any developments – there
was one, the identity of Susan Reed’s companion had finally come out. His name
was Neil Price. He was thirty-one years old and worked as a night-porter at the
Northern General Hospital – which explained his airtight alibi. He was referred
to as ‘Mrs Reed’s media-shy boyfriend’. The way the news reader said it, as if
there was something intrinsically dubious in being media-shy, made Harlan’s
toast stick in his craw. There was no suggestion that Price was under any kind
of official suspicion, but a criminologist in the studio insidiously invited
viewers to regard him with narrowed eyes by describing the classic profile of a
potential abductor – white male, early thirties, unskilled worker. Harlan found
himself wanting to speak up in Price’s defence – not because he thought there
was no possibility the guy was involved, but because he despised the media’s
tactics. He’d seen too many lives indelibly marked by shit-flinging
journalists.
Over the next few days,
Harlan spent every waking moment searching for Ethan. He trawled the suburbs,
peering over fences and into garages. He drove around supermarket car parks,
and multi-storey car parks, and industrial estate car parks, constantly moving,
constantly looking.
Nothing. It was as
though the VW didn’t exist. Harlan began to wonder whether the milkman had got
the car’s make wrong. If so, he might as well be out hunting for a ghost.
Whenever he returned to the flat, bone-weary though he was, he lay awake with
doubts swirling inside him.
Days stretched into
weeks. Harlan hardly slept, ate or washed. Telephone calls from his parole
officer – he’d failed to report for a meeting – went unanswered. Mail piled up
unopened. He was searching further and further afield. Villages and towns he’d
never been to before. Sometimes he didn’t return home for days. He stayed in
cheap hotels and B&Bs, and when he ran low on cash, he slept in his car.
With every passing day,
the media and the public’s interest in the case waned. News reports got shorter
and less frequent. Newspaper articles were relegated from the front pages.
Volunteers pasting up posters and handing out leaflets disappeared from the
streets. Ethan’s sun-and-rain faded face was gradually blotted out by
fly-posters, defaced by graffiti, even torn down – some people, it seemed,
objected to being constantly reminded that something so terrible had happened
in the place they lived.
There was no longer a
plainclothes on Harlan’s tail wherever he went. The police’s search – at least
on a street level – was winding down. In the Northwest, whatever leads they’d
been following had apparently led to nothing. Locally, they’d searched hundreds
of addresses, spoken to thousands of people, pried into every corner of Ethan
and his family’s life, but all their efforts had failed. The jigsaw remained
incomplete.
Exactly a month after
Ethan’s abduction a local Baptist preacher named Lewis Gunn whipped up interest
in the case by appearing on the news to urge church members nationwide to
continue the search. He announced that an all-night prayer vigil was to be held
at tabernacles across the city at which he would be collecting donations for a
reward fund. Harlan had previously stayed away from all such gatherings, partly
out of fear of being recognised, but mainly because he knew Garrett would use
his presence as an excuse to haul him in for further questioning, maybe even
try to get his parole revoked. But now that he was no longer being followed he
saw no reason not to go along. And there was little chance of him being
recognised – he barely recognised himself with several weeks’ growth of beard
on his sleep and food deprived face.
Harlan went first to
Lewis Gunn’s tabernacle – an ugly brick building with a huge concrete crucifix
over its entrance. Its car park was crammed with cars. People, many of whom
held lighted candles, were filing inside it. There
was one, the identity of Susan Reed’s companion had finally come out. His name
was Neil Price. He was thirty-one years old and worked as a night-porter at the
Northern General Hospital – which explained his airtight alibi. He was referred
to as ‘Mrs Reed’s media-shy boyfriend’. The way the news reader said it, as if
there was something intrinsically dubious in being media-shy, made Harlan’s
toast stick in his craw. There was no suggestion that Price was under any kind
of official suspicion, but a criminologist in the studio insidiously invited
viewers to regard him with narrowed eyes by describing the classic profile of a
potential abductor – white male, early thirties, unskilled worker. Harlan found
himself wanting to speak up in Price’s defence – not because he thought there
was no possibility the guy was involved, but because he despised the media’s
tactics. He’d seen too many lives indelibly marked by shit-flinging
journalists.
Over the next few days,
Harlan spent every waking moment searching for Ethan. He trawled the suburbs,
peering over fences and into garages. He drove around supermarket car parks,
and multi-storey car parks, and industrial estate car parks, constantly moving,
constantly looking.
Nothing. It was as
though the VW didn’t exist. Harlan began to wonder whether the milkman had got
the car’s make wrong. If so, he might as well be out hunting for a ghost.
Whenever he returned to the flat, bone-weary though he was, he lay awake with
doubts swirling inside him.
Days stretched into
weeks. Harlan hardly slept, ate or washed. Telephone calls from his parole
officer – he’d failed to report for a meeting – went unanswered. Mail piled up
unopened. He was searching further and further afield. Villages and towns he’d
never been to before. Sometimes he didn’t return home for days. He stayed in
cheap hotels and B&Bs, and when he ran low on cash, he slept in his car.
With every passing day,
the media and the public’s interest in the case waned. News reports got shorter
and less frequent. Newspaper articles were relegated from the front pages.
Volunteers pasting up posters and handing out leaflets disappeared from the
streets. Ethan’s sun-and-rain faded face was gradually blotted out by
fly-posters, defaced by graffiti, even torn down – some people, it seemed,
objected to being constantly reminded that something so terrible had happened
in the place they lived.
There was no longer a
plainclothes on Harlan’s tail wherever he went. The police’s search – at least
on a street level – was winding down. In the Northwest, whatever leads they’d
been following had apparently led to nothing. Locally, they’d searched hundreds
of addresses, spoken to thousands of people, pried into every corner of Ethan
and his family’s life, but all their efforts had failed. The jigsaw remained
incomplete.
Exactly a month after
Ethan’s abduction a local Baptist preacher named Lewis Gunn whipped up interest
in the case by appearing on the news to urge church members nationwide to
continue the search. He announced that an all-night prayer vigil was to be held
at tabernacles across the city at which he would be collecting donations for a
reward fund. Harlan had previously stayed away from all such gatherings, partly
out of fear of being recognised, but mainly because he knew Garrett would use
his presence as an excuse to haul him in for further questioning, maybe even
try to get his parole revoked. But now that he was no longer being followed he
saw no reason not to go along. And there was little chance of him being
recognised – he barely recognised himself with several weeks’ growth of beard
on his sleep and food deprived face.
Harlan went first to
Lewis Gunn’s tabernacle – an ugly brick building with a huge concrete crucifix
over its entrance. Its car park was crammed with cars. People, many of whom
held lighted candles, were filing inside it. There
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