doesn’t know half the stuff I do.”
“I’m a little uncomfortable knowing that,” I said.
“Anyway, look. You got an e-mail address I can send you some stuff to?”
“Yeah.” I gave it to him, unable to remember the last time I had checked it. “But why don’t you give me the basics here, on the phone.”
“Well, for starters, Billy Bennett isn’t Billy Bennett.”
“I don’t have time for games, Jamal.” I mumbled absently while my head pounded.
“Okay, okay. Get this, Billy changed his name years ago, then again more recently. He’s not even originally from London.”
“You’re sure of this?”
“Yeah. Saw the paperwork myself. His birth name is William Hudson.”
“And what do we know about Hudson?”
“Enough to re-open the Ellington case,” Jamal said proudly.
“Wait, how do you know I’m working on the – oh, never mind. What else?”
“This is the interesting part. It seems that Mr. Hudson had a rough childhood; orphan, bounced around a few foster homes up north. Yorkshire, in fact. A couple of investigations of abuse are noted on his file, but nothing stood. Eventually he vanishes from the system… Then one ‘Billy’ Hudson resurfaces almost twenty years later with a string of petty crimes against his name. Psych reports indicated hints of sociopathy and borderline personality disorder.”
Something about the North of England sounded familiar and stirred at the back of my mind, but I couldn’t place it.
“Mr. Blume, you there?” I realized I’d been lost in my thoughts for a minute.
“Carry on, Jamal. This is good stuff, really.”
“OK, well, I saved the best ‘til last. Check this out, seven years ago one Billy Hudson was finally sentenced to a stretch in prison... for attempted sexual assault on some kids.
“He’s a sex offender?” My mind now snapped awake and I propped myself up.
“Yeah. He molested three boys…all pretty young. Nasty stuff.”
“My God.” The revelation burned away my fuzzy head.
“Yeah. Apparently it’s quite common for sex offenders to change their names when they get out of prison. Did you know that?”
“And you’ll send me the proof of all this?”
“Clicking Send right now, Mr. Blume.”
Then a thought materialized. “Wait, why don’t the police know all this? Was it that hard to find?”
“Hard, yes. Impossible no. Any cop with half a brain and a digital forensics department would be able to find this stuff. My guess, it was either covered up for some reason, or just plain ignored.”
The cogs in my mind started turning as I tried to process this information. Suddenly things began to fit together and in a flash there was an idea burning in the back of my mind. Within seconds, I had a strong feeling that I had the answer. Now I just needed to confirm that I was right.
“This is pretty messed up, Jamal.” I said. “But thanks anyway.”
“Sure thing. You just keep me in mind when I finish school. You know…if you need an assistant or something.”
“Absolutely,” I said. Silently hoping Jamal’s father didn’t hear.
I hung up and started to get dressed right away. Suddenly, the hangover felt miniscule. By the time I made it outside, it was almost gone. Even the fact that it was raining again didn’t slow me down. I had figured out where I knew Billy Bennett from.
***
I decided not to bother
Elizabeth Ellington until I knew I had an absolute case going. And since I didn’t want to go headfirst into the viper’s pit, I thought it might be smart to wait before confronting Billy. Or William. Or whatever the asshole’s name was.
So I found myself driving through a pelting rain that had really picked up, back to Henry Atkinson’s house. I sped the whole way, the revelation of breaking this case pushing me towards a sense of accomplishment that I had long ago all but given up on.
I bounded up his porch and knocked on the door with much more authority than I had showed upon my first visit. I didn’t let the austere nature of the house or the fact that Atkinson had a stellar record interfere with my thought process. It was going to be all business this time.
He answered the door still dressed in his pajamas. It was just after nine in the morning, and I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt so motivated at such an early hour.
“I had asked you to call if you needed anything else,” he growled through the door.
“I know. But I had one more thing I needed to ask. Just to check up on. And I had to head out this way anyhow.”
His facial expression told me that he was skeptical about this. He was pretty sure I was lying, but he slowly opened the door anyway. I walked in, thanked him, and watched him shut the door behind us. I had no illusions that this man would get physical with me, and even as old as he was, with his training he could still do some damage.
I found myself wishing I still had my Glock but I couldn’t have risked trying to bring my old service pistol to London. This country hated guns almost as much as it hated personal privacy.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Blume?” Atkinson asked, clearly irritated. He stood firmly by the door, making it clear that I would not be invited further into his home.
“I need a reference for a job application,” I quipped. “I heard you hand them out to just about anyone that asks.”
“Huh?” he asked, trying to sound as if he didn’t know what I was getting at. I could tell just by looking at him though, that he did. “What do you mean—”
I pushed past him, ignoring his shouts of protest and charging into the living room we had spoken in earlier that week. He followed close behind, grumbling at me to get out of his house. This time I didn’t bother taking a seat, but went straight for the mantle. Snatching the framed photograph that I had asked about, I shoved it in front of his face.
“You never mentioned that you knew Billy Bennet. And you certainly didn’t mention that you knew him a long time ago. Back when he was William Hudson. Your nephew?”
Atkinson looked as if he had been slapped across the face. He took a step away from me, towards the kitchen as if the photograph repulsed him. The photo is why Bennett had looked so familiar to me when I had met him in the pub the other day. The boy in the picture was perhaps twenty years younger, but looking at it again now the resemblance was undeniable.
“I’ll save you the time in trying to deny or back out of it,” I said. “I have seen the files. I have seen a job application, turned in by Billy Bennett, with your name as a reference. Nothing wrong with that, of course — ”
“That’s right,” Atkinson said quickly. “Nothing at all.”
“But I can’t help but wonder why you failed to tell me about it,” I said. “Why you, in fact, didn’t even bother to tell anyone that you knew Billy Bennett at all.”
“He was a friend. That’s all. I helped him get a job. He was having hard times.”
“And do you know why?”
Here, Atkinson seemed to go a shade of grey. “Do you?” he asked.
“I’ll ask the questions,” I said, trying to keep the pressure on. “Did you know about the crimes he committed under his real name?”
The look on Atkinson’s face was a clear indication that he was shocked to find that this information had come to light. Still, I had to give him credit. He didn’t even try to deny it. I had a feeling I knew the story here, so I folded my arms and waited for the inevitable train wreck.
“We hadn’t spoken in a long time when I finally heard from him, six or seven years ago. He told me what he had done…the molestation charges. I was shocked. The Billy I knew… he wasn’t capable of such a thing. I knew that wasn’t the real him. So I invested in him. I helped him get professional help.” Atkinson looked like he wanted to say more. I sensed there was something else going on here but he wasn’t going to give it up.
“And did it do any good?” I asked.
“It seemed to. I spoke to his counselor. Things were going great. So when he asked for that job reference, I was happy to do it. I thought I was helping him get his life back together.”
I let out a sick bray of shocked laughter. “I don’t care how good someone’s counseling is going. What the hell were you thinking when you helped a registered sex offender of children get a job driving a fucking school bus?”
“I – You have no right to take that tone with m—,”
“Stop it right there,” I said. “I know your history. I know how much of a big shot you were with the police. So I assume that if this came to light and the case was re-opened with more focus on Billy, you could get into some trouble. Am I right? If the cops start looking into Billy again, it won’t take them long to make the connection to you, will it?”
To my surprise, he stepped forward and gave me a sneer. “Get out of my house.”
“I think you owe it to Jack Ellington to—”
“I’m retired,” he said. “I don’t owe anyone anything. Now get off of my property.”
“Or what?” I asked. “You’ll call the police? Go ahead. I have some things to tell them anyway. You know another kid is missing right?”
He stared a hole through me, and I could feel the hate coming in waves. I made the decision as he stared at me to just let it ride. To hell with Atkinson. I didn’t need him to crack this case. He’d basically given me everything anyway. I just had one last place to investigate.
I shrugged and turned my back to him. I opened his door and looked out into the pouring rain. I paused and without turning back, I added: “If you did in fact have something to do with Billy…if he is the reason behind Jack Ellington’s disappearance —it’s not too late for you to help…to do the right thing. If not, your entire reputation, your medals and awards? All of it is built on a cheap lie.”
I fully expected a shouting match or maybe even a swift kick to help me out of the door, but I got neither. There was only the sound of distant thunder and a sense of things coming to a close as I stepped through the rain towards my car.
TEN
The storm was angry.
Billy Bennett lived on a rundown farm 25 miles from London. It had one primary exit, off a small country lane near a village called Felmont. But there was also a second road, a small dirt track that wound through the woods and eventually fed out onto a tiny lane that was 15 miles away from the nearest main road.
It was this dirt track that I took, slowly meandering down it in the pouring rain 45 minutes after leaving Atkinson’s house. On two occasions, I felt the back tires lose traction, spinning in the mud. As the farm came into view — a few flat fields and a hillside filled with corn — I saw a gate up ahead. It was simple steel gate, bolted to posts. A Master Lock hung from a chain in the center.
I hated the idea of leaving my car because I was pretty sure getting it back out of this road without getting stuck in the increasing mud would be next to impossible. But I had come this far, and if my hunch was right there was no going back.
I got out and gave myself a moment to adjust to the rain. It was at its heaviest now, a full storm cascading from above like the heavens were throwing everything they had at me in a last ditch effort. Even though it was daytime, black clouds cast shadowy swathes across the countryside and rumbles of dissention shook the air. I steadied myself, pulled up my hood, and then climbed the rain-slicked gate. I slid over the other side and looked up to the farm, yearning for the comforting weight of a
weapon.
I trudged up the rest of the road, and as I came around a slight bend, I could see Billy’s house. It sat about 50 yards from the base of the corn field. The lay of the land was not in my favor. I‘d planned on Billy not being home, but I wasn’t going to take any chances. If he was in, he’d have a very good chance of spotting me coming up the road, even through the dismal weather.
That meant that I’d have to head into the woods and sneak up on the eastern edge of the property. I left the road and started walking into the bare forest. Sickly trees all around gave me some cover from the rain, but not much. I wondered if it had been an orchard in another lifetime. My shoes were already plastered in mud and dead leaves, and I could feel the weight of it with every step I took.
