The Thomas Blume Series

Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

The thin blue line.

I nearly stopped at Amir’s for lunch to fill him in on how far I’d progressed in my self-propelled investigation into the Ellington case, but I had things to do, people to see. Namely, the retired Chief Superintendent Henry Atkinson.

Atkinson’s record was more polished than a conflict diamond. After a tough childhood in the North of England and having been raised by a foster family following his parent’s death in a car accident, Henry had spent six years in the army before going on to have 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, he’d received a string of awards and a New Year’s honor along the way.

Apparently, one of the trophies he’d also picked up was a nice fat pension—his house was large and expensive-looking.

Located forty minutes away in a high-class Hampton neighborhood where all the properties had manicured lawns, Atkinson’s place was situated neatly in the center of an idyllic row of similar houses.

Parking on the edge of the street, I jumped out and threw my jacket over my head, quickly dashing to the large porch to escape the strengthening rain.

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

After knocking again, it took another twenty seconds before the door was answered. A man who looked to be in his seventies peered at me through the crack of a partially opened door. His close-cropped beard was white, and what little hair remaining on his head was the same shade, trimmed in a short, no-nonsense style.

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

“Are you Henry Atkinson?” I asked.

“Maybe. Again … who are you?” His voice carried a hint of an accent, perhaps Yorkshire.

“My name is Thomas Blume. I’m a …” I faltered. After all, what was I? “I’m a private investigator hired by Elizabeth Ellington to look into her son’s disappearance.”

The lie came far too easily—the kind of easy that could get me in legal trouble further down the line. I’d worry about that later, though.

Atkinson opened his door wider. “I guess you hoped I could help with some answers?”

“I was hoping, yes.”

He eyed me cautiously for a few seconds as if sizing me up and, for a moment, I braced, preparing for a slammed 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.”

“Thank you, sir.”

I stepped into the house and was immediately impressed. Atkinson had done really well for himself.

The place was modestly decorated in a way that made it clear the ex-cop was single or perhaps widowed and shopped for himself. Still, it was a grand house, with rich oak floorboards and ceilings high enough to make any visitor feel small. Awards and certificates dotted the walls, while antique furniture gave the space an air of gravitas.

“Impressive place,” I attempted to charm the man with flattery. People tended to be more open with their words when they felt appreciated.

“It does the job,” Atkinson said, not rising to the compliment.

“Still, it’s quite the place. A lot of cops would be jealous of a home like this.”

“You’re with the force?”

“I was, NYPD. Not anymore.”

Atkinson nodded and gestured through the hallway, falling into step behind me. “Well yes, I served with the Met, but I had a spot of luck with some investments in the markets too.”

No kidding, I thought. According to the Land Registry records, that luck had been enough for Atkinson to buy not only a nice home but also some farmland just outside the city, now earmarked for big development. I decided to keep that part of my research to myself, for the moment.

He led me into a small den where a thick coffee table supported several books about the military. I scanned the room, my investigator’s instincts kicking in as I tried to learn as much about Atkinson as possible in the short time he allowed me. I skirted the edge of the mantle and walked around one of the couches, eyeing the various trinkets and photos on display.

“Is this your son?” I asked in my friendliest, most casual voice. I pointed to the photo in question: Atkinson—decades younger—with his arm around a squinting boy of about thirteen or fourteen. They were standing at the edge of a Scottish moor or some kind of grassland.

“Never had kids.” Atkinson frowned and shook his head impatiently. “That’s my nephew.”

So much for my powers of deduction.

He dropped his large body into a recliner. “What can I help you with, Mr. Blume? This is one of those cases that haunt a copper. I hated not being able to find that poor lad. His mother … she had it hard.”

I opted to remain standing until I knew the man better. “Well, as I said, Mrs. Ellington wants to dig a little deeper. I’m new in town—you can probably tell by the accent. I guess she thought a fresh set of eyes could help.”

You’re far too good at lying, Blume.

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

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

“Stephen Harlowe,” I said as if it summed everything up.

Although I mostly said it to gauge Atkinson’s reaction.

“Aye, 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.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, the bus driver said—”

“This would be the same bus driver who stated quite clearly that Jack never rode the bus that day or any other day, correct?” Atkinson interrupted.

“Yes. But I looked beyond that,” I said, curtly. “Because the bus driver went on to say 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 back from practice. So, nothing after soccer 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 practice, 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 those times.”

“That’s the one X-factor. That’s why Harlowe was eventually dropped as a suspect. Too many what-ifs and not enough evidence. There’s one more thing too, another boy recently went missing. Similar circumstances. Too similar. I think there could be a connection.”

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

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

“Well, I ask only because I feel that the conversation is over, 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?”

“My department investigated the case thoroughly when it happened. We scoured every lead for months and got nowhere. I personally oversaw every detail, and we found nowt. The thing with the shirt might be a new discovery, but ultimately, it’s nothing. Like the case itself. It’s too cold … dead and long gone. As for this new missing boy, I’m retired, out of the loop. 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 lead me out of the den and back towards the door. “You sure about that drink?” he asked.

“I’m sure,” I said, turning for the exit. “Thank you very much for your time.”

And with that, I left before I could change my mind.

This lead was a dead end. It was time to visit the woman who started me on this investigation.