“I always felt that way,” she said, “but I was too distraught. Near the end of it all, I almost didn’t care that they never arrested anyone. I just wanted the ordeal over. I wanted my son’s name out of the papers and for the fucking reporters to leave me alone.” She took a slight breath, as if she surprised herself with the expletive.

“I’ll be discreet,” I said. “You won’t see the press crawling over this again. It stays very quiet. You have my word.”

“Thank you,” she said. She then looked to the front door and then back to me. “Would you like to come in for some tea? I’ll tell you all of my thoughts on the case and you can let me know what you’ve learned.”

“Coffee would be great,” I said.

With that, she escorted me into her house, and I felt myself walking deeper into a case that was already beginning to tug at my mind in a way I hadn’t felt in months.

***

The visit was helpful enough. I stayed at Elizabeth’s house for about two hours. We compared notes, and I had to watch her cry several times as she spoke about her son. In listening to her, I discovered that we were connected in a very morbid way. I knew what loss was like, especially when it came to losing a child.

Somewhere on my second cup of coffee, I decided that I was going to get to the bottom of this.  I would crack this case if for no other reason than to give Elizabeth Ellington her life back.

Weirdly enough, it was this thought that was on my mind the following morning. I woke up in the office, well-rested for the first time in a very long time. I had gotten a solid seven hours of sleep, and I hit the day wide open.

I’d need that jolt of energy and enthusiasm today of all days. I had decided that I would go direct to the source and visit Stephen Harlowe.

Harlowe lived only a few blocks away from my apartment, in a very nice set-up that was reserved for the more well-to-do people of my neighborhood. The narrow townhouses in this part of Hackney stretched to the end of the street, all sporting muted hanging baskets that would blossom come summer. Low doorways and tight alleyways suggested the buildings were hundreds of years old and had been regenerated as part of some expensive residential project. All in all it was a pricey and trendy place to live.

I was fortunate to catch Harlowe just before he was heading out to set up a round of auditions for a new play he was directing.

I spotted him easily enough. He looked almost identical to the newspaper photographs I had seen. He had aged a bit, but not much. He was a handsome man in a prim sort of way who looked very surprised to have to interact with someone that was interested in Jack Ellington’s disappearance.

When I intercepted Harlowe on the sidewalk he had a messenger bag slung over his shoulder and was dressed to impress with a pair of designer eyeglasses that looked pretentious. He also seemed to be one of those snobby types who liked to look down on those who didn’t read Yeats or Faulkner. I was suspicious from the first moment I spoke to him.

“I appreciate your enthusiasm,” he said, staring incredulously at me as he tried to get around me and to his car. “But my story has not changed. Nor will it ever. I have said all I needed to say about that unfortunate day.”

“Let’s say I’m new to the case,” I said. “Give me the condensed version.”

“Who are you, anyway?” he asked.

I gave him the spiel I had been giving everyone since picking this up. I almost started believing it myself.

He rolled his eyes with irritation.

“Look,” he said, taking on a tone that I’m sure might have startled some of the kids he used to teach.  I had a headache developing so it did nothing more to me than make me want to punch him in the mouth.

“Henry Atkinson tried pinning this on me when the whole sordid affair originally occurred. And yes, I was cleared of all charges but it didn’t matter. As a result of getting mixed up in it, I lost my job, my name was dragged through the newspapers, and my life was effectively ruined. I don’t know what the hell you people are looking for — maybe some new clue buried under a rock you bulldozed in the first investigation — but you won’t find it here! Jack Ellington left my classroom in a decent mood that day. I remember because he was giggling with his friends as he left. Laughing. He left my room without a scratch on his head.”

Yes, he was pissing me off. But the hell of it was that as I watched his face, I became sure of something. Something only a cop could be sure of: he hadn’t been involved. It was more than just a gut reaction. I could see it in his face, in his expressions.

Stephen Harlowe was innocent. I was back to square one without a primary suspect. Just like the cops who took on the case before me. My mind wandered toward thoughts of a drink, and I had to snap it back into focus. I needed a different angle on all this and one man was going to provide it.

EIGHT

We all have our demons.

After some checking and double-checking, I was able to find the name of the bus driver. Billy Bennett, now out of work and taking up a lot of time and real estate in the seedier pubs of Whitechapel.

I found him easily enough, as he had something of a reputation for staking his claim at one pub in particular on Thursday afternoons after he collected his disability money. When I stepped into the place through the low doorway, it felt like I was returning home. I’d been in several places like this over the last few months, and they started to feel familiar. Cheap drinks, sticky floors, and darkened shadows that made you feel lost and safe at the same time.

My target was big. No other way to describe him. He sat hunched at the bar, stabbing at a mobile phone and mumbling in frustration. His large frame, squashed face, and bald head giving him a hostile air. He looked like you’d expect a bus driver to look after a few too many road accidents. He was overweight, fidgety, and always looked at people as if he was wondering how much cash they had in their pockets or what they might look like naked.

“Billy Bennett?” I asked, slowly taking up the seat next to him. As I did, I signaled the bartender down, indicating that I wanted a drink. It was a slip-up, plain and simple. It was like muscle reflex. I was in a bar. I should drink. It was basic.

“I am,” Billy said, not bothering to turn all the way around. He looked at me from the corner of his eye. “Who wants to know?” His voice was slow and stumbling. I wondered if it was from the booze or some prior head trauma. Looking at the guy, I decided both were likely.

“A concerned citizen,” I said sarcastically. The bartender sat my drink down in front of me, and I sipped from it automatically. God, it tasted great.

“Concerned about what?” Billy asked, finally looking away from his phone and turning his attention to me. As he faced me, a sense of familiarity struck me hard. Suddenly I was sure that I had met this man before. I knew him from somewhere…

His eyes seemed distant and unfocused though; if we had met before, he certainly didn’t remember, so I decided to keep my mouth shut. I continued talking to him as I tried to place where I knew him from. “You once drove a bus for the city schools, is that correct?” I asked.

Billy cut his eyes at me and took a gulp of his beer. I did the same. It went down smooth. The smoke inside was both desperate and yearning all at once as I tried to ignore the familiar buzz.

“Why do you ask?” he said after a small belch. His breath told me that he had been drinking for at least a few hours. He wasn’t being belligerent, just cautious. I didn’t fault him for that. So I tried to ease into things as easily as I could with the next comment.

“I also understand that you retired from your job less than one year after Jack Ellington went missing. Can you —”