sound of smashing glass. Someone had
hurled a bottle at Jones’s house. The police quickly moved in to usher the
crowd onwards. The camera homed in on Susan Reed, milking every ounce of agony
and despair. Her boyfriend, or whatever he was, looked pale and uncomfortable,
like he wanted to be somewhere else. “So what’s the guy’s alibi?”
“Jesus, Harlan,”
snapped Jim, and he hung up.
Harlan switched off the
television and headed for bed. He set the alarm clock for two hours hence and
shut his eyes. As he drifted off to sleep, he thought about what Jim had said.
Jim was wrong, prison hadn’t changed him – at least, not in the way he meant.
He’d always needed a bit of misery in his life. As a detective, he’d needed it
the way an oyster needs sand to form pearls. It’d provided him with the edge
and insight required to do the job. The difference was that back then he’d used
his misery, controlled it. Now it was the other way around.
Chapter
5
All that night and the
following day and night, Harlan relentlessly scoured the streets. He saw dozens
of silver VW Golfs, but none of their number plates came close to being a
match. As the hands of time ticked mercilessly towards the four day mark, his
searching became ever more frantic. One time, after glimpsing a silver car in
his rearview mirror, he did a high-speed U-turn and gave chase. A mile or so
later, leaving a trail of blaring horns in his wake, he caught up with the car
only to find it wasn’t even a VW.
There was little new to
be heard on the news. For some undisclosed reason, a pond was dragged, but
turned up nothing. William Jones was released without charge. The police issued
warnings that vigilantism wouldn’t be tolerated. They also put up a ten
thousand pound reward for information that would lead them to Ethan. Their
search was building to a fever-pitch too – over a third of the regional force’s
manpower was now involved. An army of volunteers wallpapered the city with
Ethan’s face and handed out reams of leaflets. Susan Reed spoke to dozens of
journalists, making a series of increasingly desperate appeals. But answers
seemed non-existent and fear swelled like waves of fire, ready to consume the
city. Parents kept their children indoors. Home security companies couldn’t
keep up with demand. Police were inundated with reports of suspected prowlers.
On the evening of the
third day, Garrett gave another press conference at which he admitted that the
police had few clues to go on and called on people not to lose hope. Don’t lose
hope! In the past, Harlan had spoken those same words to the families of
missing and kidnapped persons, and they’d rung as hollow on his lips as they
did on Garrett’s. He glanced at the clock. Half-past seven. There were
approximately eight or nine hours of hope left. After that, anyone who knew
anything about child abductions knew that Ethan would almost certainly be dead.
Time wore on. Ten PM,
eleven…one AM, two… Harlan didn’t stop for food, didn’t stop for red lights,
barely stopped to breathe, until the clock hit four AM. Then he pulled over and
sat for a long moment with his head pressed against the steering-wheel, eyes
closed. “It’s over,” he murmured to himself, and he turned the car to head back
to his flat.
Harlan dropped like a
stone onto his bed, but despite his exhaustion it took him hours to get to
sleep. And when he did eventually manage to drop off, his sleep was one long
sweaty nightmare in which he was chasing a silver VW Golf through the city. A
child’s terrified face was pressed against the car’s rear windscreen, but that
child wasn’t Ethan it was Thomas. On and on the chase went, but Harlan never
got any closer to the car. He awoke choking on tears of frustration and rage.
“It’s not fucking over!” he gasped, shaking his head. With or without hope, he
had to continue searching.
Harlan yanked on his
clothes and checked the news to see if there’d been
hurled a bottle at Jones’s house. The police quickly moved in to usher the
crowd onwards. The camera homed in on Susan Reed, milking every ounce of agony
and despair. Her boyfriend, or whatever he was, looked pale and uncomfortable,
like he wanted to be somewhere else. “So what’s the guy’s alibi?”
“Jesus, Harlan,”
snapped Jim, and he hung up.
Harlan switched off the
television and headed for bed. He set the alarm clock for two hours hence and
shut his eyes. As he drifted off to sleep, he thought about what Jim had said.
Jim was wrong, prison hadn’t changed him – at least, not in the way he meant.
He’d always needed a bit of misery in his life. As a detective, he’d needed it
the way an oyster needs sand to form pearls. It’d provided him with the edge
and insight required to do the job. The difference was that back then he’d used
his misery, controlled it. Now it was the other way around.
Chapter
5
All that night and the
following day and night, Harlan relentlessly scoured the streets. He saw dozens
of silver VW Golfs, but none of their number plates came close to being a
match. As the hands of time ticked mercilessly towards the four day mark, his
searching became ever more frantic. One time, after glimpsing a silver car in
his rearview mirror, he did a high-speed U-turn and gave chase. A mile or so
later, leaving a trail of blaring horns in his wake, he caught up with the car
only to find it wasn’t even a VW.
There was little new to
be heard on the news. For some undisclosed reason, a pond was dragged, but
turned up nothing. William Jones was released without charge. The police issued
warnings that vigilantism wouldn’t be tolerated. They also put up a ten
thousand pound reward for information that would lead them to Ethan. Their
search was building to a fever-pitch too – over a third of the regional force’s
manpower was now involved. An army of volunteers wallpapered the city with
Ethan’s face and handed out reams of leaflets. Susan Reed spoke to dozens of
journalists, making a series of increasingly desperate appeals. But answers
seemed non-existent and fear swelled like waves of fire, ready to consume the
city. Parents kept their children indoors. Home security companies couldn’t
keep up with demand. Police were inundated with reports of suspected prowlers.
On the evening of the
third day, Garrett gave another press conference at which he admitted that the
police had few clues to go on and called on people not to lose hope. Don’t lose
hope! In the past, Harlan had spoken those same words to the families of
missing and kidnapped persons, and they’d rung as hollow on his lips as they
did on Garrett’s. He glanced at the clock. Half-past seven. There were
approximately eight or nine hours of hope left. After that, anyone who knew
anything about child abductions knew that Ethan would almost certainly be dead.
Time wore on. Ten PM,
eleven…one AM, two… Harlan didn’t stop for food, didn’t stop for red lights,
barely stopped to breathe, until the clock hit four AM. Then he pulled over and
sat for a long moment with his head pressed against the steering-wheel, eyes
closed. “It’s over,” he murmured to himself, and he turned the car to head back
to his flat.
Harlan dropped like a
stone onto his bed, but despite his exhaustion it took him hours to get to
sleep. And when he did eventually manage to drop off, his sleep was one long
sweaty nightmare in which he was chasing a silver VW Golf through the city. A
child’s terrified face was pressed against the car’s rear windscreen, but that
child wasn’t Ethan it was Thomas. On and on the chase went, but Harlan never
got any closer to the car. He awoke choking on tears of frustration and rage.
“It’s not fucking over!” he gasped, shaking his head. With or without hope, he
had to continue searching.
Harlan yanked on his
clothes and checked the news to see if there’d been
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