Hard Fall: A gripping, noir detective thriller (Thomas Blume series of Hard-Boiled Mysteries, Book 1) (9 page)

I bounded up his porch and knocked on the door with much more authority than I had showed upon my first visit. I didn’t let the austere nature of the house or the fact that Atkinson had a stellar record interfere with my thought process. It was going to be all business this time.

He answered the door still dressed in his pajamas. It was just after nine in the morning, and I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt so motivated at such an early hour.

“I had asked you to call if you needed anything else,” he growled through the door.

“I know. But I had one more thing I needed to ask. Just to check up on. And I had to head out this way anyhow.”

His facial expression told me that he was skeptical about this. He was pretty sure I was lying, but he slowly opened the door anyway. I walked in, thanked him, and watched him shut the door behind us. I had no illusions that this man would get physical with me, and even as old as he was, with his training he could still do some damage.

I found myself wishing I still had my Glock but I couldn’t have risked trying to bring my old service pistol to London. This country hated guns almost as much as it hated personal privacy.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Blume?” Atkinson asked, clearly irritated. He stood firmly by the door, making it clear that I would not be invited further into his home.

“I need a reference for a job application,” I quipped. “I heard you hand them out to just about anyone that asks.”

“Huh?” he asked, trying to sound as if he didn’t know what I was getting at. I could tell just by looking at him though, that he did. “What do you mean—”

I pushed past him, ignoring his shouts of protest and charging into the living room we had spoken in earlier that week. He followed close behind, grumbling at me to get out of his house. This time I didn’t bother taking a seat, but went straight for the mantle. Snatching the framed photograph that I had asked about, I shoved it in front of his face.

“You never mentioned that you knew Billy Bennet. And you certainly didn’t mention that you knew him a long time ago. Back when he was William Hudson. Your nephew?”

Atkinson looked as if he had been slapped across the face. He took a step away from me, towards the kitchen as if the photograph repulsed him. The photo is why Bennett had looked so familiar to me when I had met him in the pub the other day. The boy in the picture was perhaps twenty years younger, but looking at it again now the resemblance was undeniable.

“I’ll save you the time in trying to deny or back out of it,” I said. “I have seen the files. I have seen a job application, turned in by Billy Bennett, with your name as a reference. Nothing wrong with that, of course — ”

“That’s right,” Atkinson said quickly. “Nothing at all.”

“But I can’t help but wonder why you failed to tell me about it,” I said. “Why you, in fact, didn’t even bother to tell anyone that you knew Billy Bennett at all.”

“He was a friend. That’s all. I helped him get a job. He was having hard times.”

“And do you know why?”

Here, Atkinson seemed to go a shade of grey. “Do
you?
” he asked.

“I’ll ask the questions,” I said, trying to keep the pressure on. “Did you know about the crimes he committed under his real name?”

The look on Atkinson’s face was a clear indication that he was shocked to find that this information had come to light. Still, I had to give him credit. He didn’t even try to deny it. I had a feeling I knew the story here, so I folded my arms and waited for the inevitable train wreck.

“We hadn’t spoken in a long time when I finally heard from him, six or seven years ago. He told me what he had done…the molestation charges. I was shocked. The Billy I knew… he wasn’t capable of such a thing. I knew that wasn’t the real him. So I invested in him. I helped him get professional help.” Atkinson looked like he wanted to say more. I sensed there was something else going on here but he wasn’t going to give it up.

“And did it do any good?” I asked.

“It seemed to. I spoke to his counselor. Things were going great. So when he asked for that job reference, I was happy to do it. I thought I was helping him get his life back together.”

I let out a sick bray of shocked laughter. “I don’t care
how
good someone’s counseling is going. What the hell were you thinking when you helped a registered sex offender of children get a job driving a fucking school bus?”

“I – You have no right to take that tone with m—,”

“Stop it right there,” I said. “I know your history. I know how much of a big shot you were with the police. So I assume that if this came to light and the case was re-opened with more focus on Billy, you could get into some trouble. Am I right? If the cops start looking into Billy again, it won’t take them long to make the connection to you, will it?”

To my surprise, he stepped forward and gave me a sneer. “Get out of my house.”

“I think you owe it to Jack Ellington to—”

“I’m retired,” he said. “I don’t owe anyone anything. Now get off of my property.”

“Or what?” I asked. “You’ll call the police? Go ahead. I have some things to tell them anyway. You know another kid is missing right?”

He stared a hole through me, and I could feel the hate coming in waves. I made the decision as he stared at me to just let it ride. To hell with Atkinson. I didn’t need him to crack this case. He’d basically given me everything anyway. I just had one last place to investigate.

I shrugged and turned my back to him. I opened his door and looked out into the pouring rain. I paused and without turning back, I added: “If you did in fact have something to do with Billy…if he
is
the reason behind Jack Ellington’s disappearance —it’s not too late for you to help…to do the right thing. If not, your entire reputation, your medals and awards? All of it is built on a cheap lie.”

I fully expected a shouting match or maybe even a swift kick to help me out of the door, but I got neither. There was only the sound of distant thunder and a sense of things coming to a close as I stepped through the rain towards my car.

TEN

The storm was angry.

Billy Bennett lived on a rundown farm 25 miles from London. It had one primary exit, off a small country lane near a village called Felmont. But there was also a second road, a small dirt track that wound through the woods and eventually fed out onto a tiny lane that was 15 miles away from the nearest main road.

It was this dirt track that I took, slowly meandering down it in the pouring rain 45 minutes after leaving Atkinson’s house. On two occasions, I felt the back tires lose traction, spinning in the mud. As the farm came into view — a few flat fields and a hillside filled with corn — I saw a gate up ahead. It was simple steel gate, bolted to posts. A Master Lock hung from a chain in the center.

I hated the idea of leaving my car because I was pretty sure getting it back out of this road without getting stuck in the increasing mud would be next to impossible. But I had come this far, and if my hunch was right there was no going back.

I got out and gave myself a moment to adjust to the rain. It was at its heaviest now, a full storm cascading from above like the heavens were throwing everything they had at me in a last ditch effort. Even though it was daytime, black clouds cast shadowy swathes across the countryside and rumbles of dissention shook the air. I steadied myself, pulled up my hood, and then climbed the rain-slicked gate. I slid over the other side and looked up to the farm,
yearning for the comforting weight of a weapon.

I trudged up the rest of the road, and as I came around a slight bend, I could see Billy’s house. It sat about 50 yards from the base of the corn field. The lay of the land was not in my favor. I‘d planned on Billy not being home, but I wasn’t going to take any chances. If he was in, he’d have a very good chance of spotting me coming up the road, even through the dismal weather.

That meant that I’d have to head into the woods and sneak up on the eastern edge of the property. I left the road and started walking into the bare forest. Sickly trees all around gave me some cover from the rain, but not much. I wondered if it had been an orchard in another lifetime. My shoes were already plastered in mud and dead leaves, and I could feel the weight of it with every step I took.

The ground started to drop as I neared the edge of the property. The place was ramshackle and looked more like a junkyard than a farm as I got closer to the house. I could see a shed several yards away from Billy’s house. There were also two broken-down trucks and an ancient, long-faded tractor. I headed for the shed, planning to use it for cover as I snuck up on his house.

With my eyes on the buildings, I misjudged the lay of the land.

“Shit!”

My foot suddenly slipped, and before I knew it, my ankle was on fire, and I was on the ground, sliding quickly. I tried to correct myself, reaching out for a nearby tree, but that only resulted in causing me to tumble. I felt mud slide down my back, and my right leg was momentarily pinned beneath me.

I came to a stop at the base of a small hill, breathing heavily. Waiting for the shock of what had just happened to pass, I managed to get to my feet, clawing at the small hill behind me. As I stood up, I realized that what I was seeing was not a hill, but some sort of mound.

I thought nothing of it at first, assuming it to be a collection of debris and detritus from rainwater washing down the hill over the years.

But then I saw a white shred of fabric, barely peeking through the mud. Hesitantly, I reached down and pulled at it. It would not come free. I set to digging around the area, revealing more of the white fabric and then struck something solid.

I stopped in horror, realizing what I was looking at.
 
A bone jutted from the dank ground.

“My God,” I muttered, staring at the jagged piece of human remains.

I nearly started to dig again and then saw two other similar mounds to my right. I was literally digging into the past and turning up a world of death and pain.

I could have kept digging, but I sensed that time was slipping away. When this was all over, I’d call the police and let them do the proper search.

My ankle throbbed as I carefully made my way to the edge of the yard and made a limped dash for the shed. A small door was situated along the side. I barely peeked in, too concerned with getting to the house and confronting Billy Bennett. I had no gun, no weapon…I had no idea how I was going to subdue him.

The smart move would have been to arrive with backup or a weapon. But when did I ever do the smart thing lately? Blind determination was my idiotic calling card and there was more than my life at stake here.

I walked away from the door but then froze. I took a step back and peeked through the thin slat between the door and the warped frame. There were several burlap sacks and a few old milk crates piled in the corners. I also saw several shovels, an axe, and a pitchfork.

I pushed the creaking door open and walked inside.

The rain fell in drips through the ceiling, but I was scarcely aware of this. Instead, my eyes went to the milk crates. There were some children’s toys and even old notebooks in them, stacked thick to the top, some dated from decades ago. I flipped through the most recent one I came to. It did not take me long to get a glimpse into who Billy Bennett was…and a certainty that if he had not taken Jack Ellington, the bastard was probably guilty of a lot more. What I read was sickening.

…and he screamed with the cloth over his mouth and it sounded like some weak little engine…

…surprised when his ribs cracked under my weight and you should have SEEN the light go out in his eyes…

…the boards need washing again form all the blood.  I saw a fingernail there yesterday…a little chipped fingernail like half a moon…