The drink from earlier in the day had given me just a bit more than a taste. So I went home, changed my clothes, and went to the pub. I sat at the edge of a bar for about three hours, drinking and going over the case in my mind. I spoke to no one, not even the semi attractive woman who asked what I was drinking. I lost myself in the facts of the investigation. The only reason I went back to my apartment was because I damn near nodded off at the bar close to midnight.

When I got home and slipped out of my clothes, I realized that after the recent camera purchase, rent payments, and the tab for that night, I had a grand total of £16.00 to my name. I didn’t stay awake long enough to let that bother me, though.

I slipped into a deep sleep, but it felt like only a few minutes had passed when I was jarred awake by the ringing of my cellphone. The damn thing never rang, and hearing it was like hearing the shrieking of a banshee. Wincing at the noise and feeling an approaching hangover creeping in, I answered it, squinting against the grey daylight pushing through the greasy windows.

“Yeah?” I muttered.

“Mr. Blume, this is Jamal.”

“Oh. Hi.” My mind was fuzzy, slow to piece together how Jamal had helped me yesterday evening.

“Look, so after dad went to sleep last night, I went back in and started looking.”

“Oh, crap,” I said. “Don’t let him find out.”

“Whatever, man. He doesn’t know half the stuff I do.”

“I’m a little uncomfortable knowing that,” I said.

“Anyway, look. You got an e-mail address I can send you some stuff to?”

“Yeah.” I gave it to him, unable to remember the last time I had checked it. “But why don’t you give me the basics here, on the phone.”

“Well, for starters, Billy Bennett isn’t Billy Bennett.”

“I don’t have time for games, Jamal.”  I mumbled absently while my head pounded.

“Okay, okay. Get this, Billy changed his name years ago, then again more recently. He’s not even originally from London.”

“You’re sure of this?”

“Yeah. Saw the paperwork myself. His birth name is William Hudson.”

“And what do we know about Hudson?”

“Enough to re-open the Ellington case,” Jamal said proudly.

“Wait, how do you know I’m working on the – oh, never mind. What else?”

“This is the interesting part. It seems that Mr. Hudson had a rough childhood; orphan, bounced around a few foster homes up north. Yorkshire, in fact. A couple of investigations of abuse are noted on his file, but nothing stood. Eventually he vanishes from the system… Then one ‘Billy’ Hudson resurfaces almost twenty years later with a string of petty crimes against his name. Psych reports indicated hints of sociopathy and borderline personality disorder.”

Something about the North of England sounded familiar and stirred at the back of my mind, but I couldn’t place it.

“Mr. Blume, you there?” I realized I’d been lost in my thoughts for a minute.

“Carry on, Jamal. This is good stuff, really.”

“OK, well, I saved the best ‘til last. Check this out, seven years ago one Billy Hudson was finally sentenced to a stretch in prison... for attempted sexual assault on some kids.

“He’s a sex offender?” My mind now snapped awake and I propped myself up.

“Yeah. He molested three boys…all pretty young. Nasty stuff.”

“My God.” The revelation burned away my fuzzy head.

“Yeah. Apparently it’s quite common for sex offenders to change their names when they get out of prison. Did you know that?”

“And you’ll send me the proof of all this?”

“Clicking Send right now, Mr. Blume.”

Then a thought materialized. “Wait, why don’t the police know all this? Was it that hard to find?”

“Hard, yes. Impossible no. Any cop with half a brain and a digital forensics department would be able to find this stuff. My guess, it was either covered up for some reason, or just plain ignored.”

The cogs in my mind started turning as I tried to process this information. Suddenly things began to fit together and in a flash there was an idea burning in the back of my mind. Within seconds, I had a strong feeling that I had the answer. Now I just needed to confirm that I was right.

“This is pretty messed up, Jamal.” I said. “But thanks anyway.”

“Sure thing. You just keep me in mind when I finish school. You know…if you need an assistant or something.”

“Absolutely,” I said. Silently hoping Jamal’s father didn’t hear.

I hung up and started to get dressed right away. Suddenly, the hangover felt miniscule. By the time I made it outside, it was almost gone. Even the fact that it was raining again didn’t slow me down. I had figured out where I knew Billy Bennett from.

***

I decided not to bother Elizabeth Ellington until I knew I had an absolute case going. And since I didn’t want to go headfirst into the viper’s pit, I thought it might be smart to wait before confronting Billy. Or William. Or whatever the asshole’s name was.

So I found myself driving through a pelting rain that had really picked up, back to Henry Atkinson’s house. I sped the whole way, the revelation of breaking this case pushing me towards a sense of accomplishment that I had long ago all but given up on.

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 — ”