was a solemn hush over the
gathering and, indeed, over the surrounding streets, as if the whole city held
its breath in silent prayer.
Harlan parked on the
road. He was about to get out of the car when he saw Susan flanked by Neil and
the preacher – a vigorous looking middle-aged man with a bushy head of
grey-black hair. It hurt Harlan like a knife to see Susan, her face devoid of
colour, her eyes devoid of expression, like something dead but alive. Walking
slowly, like an old woman crippled with arthritis, she headed into the church.
Harlan left the car and made his way around the car park, checking number
plates. His heart gave a double thump when he saw the silver VW Golf with
tinted windows. His eyes darted down to the number plate. KY09 SGE. An exact
match! But why the hell, he wondered, would the kidnapper – if that was who the
car belonged to – risk coming here? Several possibilities occurred to him.
Maybe the kidnapper was somehow connected to the church, and it would look odd
for him not to be here. Or maybe he was someone from the local community who
was trying to distance himself from the crime by staying close to it – there
were plenty of cases where murderers had gotten involved in the search for
their victims. Or maybe he was simply the kind of guy who got a kick out of
seeing first-hand the pain he’d inflicted.
Harlan snatched out his
phone to call Jim. The dial tone rang and rang. He pressed his forehead to the
car’s rear-window, cupping his hand against the glass to cut out the reflection
of the streetlamps. He could vaguely make out some kind of shape on the
backseat, a rucksack perhaps, or possibly a bin liner stuffed with something.
It crossed his mind that maybe this sick fuck was crazy or arrogant enough to
bring Ethan – or rather, Ethan’s body – here. Maybe it gave him some kind of
twisted thrill. Whatever it was in there, Harlan felt compelled to get a proper
look. He ran to fetch the wheel-nut wrench from his car. As he returned to the
VW, Jim finally answered. “Jesus, Harlan, what do you want?”
“I found the silver
Volkswagen.”
“Holy Christ! Where?”
“The Baptist tabernacle
on the Attercliffe Road.”
“Stay where you are.
Someone will be there as soon as possible. And for God’s sake, don’t do
anything. Do you hear?”
“Uh-huh.”
Harlan hung up and
raised the nut wrench overhead to smash a passenger-door window. Before he
could do so an angry shout rang out, “Hey you! What the fuck you doing?”
A heavily built man
dressed in jeans and a leather jacket was approaching fast. He was about
Harlan’s height and age, but his close-cropped hair was ginger, not dark.
His hands were up
in a fighting position, and Harlan noticed that the backs of them and his
wrists were greenish-black with spidery jailhouse tattoos – tattoos which in a
semi-dark room to a terrified twelve-year old’s eyes might conceivably be
mistaken for hair. One look at the man’s face told him there was going to be
serious trouble if he didn’t act fast. He shoved the wrench in his jacket
pocket. “Police. Is this your car?”
The man stopped a few
feet away from Harlan, uncertainty puckering his forehead. He took in Harlan’s
unkempt hair and creased clothes. “You’re police? Let’s see your ID.”
“Is this your car?”
Harlan repeated more forcefully. The key to these situations, he knew from
experience, was to take control, and to do so quickly with a calm
aggressiveness.
“You’re not police. You
look like a fuckin’ scag-head to me.”
“Sir, this vehicle is
suspected to have been used in a crime. I need you to accompany me to the station
for questioning.”
The lines of doubt on
the man’s face deepened at Harlan’s official sounding language. For an instant,
he looked as if he was going to accept Harlan’s claim to be a police officer,
but then the pinpricks of his pupils flared. “Either you show me some fuckin’
ID, pal, or I’m gonna fuck you up so
gathering and, indeed, over the surrounding streets, as if the whole city held
its breath in silent prayer.
Harlan parked on the
road. He was about to get out of the car when he saw Susan flanked by Neil and
the preacher – a vigorous looking middle-aged man with a bushy head of
grey-black hair. It hurt Harlan like a knife to see Susan, her face devoid of
colour, her eyes devoid of expression, like something dead but alive. Walking
slowly, like an old woman crippled with arthritis, she headed into the church.
Harlan left the car and made his way around the car park, checking number
plates. His heart gave a double thump when he saw the silver VW Golf with
tinted windows. His eyes darted down to the number plate. KY09 SGE. An exact
match! But why the hell, he wondered, would the kidnapper – if that was who the
car belonged to – risk coming here? Several possibilities occurred to him.
Maybe the kidnapper was somehow connected to the church, and it would look odd
for him not to be here. Or maybe he was someone from the local community who
was trying to distance himself from the crime by staying close to it – there
were plenty of cases where murderers had gotten involved in the search for
their victims. Or maybe he was simply the kind of guy who got a kick out of
seeing first-hand the pain he’d inflicted.
Harlan snatched out his
phone to call Jim. The dial tone rang and rang. He pressed his forehead to the
car’s rear-window, cupping his hand against the glass to cut out the reflection
of the streetlamps. He could vaguely make out some kind of shape on the
backseat, a rucksack perhaps, or possibly a bin liner stuffed with something.
It crossed his mind that maybe this sick fuck was crazy or arrogant enough to
bring Ethan – or rather, Ethan’s body – here. Maybe it gave him some kind of
twisted thrill. Whatever it was in there, Harlan felt compelled to get a proper
look. He ran to fetch the wheel-nut wrench from his car. As he returned to the
VW, Jim finally answered. “Jesus, Harlan, what do you want?”
“I found the silver
Volkswagen.”
“Holy Christ! Where?”
“The Baptist tabernacle
on the Attercliffe Road.”
“Stay where you are.
Someone will be there as soon as possible. And for God’s sake, don’t do
anything. Do you hear?”
“Uh-huh.”
Harlan hung up and
raised the nut wrench overhead to smash a passenger-door window. Before he
could do so an angry shout rang out, “Hey you! What the fuck you doing?”
A heavily built man
dressed in jeans and a leather jacket was approaching fast. He was about
Harlan’s height and age, but his close-cropped hair was ginger, not dark.
His hands were up
in a fighting position, and Harlan noticed that the backs of them and his
wrists were greenish-black with spidery jailhouse tattoos – tattoos which in a
semi-dark room to a terrified twelve-year old’s eyes might conceivably be
mistaken for hair. One look at the man’s face told him there was going to be
serious trouble if he didn’t act fast. He shoved the wrench in his jacket
pocket. “Police. Is this your car?”
The man stopped a few
feet away from Harlan, uncertainty puckering his forehead. He took in Harlan’s
unkempt hair and creased clothes. “You’re police? Let’s see your ID.”
“Is this your car?”
Harlan repeated more forcefully. The key to these situations, he knew from
experience, was to take control, and to do so quickly with a calm
aggressiveness.
“You’re not police. You
look like a fuckin’ scag-head to me.”
“Sir, this vehicle is
suspected to have been used in a crime. I need you to accompany me to the station
for questioning.”
The lines of doubt on
the man’s face deepened at Harlan’s official sounding language. For an instant,
he looked as if he was going to accept Harlan’s claim to be a police officer,
but then the pinpricks of his pupils flared. “Either you show me some fuckin’
ID, pal, or I’m gonna fuck you up so
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