He had always been looking for a suitable disciple and now, perhaps, he might find one.

He’d almost forgotten. There was one more thing to be done. An email to Cynthia Ross. He created an untraceable email address, and sent her the same details regarding Carl Reckard. He was looking forward to seeing whether her curiosity would be rewarded. He sincerely hoped so.

52

‘So what have we got?’ asked Harper.

‘I’ve got the report on Ryan’s death,’ said Lansing. ‘According to this, he drove his pick-up over the edge of the cliffs near Moreno Valley and Banning. Fell down into the badlands below. Must have gone up like a fireball as the body was burnt beyond recognition.’

‘Were there any witnesses?’

Lansing scrolled down the screen of his computer.

‘No, doesn’t seem like it,’ he said. ‘Oh – just a couple of 911 calls from local residents who said they heard an explosion or saw smoke.’

‘So there was no-one who actually saw Ryan get in that car and drive over the edge?’

‘No, no there wasn’t.’

‘And what about reports of men missing.’

‘I’m sending you the list of names now based on data from the North American Missing Persons Network,’ said Lansing. ‘I presume you want national and not just state?’

‘Yeah, the whole lot, if you can.’

Harper opened the file on his computer. First of all he scrolled through the names of men who had reported missing between April and June of 2004. There was Robert Monroe Collins, missing since April 4 from Temphis, Tennessee. There was David Milton Crawley III missing since April 5 from Marianna, Florida. Robert C. Heissenberger missing since April 8 from Las Vegas, Nevada. Randy Garcia, missing since April 11 from Salt Lake City, Utah. And so the list went on. A record of absences. A litany of erased lives.

Harper examined each of the files, scanning the biographies for anything that would link them to either Robert or Ryan Gleason. Nothing. Then he checked the July to September file. There was Vernon Bernard Whicker, missing since July 1 from Bakesfield, California. Rodney Allen McIntyre, missing since July 3 from Jacksonville Beach, Florida. Christopher Hansen missing since July 4 from Martin, Allegan County, Michigan. Each of the vanished had a story to tell – family problems such as violence or sexual molestation, mental health issues, drugs and alcohol abuse, terminal illness. He knew that the majority of the missing were probably already dead. But without a body to grieve over many families were left in a state of not knowing, a limbo that ate away at the soul.

He tried to think himself into the mindset of a man who wanted to disappear. What would he do? The most obvious thing would be to fake his own death. Ryan Gleason could have set the whole thing up. Taken his truck up to the deserted stretch of road and set fire to it before driving it over the cliff. But if the body found in the car was not Ryan’s then whose was it? Ryan could have taken over the identity of any one of the hundreds of men who are reported missing each year. But which one?

He sent an email to Lansing, Curtis, and Holt asking them to divide the list between them. There was no other option than simple, old-fashioned detective work. Sure, it was plodding, it was boring. Sometimes it didn’t even offer up any clues whatsoever. It was one of those aspects of his job that hadn’t yet been taken over by the technical department. There was no computer program that could do this.

A split second later he got a call from Holt.

‘You mean we’ve got to ring every single family member and interview them?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘But that could take weeks - months even.’

‘I know, and I’m sorry. And I’m going to work on a section of the list myself. If we all share the burden it shouldn’t take that long.’

‘But –‘

And he thought that Helen wanted to keep herself busy.

‘No buts – it’s the only way. The only thing we’ve got to go on.’

‘But what if we draw a blank?’

‘Then we draw a blank – and move on to the next thing.’

‘Which is?’

‘Holt,’ he snapped. ‘Just get on with your job.’ Immediately he felt guilty and so softened his voice. ‘Have you managed to get hold of Roberta Gleason?’

‘She’s here and ready for questioning.’

‘Great. I’ll go and talk to her now.’

Harper’s phone rang. It was from the duty desk downstairs. They had just taken a call from a Paul Taylor – the boyfriend of Alison Lowrie, the girl whose fingertips had been cut off and sent to Cassie Veringer - who had wanted to speak to Harper.

‘What about?’ he asked.

‘Something relating to the investigation into the murder of Alison Lowrie.’

‘Did he leave a number?’

‘Yeah, a cell – 619 312 8876.’

‘Thanks,’ he said, cutting the line and immediately dialling again.

‘Hello?’ The voice was soft, sad.

Harper put the call on loud speaker so his team could hear.

‘Hello – it’s Detective Josh Harper here. I believe you rang and left a message for me today. You said you had something relating to the murder of Alison Lowrie?’

Taylor cleared his throat, as if he were trying to choke back tears.

‘Yeah – I’ve received a letter. Thought it was a prank at first, y’know. But –‘

‘What does the letter say?’

‘It – it gives the name of Alison’s killer. The sender – it was signed from a well-wisher – wanted me to enact some sort of revenge. God it was tempting – he even gave me an address and photograph – but, I just thought –‘

‘Do you have the letter in front of you?’

‘Yes, yes sir, I do.’

‘Can you give me name and any other relevant details.’

‘Sure – but you don’t think it’s some kind of hoax?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Okay,’ he said, clearing his throat once more. ‘It says the name of Alison’s killer was – was Carl Reckard, and his address is 20941 Itasca St, Chatsworth, 91311, LA.. It describes him being 36 years old, with thinning, dark hair and –‘