Hard Fall: A gripping, noir detective thriller (Thomas Blume series of Hard-Boiled Mysteries, Book 1) (6 page)

I was about switch the library computer off when one last result caught my eye. My search had thrown up one final news story, this one from only a few days ago. It was unrelated to Ellington but the similarities were troubling enough to grab my attention. A missing schoolboy named Charlie Haines, about the same age, had disappeared right after band practice. This time from a suburb 20 miles outside of London. Hell, the kid even
looked
like Jack Ellington.

Could there be a connection?

***

I nearly stopped at Amir’s for lunch to fill him in on how I had decided to dig into the Ellington case. But I had things to do, people to see. Namely a man by the name of Henry Atkinson, the former police chief who had been in charge of Jack Ellington’s investigation all those years ago.

Atkinson’s record was more polished than a conflict diamond. After a tough childhood in the North of England, raised by a foster family after his parents died in a car accident, he’d gone on to an exemplary career in the Metropolitan Police. Moving from beat cop to Detective in record time, then on to Head of the Major Crimes Unit, receiving a string of awards and a New Year’s honor along the way.

One of the trophies he’d picked up was also apparently a nice fat pension. His house was large and expensive looking. The kind of place that had a gardener and maybe housekeeper; people to cover up the dirt.

Located 40 minutes away in a high-scale Hampton neighborhood where all the houses had manicured lawns, Atkinson’s place was situated neatly in the center of an idyllic row of similar houses, its siding sparkling clean and its grass immaculate.

I parked on the edge of the street, got out and threw my jacket over my head, quickly dashing to the large porch to escape the increasing strength of the rain.

I knocked on the front door, taking in the quaint digs. A few blossoming potted plants lined the porch. A porch swing hung from the rafters at the end, like something from the cover of a cheesy college poetry magazine.

I knocked again and had to wait another twenty seconds before the door was answered. A man who looked to be in his seventies looked out at me through a partially opened door. His close-cropped beard was white, and what little hair he had remaining on his head was the same shade, trimmed in a short no-nonsense style.

“Who are you?” Atkinson snapped, skipping pleasantries altogether.

“Are you Henry Atkinson?” I asked.

“Maybe. Again…who are
you?”
His accent had a hint of somewhere up north.

“My name is Thomas Blume. I’m a…” I faltered. After all, what
was
I? “I’m a private investigator who has been hired by Elizabeth Ellington to do some digging into her son’s disappearance.” The lie came far too easily, and I wondered if it would potentially get me in some legal trouble further down the line. 

I’d worry about that later, though. Currently, Atkinson was opening his door wider. “I guess you hoped I could help with some answers?” he asked.

“I was hoping, yes.”

He eyed me cautiously for a few seconds as if sizing me up, and for a moment I thought he would slam the door in my face. “We’ll see,” he said to my surprise, opening the door all the way. “That ship sailed a while ago, but I remember most of it. Come on in, Mr. Blume.”

“Thanks.”

I stepped into the house and was immediately impressed. Atkinson had done quite well for himself. The place was moderately decorated in a way that made it clear that the ex-cop was single or perhaps divorced and shopped for himself. Still, it was a grand house with rich oak floorboards and high ceilings making any visitor feel small. Awards and certificates dotted the walls while antique furniture gave the space an air of gravitas.

He led me into a small den where a large coffee table, standing between two sofas, supported several books about the military. I looked around the room, my investigators instincts kicking in as I tried to learn as much about Atkinson as I could. I skirted the edge of the mantle as I walked around one of the couches, eyeing the various trinkets and photos on display there.

“Is this your boy?” I asked in my friendliest, most casual voice. I pointed to the photo I was talking about: Atkinson—a couple of decades younger—with his arm around a young man of about thirteen or fourteen standing at the edge of a Scottish moor.

“Never had kids,” Atkinson shook his head impatiently. “That’s my nephew.”
So much for my powers of deduction.

He plopped his large body into a recliner. “What can I help you with, Mr. Blume? This is one of those cases that I had a feeling about…knew it would keep cropping up.”

I opted to remain standing, until I knew the man better. “Well, as I said, Mrs. Ellington just wants to dig a little deeper. I’m new in town — an American, from New York — and I guess she just thought a fresh set of eyes could help.”

You’re far too good at lying, Blume,
I thought.

“What have you uncovered so far?” he asked me.

I walked him through my research of the last few days, hoping that he would not notice how absent Elizabeth Ellington was from the picture. I told him about my timeline and the suspects I had. I then came to the one scenario I had come up with that I had not yet seen covered elsewhere. It was good to vocalize it. It made it easier for me to see if there were any holes in my theory. I found out, as I spoke to Atkinson, that there were a few, but none were big enough to swallow the case.

“Stephen Harlowe,” I said, as if it summed everything up. I mostly said it to see what Atkinson’s reaction would be.

“Jack Ellington’s teacher,” Atkinson said, leaning back arms crossed. “What about him?”

“I think he’s the one. If he
didn’t
take Jack, I think he probably has a damn good idea who did.”

“Under what suspicion?”

“Well, there was the bus driver who said —,”

“That would the same bus driver who stated quite clearly that Jack never rode the bus, correct?” Atkinson interrupted.

“Yes. But I looked beyond that,” I said, curtly. “Because the bus driver went on to say that he saw Jack every single day after school. Sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. He was usually alone on the days he had soccer practice…which he did on the day he went missing. But he never made it to practice. So no practice, and the bus driver didn’t see him. He specifically remembered
not
seeing him on that day after school.”

“Why specifically?” Atkinson pressed. I figured you could take the cop out of the uniform but between us we both had an instinct to interrogate.

“The bus driver had made some sort of comment about the shirt that Jack had been wearing. A band the driver liked – The Who, I believe.”

“Good work, Mr. Blume. I don’t recall ever uncovering that. Case solved.”

I shrugged, trying to tell if the old chief was being sarcastic or good-natured. “Anyway, every student in Jack’s class saw him all day long, right up until the final bell. That leaves about three minutes between filing out of class, hitting the street, and passing the bus. Harlowe was the only person of note that would have had access to Jack.”

“Circumstantial at best. Anyone could have seen the boy between then,” Atkinson said.

“That’s the one X-factor,” I said. “That’s why Harlowe was eventually dropped as a suspect. Too many
what-ifs
and not enough evidence.”

Atkinson nodded and then seemed to consider something. “Would you like something to drink, Mr. Blume?” he asked, reaching for a decanter of amber colored liquor.

“No, thanks,” I said, surprised at the answer.

“Well, I ask only because I feel that the conversation is over,” Atkinson said. “And I’d hate to think that you drove all the way out here for nothing more than my worthless pat on the back.”

“What do you mean?”

“The thing with the shirt might be a new discovery,” Atkinson said. “But ultimately, it’s nothing. Like the case itself. It’s too cold…dead and long gone. I fear I can’t really help you. But I will certainly make myself available for any questions you have. Next time, maybe call before driving all the way out here.” Atkinson rose from the creaky chair, signaling the end of this round.

He sounded almost sympathetic as he stiffly made his way to the hallway that would then lead me out of den and back towards the door. “You sure about that drink?” he asked.

“I’m sure,” I said, getting up. “Thank you very much for your time.” And with that, I left as quickly as I could, before I could change my mind.

It was time to visit the woman behind all this.

SEVEN

Empty memories.

Elizabeth Ellington’s house looked nicer in the daylight, but not by much. When I had passed by during the night, I had missed its design. The neighborhood she lived in was not nearly as upscale as the one Henry Atkinson called home, but it was respectable. The houses were nice, but the lawns didn’t look like something out of a magazine, and there were toys spread here and there where careless children had forgotten to pick up after themselves.

I drove up to the curb alongside Elizabeth’s large front yard, throwing my car into park. I had no way of knowing for sure if she was in, instead I was hoping that Amir’s description of her was accurate. If she only went out at night, surely she must be home.

I dashed through the drizzle up to the entrance and saw that the porch was about fifteen feet high. I could only imagine what the inside looked like... Not as glamorous at Atkinson’s, but still…

It must be lonely and depressing,
I thought,
to be in such a large home with no company other than memories of your family.

It almost made me feel bad for ringing her doorbell. I heard it sounding out from the other side of the door, a choral chime that seemed to echo forever. I waited a minute and then rang again. After the second ring, I thought I heard the faintest movements somewhere in the house.

I then remembered that this was a woman who was obviously filled with remorse and fear. After all, she’d tried to visit me three different times only to change her mind in the end. With a heavy sigh, I leaned against her door and started speaking in a loud and non-threatening voice. I felt silly doing it, but it was necessary given the situation.

“Mrs. Ellington, my name is Thomas Blume. I believe you have been trying to get up the nerve to speak to me. And I think I might also know why.” My voice bounced around the large porch, coming back to me like the echoes of a ghost. “I just want you to know that I am aware of what happened, and I think I might be of some use to you if you are indeed seeking answers. I am safe and reliable and…well, I just want to help if I can.”

I stepped away from the door and nearly headed to my car.
To hell with it,
I thought and instead took a seat on the first step of her porch just under the shelter.
I stared out at the lush grass through the moist haze, while a steady trickle of water sounded somewhere to my right as a broken gutter cascaded rainfall down onto the driveway.
I sat for a few minutes lost in my thoughts.

As it turned out, I didn’t have to wait long. I heard the door open behind me. I turned and saw the pallid face of a woman peering out, the edges of her face framed by curled blonde hair.

“Mr. Blume?” she asked. Her voice was strained and uncertain. It was evident that she didn’t speak to many people.

“Yes,” I said, not yet standing because I didn’t want to frighten her.

“You’re right,” she said. “I did want to speak with you. I saw an ad for your services in the paper, and I thought perhaps you could help somehow.”